CHAPTER SIX
A wrong note can be replayed,
an instrument brought into tune.
Dissonance may echo
but not
forever.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
You wake on a stone floor, colder than you have ever been in your life. The same dirt-encrusted trousers and tunic you’ve been clad in for weeks are stiff, nearly frozen to your skin. Every part of you aches from where it’s been in contact with the unforgiving, icy stone.
Not long ago, you slept in a lush and lavish feather-filled bed fashioned by the finest artisans in all the land. A headboard inlaid with precious jewels, sheets of the finest silk, a warm body or two on either side. Now you are alone. You know it before you open your eyes.
The constant presence of others nearby was always soothing, and you are decidedly not soothed.
You peel your eyes open to survey the dark room. A barred metal door leads to a dim hallway. Your breath turns to steam, barely visible before you. It’s like your new prison is in the center of a block of ice.
There are no windows, no way to tell the time of day or see where you are. Just an endless box made of stone, a pile of straw that might once have been some sort of mat, and a rusted bucket. The indignities have no end.
But food has been left for you on a tray just inside the door. Simple fare. A thick slice of bread and some sort of stew. You haven’t eaten in so long—a weak protest against the audacity of your imprisonment—and yet you don’t feel hungry. Did they force you to eat at some point? Heal the worst indications of your starvation? They have magic, whoever they are, your new captors.
You have your suspicions about their identities. Only so many have access to the type of magic that broke you out of your last prison—a day ago? Longer? You were not unaware of their existence, though they continually disrespected you by not asking permission before invading your land and killing your people with their experiments.
Little went on in your land without your knowledge. But you turned a blind eye because they were powerful—and while you were also powerful, their power was different. Untainted, though in its own way just as insidious.
But now you are weak. Not just of body but of mind. You’ve been stripped of everything, not only your robes and the accoutrements of power, but the power itself. The Songs. They’d been gained with such difficulty.
You are reminded of the impotence of your youth when you lusted after so much. A woman who wanted nothing to do with you. A magic you were not born to handle. And when you could not have one you stole the other, biting into its sweetness, allowing it to drip from your lips like honey. Like an addiction.
You recognized the monster in yourself even as you could not stop it. You counted the horrors wrought even as they seemed like they were happening outside of your body.
What body you have left is skin and bones now. Emaciated and fragile and nearly useless.
That thought makes you struggle to a seated position, pain flaring from every possible place. You are worthless. Powerless. Dragged from one prison to another like so much baggage. But those who brought you here must want something. They must want you for something.
A purpose.
One that will be made plain soon enough.
The meal on the floor is cold. Impossible for it to match the standards you were once used to. But food will nourish this sad body. Give you strength for whatever they will ask of you.
And so you crawl over to the tray and scoop at the cold stew with the gritty bread. A loose plan formulating in your mind.
For these people have power, magic, resources. All things you lack.
All things that can be taken.
They come for you on the third day.
You’ve spent the time eating everything you’ve been given and pacing the length of the small, frigid cell to keep warm and get your muscles working again. The time for sulking is over. Plans must be made.
Food is delivered by some magical means—the tray appears twice a day, and once you’ve cleaned your plate, it disappears into thin air. You suspect this is done to unsettle you. Earthsong cannot accomplish such things but blood magic can, so you catalog it, filing the information away for a point in time at which it will be useful.
The two men who retrieve you are solid walls of flesh. Bald heads tattooed with some sort of insignia. Their vacant, unintelligent stares mark them as servants.
They don’t appear to be armed, but you aren’t certain. And anyway, you have no desire to resist. Indeed, you must disguise your eagerness to finally meet your captor.
Lanterns cast tiny pools of light along the hallways of the dungeon. You can barely see your feet as you climb long staircases, bringing you into the main level of a castle that has seen better days. It is even colder up here; wind whistles through the corridors, sneaking in through gaps in the mortar of the stones. You enter a wide atrium where an entire wall has fallen away, revealing the surrounding snowcapped mountains.
Eddies of snow gather along the remains of the ruined wall. The guards lead you to another staircase. Its crumbling condition makes climbing perilous—one misstep and you would tumble over the edge and disappear into blackness. You gird yourself and step carefully.
The room they escort you to is a parlor—all walls intact—where a roaring fire has been built in a fireplace as tall as you are. The flames battle the bitterness of the cold, but don’t appear to be winning.
The fire crackles. The wind hisses. You miss the ability to take in your surroundings in more detail, to identify the people nearby and their emotions with Earthsong. Now you rely on your mundane senses. The scents of dust and smoke obscure what else might be there.
They push you onto an ancient wooden chair that surprisingly does not fall apart under you and there you wait. The delay is long enough to communicate that this is a power play. Everything is a game. This you understand perfectly well.
A woman finally enters. Her warm skin tone reflects a mix of races, making her most likely Yalyish. In your land, children have always taken after one parent. Singer or Silent. Dark-haired or ginger-haired with nothing in between.
But here the blend is more even. Hazel eyes, canted lightly, head covered with a bloodred wrap so you cannot see her hair, but her brows are a muddy brown. Her long robe is in the same red as her hair covering. She appears to be in her fifties, which could mean anything. You yourself appear only thirty, a tiny fraction of your true age.
She settles on a sturdy, cushioned bench perpendicular to you. When she raises her hand, a glass of ice-blue liquid appears in her grasp. She takes a long sip before focusing on you. “I am Nikora. Do you mind if I call you Eero? True Father sounds so formal, does it not?”
You do not want to be called Eero, so you remain silent.
She smiles, with unnaturally white, sparkling teeth. “Ydaris told us so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet.”
Your nose flares at the mention of your former second-in-command. Ydaris served her purpose, you always knew one day her own agenda would win out. You simply thought you would end her before the reverberations of her betrayal managed to touch you. Pity that.
“We’re so grateful you could join us. As you have no doubt discovered, you will not be able to use blood magic during your stay. Feel free to try if it makes you feel better. Some people have to learn the hard way, and I have a feeling you are like that. Hardheaded.” She smiles as she says it, taking away some of the sting, but you don’t appreciate her tone.
While in your cell, you did everything you could think of to draw blood. You used fingernails, the rough stone walls, the edge of the bucket, the bars. You scraped yourself with every object there, but your skin was impervious. Biting your tongue had achieved nothing, either.
Nikora’s all-knowing grin seems to be aware of your thoughts. A few weeks ago you would have drained her of any power she had and ordered her execution. Now you simply bide your time. They may think they know what you can do, but they are wrong.
“Generations ago, this castle belonged to Saint Dahlia and the original Physicks. Sadly, after she progressed from this world and we established our headquarters in the city, the place fell into disrepair. But it is isolated and it is secure, and if anyone cares to look for you, they will not find you here.”
She laughs as though she’s said something funny, and sips at her liquid. You continue to stare, unwilling to be unsettled by her performance.
“You must be dying to know why we’ve brought you here. One prison for another?” She lifts a shoulder. “We think you can help us, Eero. And we know we can help you.”
You pitch forward slightly, intrigued in spite of yourself.
“For a long time you wielded a great deal of power. Dark power. Power you had no business having. Then it was taken from you.”
She leans forward, setting her glass on the side table, all seriousness now. The shrewdness in her gaze sends a chill through you, unmatched even by the icy wind.
“Wouldn’t you like to get it back?”