Chapter 2

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Someone is using my forehead as a drum pad. I turn my head to brush off the musician, but the chilled emptiness against my cheek is enough to stir me fully from sleep. An unforgiving pole juts into the flesh between my shoulder blades, my hands bound behind it. A dry dressing adorns my shoulder where the sword plunged into me—someone patched me up.

The room is narrow and vacant aside from a single chair across from me, the walls a nasty shade of cream, almost yellow in the faded glow of the torchlight. The room smells stale and musty like a bed of stinking iris. There is no drum player here—just the thudding of my brain against my skull—a horrible headache. A quick rattle of my chains confirms they are secure, but the magical itch crawling on my skin tells me they are not of iron. They don't think they are holding a witch then, let alone what I am. Best not to alert them of that—yet.

"Hello?" I shout into the empty room. "I'm awake! Somebody get in here!"

A moment passes, I hear a key snuggle into the lock, and the pale yellow door groans as it swings inward. A man dressed in typical kingdom garb walks into the room, followed by a shorter man wearing the same formal, black uniform. They position themselves diagonally from me on opposite sides. I stare at the tall one, then the short one. Easy enough targets to disable if I need to.

"You took quite the nap there," the tall one says. "Must have been a nasty gash on that shoulder." He nods towards my bandaged arm. The sleeve to my tunic has been ripped off completely; whomever bandaged me clearly didn't take the time to do so thoughtfully.

"Where am I?"

"I think the more appropriate question is, who are you?" the shorter one chimes in.

"A lady of Aegidale, and I wish to know where I am being held, and why I am chained up like a dog," I snap.

Their laughter reverberates through the dismal room.

"You hear that, Wyeth? She's a lady," short one mocks.

"Fetch His Grace," Wyeth orders. "This will be most entertaining."

Short one nods and leaves the room, leaving Wyeth staring at me inquisitively. "Might you tell me, what exactly was a lady doing with the rebellion?"

"I'm not a lady by title, but I am still a woman protected under kingdom law. Do you think they bound me in chains to chat and exchange pleasantries with them? I was taken." I spit the words at him, narrowing my eyes to imply I found his question moronic.

He snorts once in disbelief, and neither of us speaks again until the door behind Wyeth pushes open, revealing the shorter guard and, behind him and a foot taller, a young man. I recognize him instantly.

Singard Kilbreth. The Black Art of Aegidale.

Our neighbors across the sea are ruled by kings—mundane lands governed by human leaders. But Aegidale has always been headed by a mage—one selected and blessed by the goddess of the arcane herself: the Black Art.

My spine stiffens in his presence. Singard visited Innodell once, soon after he took the throne a year ago. I haven't seen him since, and I hoped I never would again.

"Your Grace," Wyeth dips his head upon his entrance.

Singard nods to them both, a silent dismissal, prompting them to mirror a quick bow and echo the appropriate farewell. Their absence leaves only one sound in the room: the clacking of the Black Art's polished shoes as he crosses the room and sits in the only chair. He wears a black surcoat made of soft leather, adorned with a gold threaded design along the turned-up neck. His hair is as dark as the leather, unbound and long down his back, and he looks at me for the first time, revealing green, downturned eyes. His inky hair bends at the cheekbones set sharp within his warm, copper skin.

"Your Grace," I say, my tone muddling his title with condescension.

He leans forward so his forearms rest on the tops of his thighs. "Miss," he replies, surprisingly polite. When I don't continue, he does. "What is your name?"

I consider lying, but I don't see the advantage. Not many know my name anyway. "Wren," I answer truthfully.

He nods once. "My soldiers tell me you were dragged here with chains on your neck. Upon being released from your collar at the hands of your accused captors, you surrendered as a prisoner. Now, Wren, some things here aren't making a lot of sense to me, and I don't like when things don't make sense. So, why don't you begin by telling me who you are, why you were associating with Legion, and every other detail that comes into your head." His tone sounds almost disinterested, but the sharpness of his stare pins me in place.

I swallow hard but muster forth a hardened glower of my own. "They came for me in the night. My father is a well-to-do trader who recently came into good fortune. I can only assume I was taken to be used for ransom." It's only a partial lie. I was captured, but not because of who my father is. Because of who I am.

"They did not treat you kindly," he nods at my throat which I'm sure is a deep shade of amethyst now. "Now tell me, why would they bring you along on their ridiculous attempt to siege and risk losing their ransom in the fight? Surely they didn't expect us to bargain for a trader's daughter." He draws out the last two words as if he's testing them on his tongue, seeing if they taste like lies.

"I think they were hoping your men would hesitate if they saw a prisoner. The woman who was dragging me along—Margalo was her name, I heard her talking with the one in charge about getting me to the front lines." I don't dare mention Cathal's name. I don't think the Black Art would take kindly to me being on first name terms with the Legion commander. "Perhaps I was to be used as a distraction or something. There were others like me, women that were taken, but why they would expect Castle Scarwood's armies to be so merciful, well… I don't read minds, Your Grace."

Singard leans farther forward in his chair, his eyes flickering between both of mine, trying to read the expression I keep blank on my face. He won't be able to gather anything from my blanketed stare, but he can't hide his thoughts from me as easily. I focus on the spot behind my eye—the center of my collective—and grab it with my mind's will, flexing it with my mental fingertips.

The collective is the life force that surrounds us all, but each person has a small portion of it to call their own. A private void to store one's thoughts, dreams, needs, and desires. Mages possess the ability to bend their collective—to tap into its energy and manipulate the world around them. And then there is my kind, the only kind, that can reach out and pry into someone else's to know what feelings linger within their hearts, and taste the motivations hidden behind smooth words. I project my collective towards him, completely undetectable to anyone but myself, and scratch the surface of his consciousness.

I immediately wish I hadn't.

A hundred phantom blisters burst all over my body, and my chest threatens to cave in on me, to collapse under the weight of the shame and sorrow that presses on my breast. I'm immobilized, my lungs not wanting to fill with air, but I continue to breathe anyway, not able to stop my chest from rising and falling, even as each breath buries the pain further into me. I drop my hold on his collective and let mine snap back into place, back to the safe spot behind my eye, and I let out a tiny gasp when the invisible blisters disappear as quickly as I felt them emerge.

What was that?

"Are you alright?" he asks, appearing confused at my sudden sharp inhale.

"My shoulder," I mumble nonchalantly, certainly not willing to tell him the real reason for my faltered breath—that I had pried into his collective and nearly doubled over from the crashing wave of pain.

"What is your father's name? I can have my emissary locate him, and if your story checks out, we can coordinate a safe return."

I shake my head. "I'd rather my father not know I was ever taken. He has a temper and would surely get himself killed trying to go after the men that took me. If I return alone, I can dismiss my absence as something else, running off with a gentleman caller perhaps, but certainly nothing to do with Legion."

"Your father must be a smart man."

He's not. I haven't seen my father in over a decade, not since he and my mother discovered what I was and decided I was no longer a child worthy of love.

"I'll make you a deal, Miss Wren."

My eyes narrow. I don't like deals.

"Legion cannot possibly have many more resources. They need coin, I'm sure of it. If they went to the trouble of locating you for their gain, well, they certainly aren't going to be content to let you stay here with me." His eyes sparkle as if he finds the thought tempting. "You will stay at Castle Scarwood for the time being. Let them come back to collect their prize, which they will because they're dumb enough and desperate enough. When they do, confirming what you say is true, you may leave on your own accord."

"I beg your pardon? I can't stay here."

"You can. And you will." His tone is level, calm, but drips with suggestion that this is not a choice.

"My father will be worried sick. I need to return home." Another partial lie. I do need to return home, but home isn't with my father.

"And if you aren't lying to me, you will."

"Am I to be kept here?" I ask incredulously, motioning with my chin to the room around me.

"I will have a room arranged for you. But understand, if you attempt to flee or harm me or anyone in this castle, I won't be so merciful again." The promise rolls off his tongue with ease, not a sliver of toxicity, but with a gentle coolness that sends a shudder skittering down my back.

If agreeing gets me out of this room and access to the castle, it is the best option. Eyes on the castle's surroundings will be necessary for me to coordinate a successful escape.

Not wanting to agree too quickly and reveal my eagerness, I ask, "And if I don't agree? To remain here for as long as you see fit?"

A predatory smile raises one side of his mouth. "Then I can only assume you truly are one of Legion's playthings, and I could end this right now, but I think I might wish to keep you around for a bit longer." He leans forward in his chair, his eyes dropping to the mouth I hold tight. "However, I don't think you'd find your conditions as agreeable as I would." The smile vanishes from his lips, and he raises one dark eyebrow in silent question, his green eyes daring me to reject his offer to stay here.

I don't let him intimidate me. I stare back at him, hard, but I dip my chin in a quick nod.

He rises from his chair and walks to the door, pausing before leaving to speak over his shoulder. "I'll send River to collect you. I look forward to our time together, Wren." My name slides off his tongue like soft velvet, worn in and comfortable. And I don't like it at all.

Not much time passes before there are two taps on the door, and an older woman with hair like sunset enters. She wears a pale servant's smock, her face aged but gentle, with light brown eyes framed by vibrant red-orange locks.

"Hello dear," she greets, and then looks at my hands disapprovingly. "Let's get you out of this nonsense." River reaches into a pocket of her linen apron, pulls out a key, and promptly undoes my binding.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the blood flows back into my forearms, and I go to stand up but stumble forward, my hands catching my fall on the hard floor beneath me.

"Easy, dear. Here, let me help you." River extends her arm, and I use her as support, ascending to my feet fully this time.

I mutter a thank you, and she instructs me to follow her, promising food and clean clothes. River guides me out of the room and down a dimly lit hallway, the mounted flames casting shadows along the sickly yellow walls. We round a corner, and the hall widens into a larger tunnel, the corn silk paint replaced with empty barred cells on either side of us.

I follow River up a stairwell tucked behind the final cell, to a wooden door she opens to what I presume is the ground level of the castle. She guides me down another corridor, the pale gray walls broken up by large arched windows inlaid in intervals. I glance out each window casually, not wanting to seem too ambitious to scout my surroundings—not that my every move won't be watched by the Black Art and his servants. He doesn't believe me, only a fool would be dumb enough to, but he knows a Legion spy isn't getting out of this keep unnoticed. He is laying a trap, a cat waiting for the mouse to corner itself, but he hasn't accounted for the unexpected.

I am the falcon.

My view is obstructed by shelters spread across the lawn, likely barracks and bathhouses, and I can't get a clear view of how far we are from the keep or how heavily guarded it is. But given Legion's presence last evening, I can assume it is guarded with men armed to the teeth. The corridor dumps into a large, open room with magnificent archway columns dividing the space. The stone floor is a deep charcoal gray with specks of white ridden throughout, and two long burgundy rugs span the length of the room on both sides of the columns. To our right is another stone stairwell—this one much wider than the one we climbed in the dungeon, that spirals clockwise to floors above us. I follow River up the grand staircase and down another hallway with wooden doors lining both sides. She stops, unlocks the third one on the left, and ushers me in before her.

The room is marvelous, from the gray walls with a silvery ornate design swirled in, to the several white rugs thrown about the floor. A pair of wooden armoires sit against opposite walls, and at the back of the room, a bed certainly sized for more than one. A towering headboard looms over the golden bedding, inviting and warm. A room clearly designed for more welcomed and respected guests, and nothing like my cot at home. Next to the bed is a set of doors that open to a balcony, perfect for surveying the castle's exterior grounds. I have no doubt it was Singard who selected this room for me, baiting me with a view and access to the outside, even if it is on the second story.

"You should find this space comfortable, I hope," River says. "Settle in, and I'll bring you a hot meal and fresh clothes. But please do not leave the room. I'm afraid His Grace has instructed for you to remain here for the remainder of the night. See you in a bit." River closes the door, and I hear her secure the lock behind her.

I listen for her footsteps to fade and then focus on the knob, willing my collective to grab the lock and wiggle it gently. It obeys. I nod once to myself—undoing that lock will take but a second of magic. I waste no time throwing open the doors to the balcony and beholding the grounds beneath me. The tops of the watchtowers are visible from my room, so I am facing the castle's entrance then. The gardens, a living mural against the lawn, span the space between the castle and the northern courtyard. Rounding the east side of the grounds, within the keep's borders, is a thicket that appears to continue along the perimeter out of view. Ideal camouflage to get closer to the gate, but also the most obvious. I need to find an exit that offers me cover, but not so obvious that Singard will have guards stationed there, expecting me to try to blend in. I will need to get outside for a closer look—it is far too dangerous to attempt anything without a thorough plan.

Dusk tints the sky a deep lavender. They must have sedated me with herbs after tending to my shoulder if almost a full day has passed. Tended to, but didn't heal. Surely the kingdom has healers on site, but Singard isn't going to authorize treatment so long as he suspects I am working with Legion. I resist the urge to close the wound myself, knowing if they saw me tomorrow with a repaired shoulder, it would be a giveaway I had used magic to do so. Perhaps it is still the mystery herbs in my system, or merely the stress from the past weeks of being held in a Legion camp, but my eyelids become heavy and begin to strain. I wait for River to return and devour the meal she brings—roast mutton with currant jelly and stewed vegetables. I didn't bother sniffing it for poison. If his reputation precedes him, Singard prefers a more hands-on approach to silencing his enemies.

I pull on the night dress River brought and slip into the golden bedding, not caring if the crusted blood and dirt on my feet stains the silken sheets. In fact, I hope it does.