She had not been silent for long when someone outside said, “My bride-to-be awakes.”
I know that voice, she thought slowly. I know it…Fin. Remembering his name started a slow flare of rage in her chest. Finlach fer Hurich. My escort. That “special entrance” he guided me to.
“Come, Lady Sandry,” he said, his voice very close to her prison. “You were lively enough a moment ago.”
He had heard her crying—screaming, like a child lost in the dark. “Tell me—” She stopped. Her voice had been a low croak. She cleared her torn and scraped throat and tried again. “Does my cousin know about this?”
“Why would I trouble her with details?” he asked. “Your imperial cousin appreciates deeds, not promises. Once you’ve signed a marriage contract—with all the constraints required of a mage wife, of course, to ensure you never turn your power on me—I will accept Her Imperial Majesty’s congratulations and praise for my boldness.”
His smug reply set not the frightened child, but Vedris of Emelan’s favorite niece, to blazing. “Maggot-riddled festering dung-footed imp-blest mammering pavao!” she growled, scrambling again for her power and feeling it trickle away. “Bat-fouling dung-sucking base-born churlish milk-livered kaq! Naliz! Amdain!”
“Endearments,” he replied. “You’ll find better ones when we’re married. Once you’ve put your signature to the contract, and your kiss, too, marked in blood for surety, I will even let my uncle give you control of your magic again. Not until then, of course. Not until you know that if you ever defy me, I will turn the marriage spells on you until you will crawl to beg for my forgiveness. The men of Namorn know how to handle mage wives.”
“If you think my cousin will congratulate you for kidnapping me in her own palace, you don’t know her,” Sandry retorted. “She’ll free me of your precious contract and your precious uncle!”
“Not if she wants your moneybags to stay in Namorn, which she does,” Fin reminded Sandry. “And my uncle is head of the Mages’ Society for all Namorn. I think even Her Imperial Majesty will have to swallow any vexation with me, once I have the mages’ backing and your wealth at my command. What?” He was answering a question from someone outside Sandry’s trap. “No, she will be well enough. I must show myself at the ball, so no one believes I had anything to do with her disappearance.” The sound of his voice came closer to her prison. “Don’t fret, my dear,” he told her. “Later you may write to your friends from our honeymoon nest. Oh—if you’re hoping for rescue? You’re belowground. No wind will carry word of you to that redheaded terror. You’re in a room without plants, so the green lad can’t find you. And if you’re waiting on the handsome and clever Pershan, even if he could find you, he wouldn’t dare. Her Imperial Majesty knows her lover’s attention has been straying.”
Despite her fear, Sandry gulped. Shan and Berenene? She could be his mother!
Fin continued: “She’s watching him. He hasn’t been allowed to leave her side for two days without her knowing exactly where he goes. Poor Quen was getting all excited, thinking she would get rid of Shan and turn to him again. Instead, she’s clutching Shan tight. It shows how much she wants to keep you here—normally she just dismisses the girl from court.”
“You’re disgusting,” Sandry croaked. “Making up such foul lies about people.”
“Oh, I’ve made you unhappy, ruining your pretty little dreams. Get used to our marriage, if you please,” retorted Fin. “Once you present me with an heir, I’ll be happy to leave you to your own devices. Until later, my dear.”
Then he was gone. Without Fin to hate, her fear of the dark swamped her again. Sandry screamed until she had no voice. When that was gone, she slid down and slammed her feet against the side of her prison over and over, until her back was bruised and her knees and ankles were on fire. Only when she could no longer kick did she curl up into a tiny ball, shuddering. The dark overwhelmed her for a while.
The sound of people banging around outside brought her to herself again. It seemed Fin’s helpers were settling down to a game of cards nearby. Oddly, their voices gave Sandry’s mind something to latch on to. She wasn’t quite lost, not if she could hear rough men cursing each other’s bets and cards.
What am I without magic? she asked herself dully, forcing herself to sit upright. Just a game piece, like Zhegorz said. Just a pretty…Zhegorz. Daja. Briar, Tris.
Wait. Wait. I have bits of Briar’s magic in me, from when we were kids. And Tris’s, and Daja’s. I spun us into one magic, but then I had to weave us into four separate people again. Still, we each kept some of one another’s power so we could go on seeing magic, and hearing conversations. What’s around me are spells only for thread magic, not green or weather or metal magic.
It was hard to ignore her terror and her very real pain. First she had to rip pieces from her linen shift to bind up her bleeding hands and feet. Her throbbing head was hard to ignore, too. Somehow she forced herself inward, thrusting her awareness of the dark from her mind. She even made herself forget those voices outside her trap. Slowly she sank down into herself, into the core of her power.
She was shocked to find it in disarray. When did I tend it last? she wondered, seeing a mess of threads and connections where she was accustomed to finding a spindle of fiery thread. Oh, cat dirt—not since we reached Dancruan, I think. I never used to be this sloppy, she thought as she poked through the tangle. I shouldn’t get so distracted that I don’t straighten things up. For one thing, here at least I can see light.