Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(17)

Damina’s Law said one should never wish pain on someone else, but did that apply to one’s jailer? Surely Damyan and Darina wouldn’t begrudge me this one indulgence.

“Ready for your first day of work?” he asked.

I glanced at his empty hand, then beyond him to where the second guard was throwing a sack of food into Gerel’s cell. First last night, and now today. I’d been under the impression that agreeing to work meant I’d get more food. Not zero food.

My nemesis grinned. “Not in here, Fancy. You get breakfast in the mess hall. And if the others want more food, they’ll work for it, too.”

Except the others hadn’t been offered work. Why? Gerel’s warning ran through my head again: Altan wanted something.

“I brought these.” Altan motioned at a pair of shackles hanging from his belt. “You don’t have to wear them if you promise to come without a struggle.”

We both knew I wouldn’t fight.

He opened the door.

I stepped through, and while Altan closed the door, I glanced toward Aaru’s cell. Nothing was visible. Just the front corner, partially blocked by a guard hassling him about standing up and coming out from under the bed.

A twinge of guilt wrapped around me. He’d tried to apologize, and I’d forgotten about him once Altan offered work and Gerel started talking to me. It was rude to ignore people, Mother always said. And especially rude to ignore them after annoying them and accusing them of being hallucinations.

Then again, I’d tried to talk to him later, and he’d ignored me. Clearly he hated me.

Maybe I had made a mistake by accepting his water. Maybe I hadn’t. After all, I couldn’t trust Altan any more than I could trust the other prisoners. Ilina would tell me to find some way to win Aaru over. Not that I knew how to do that if I couldn’t smile at him (the hole was too small) and giggle at his jokes (he didn’t seem to know much about jokes). But Ilina would push me to find another way.

“Come on.” Altan yanked the twisted ends of my hair so hard my eyes watered. “The Pit won’t clean itself.” With a smug look, he let go of my hair, but my head stung just the same. Gerel caught my eye; she looked . . . worried.

A hollow feeling stirred in my stomach. I was exhausted and hungry. How was I supposed to clean? I had no experience, save the few minutes with the mop yesterday.

My face and throat heated, like I was standing too close to an oven. Except this heat came from inside me. The burning spread through me as my heart pounded, harder and harder. My vision tunneled and I staggered, suddenly dizzy. Another attack.

I couldn’t let the panic in this time. I had to stay calm.

But telling myself to stay calm made it worse.

But if I didn’t overcome this, I’d never be able to work, and I’d never survive until Mother and Father saved me, and then—

“Remember your breathing,” Doctor Chilikoba would say. “Always start with your breathing. If you still feel panicked after ten deep breaths, take a pill.” Seven gods, what I wouldn’t give for one of those pills now.

I had nothing, though. Just myself. So I started with breathing.

As I walked after Altan, opposite the way we’d come in the other day, I sucked in the first deep breath, held it for five stumbling heartbeats, and released it through my mouth, like I was exhaling all the bad, anxious feelings.

On the way, I counted cells (twenty-four) and noorestones (eight), and times Altan scratched at the cut on his face (three). Holding the numbers in my head helped; they didn’t leave much room for anything else.

I finished all ten breaths. My head felt clearer, but the danger lurked nonetheless. I had to be careful. Vigilant.

We walked up a set of stairs (thirty steps), and my nemesis watched me from the corner of his eyes. “You look gray, Fancy. Nervous?”

I shook my head. It was the truth. “Nervous” didn’t begin to cover it. Terrified? Panicked?

“Try not to think about your anxiety,” Doctor Chilikoba had suggested. “That will make the cycle worse. Instead, focus on other things.”

That only made me count more.

Altan grunted. “I don’t care if you are nervous. You probably should be. But don’t vomit. You’ll have to clean it up.”

Nice to know.

I’d vomited exactly once in my life. Zara had teased that a meal I’d been enjoying was dragon meat, which had obviously been a lie (it was perch), but my stomach didn’t see it that way. It had been one of my most disgusting experiences and Mother said it would ruin my teeth. I’d vowed never to do it again. Even my panic attacks tended to agree; while I often felt nauseated, I’d never again thrown up.

And I wouldn’t give in to the queasy feeling in my stomach now, either.

We passed through the anteroom. (Five steps across, three narrow shelves with thin blankets and other bedding supplies, and three locked cabinets.) Next, we came to a long hall, with columns and metal sconces around noorestones, all with Khulan’s crossed maces carved into them. The vaulted ceiling bore the same decorative touches, these painted blue and gold and red where Khulan’s figure was twisted back as though preparing to strike down anyone in his path.

We passed thirteen doors (one hundred and five steps) before Altan motioned me down a side hall. “Prisoner meals last ten minutes. Breakfast is at daybreak—as soon as I come to fetch you. Lunch is an hour after noon, and dinner is a few hours before dark. Then you go back to your cell. We used to keep prisoners cleaning longer, but then they started dying from exhaustion.”