Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Riza nods at me and heads down the stairs, her blade in hand.
I follow behind her. The stairs wind down, narrow and circular, and it’s pitch black inside. It reminds me of my days in the tower when I was desperately preserving wood and matches for fire. I lean heavily against the inside wall, my hand pressed to the stone to guide me, and I move down slowly, counting steps.
When we get to twenty-three, there are no more steps. Riza grabs my arm, and I hear the rustle of her clothing. “I’ll find a lamp of some kind. Wait here.”
She moves away and I wait in the darkness, my eyes closed. Again, I’m reminded of my time in the tower, and as I hear Riza’s clothing rustling as she searches for a light, I think of all the times I got by with nothing. I think of how I recognized Nemeth by the sound of his wings as he moved, and the heft of his steps upon the floor. Can I find him now?
I take a step forward, and my slipper-covered feet encounter straw on the stone floor. Rushes, I realize. Rushes that are meant to keep the floor warm and somewhat clean. The straw here smells moldy when I step forward, though, and something drips on me from above. It’s cold and wet and damp in here, and I think of Nemeth and how much he’d hate it here. He loves a warm fire.
A light flares somewhere behind me and Riza sighs with relief. “There we go.”
The dungeon is horrifying. It’s far more cramped than the rest of the rooms above, with multiple doors clustered tightly in a row, all of them seemingly too small for the large Fellians and their wings. I suppose that’s part of the punishment, but I shiver at the sight. Each door has only a small hole to look inside, and these dungeons seem far worse than the ones I was kept in. More than that, it’s foully dark down here, the ceiling low and oppressive and the walls damp. Between that and the gross straw, I want nothing more than to leave.
But if Nemeth is down here…
I stagger towards the first cell. It’s small, no bigger than a garderobe. Riza shines a light into it and shakes her head. “Empty.”
I peer inside just in case, but she’s right. I don’t see anyone inside. “How does one keep a Fellian prisoner if they can slide through shadows?” I ask her, trying to distract from the fact that I’m near to collapsing with exhaustion. “Won’t they just leave?”
“Magic,” Riza says. “Everything is always magic with Fellians. Tolian told me that the king’s dungeon is enchanted so that all magic is nullified down here. No one can teleport in, no one can teleport out.”
Makes sense, even if it makes things harder.
Riza shines her light into the next cell, and then shudders. “That one is dead. Recent, too.”
“How recent?” My voice is hoarse with terror. Before she can answer, I peek inside, because I’m unable to stand it. There’s a dead Fellian all right, curled up on the ground, his limbs twisted. An ugly dark rash covers his chest and face, but it’s not Nemeth.
I bite my lip, because I saw that rash on another dead man. That’s the plague. It’s not safe for him to be down here. We have to get him out, and soon.
Riza surges ahead and I follow after her. Most of the cells are empty, though a few have dead men—all Fellians—inside them. I’m horrified that the dead have been left to rot down here, forgotten, but I think of Ivornath’s body above and wonder if that’s Meryliese’s awful doing. I hate her more with every moment that passes.
If we’re lucky, Erynne will find her and stab her once or twice or twelve times and save me the effort of killing her myself.
In the second to the last cell, there’s a large Fellian with his back to the small viewing hole in the door. His wings are wrapped tightly around himself, as if he’s using them as a blanket, and his entire body quakes.
“Nemeth?” I call, my heart racing.
No answer. Whoever’s in the cell can’t hear me, either by magic or by the fever that has him trapped.
“Is that him?” Riza asks. “Can you tell?”
I open my mouth to speak, when the figure turns slightly, and a long, ragged scar is revealed on one wing. A whimper of agony escapes me. It’s Nemeth all right, and he’s sick with the plague. “Oh gods, we have to get him out of there, Riza.”
She thrusts the light into my hands, the magical globe held in place by a large wooden base with a finger-hole, much like an oil lamp. Riza tugs on the door as I hold up the light, my arm trembling with exhaustion.