Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(17)

IT’S DIFFICULT TO NAVIGATE THE ship’s passageways on my own, but after a few wrong turns, I find myself in the familiar narrow hallway, walking toward a door flanked by the same two guards from last night. Though they didn’t hesitate to let Heron past, when they see me, their eyes narrow and I know it won’t be so easy.

“Your Majesty,” they both mutter.

“I’m here to see the prisoner,” I say, trying to make my voice sound cold and detached, though I don’t think I quite manage it.

“The prisoner isn’t allowed visitors,” one guard says with such certainty that I almost believe him even though I’ve seen the truth with my own eyes.

I swallow and stand up a little straighter. “I’m not any visitor,” I say. “As your queen, I’m telling you to let me past.”

The guards exchange a look.

“For your own safety, Your Majesty, you mustn’t—” the other guard begins.

But as soon as he says mustn’t instead of can’t, I know he’s lost his ground.

“He’s chained to the wall,” I say before hastily adding, “I assume.”

“Yes, but he’s a dangerous man,” the guard insists.

“And luckily, I have the two of you right outside in case I need you. That is your job, isn’t it?”

Again, the guards exchange a look before hesitantly stepping aside and opening the door for me. I slip past them into the brig, immediately hit by a cloud of stale air and the tang of fresh blood. Like yesterday, S?ren is slumped against the far wall, chains around his ankles and wrists. The healing Heron did yesterday has already been undone, with fresh cuts and bruises covering much of his skin. Unlike yesterday, though, he looks up when I approach. Though his mouth is too bloody to say for sure, I think he attempts a smile.

“You came back,” he says, the words more breath than voice.

“I told you I would,” I say, trying to inject some pep, though the sentiment comes out flat. I almost ask how he is, but it’s such a ridiculous question that I can’t bring myself to voice it. Instead, I glance around the room, my eyes landing on the bloodied plank of wood, the chains biting into his skin, a tray of food next to him. It must be his dinner ration, a few pieces of hardtack and dried meat. It hasn’t been touched.

“You haven’t eaten?” I ask, looking back to him.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes still guarded and wary. His right eye is bruised and swollen and there’s a cut along his cheekbone.

I take a step closer to him, close enough that if he were to lunge for me, he might be able to just grab at the hem of my nightgown. I’m not afraid of him, but I hesitate to get any closer. “When was the last time you ate?” I ask.

He thinks about it for a moment. “That gods-forsaken banquet when I returned from Vecturia,” he says, his voice raw. “I couldn’t stomach much, with everything.”

Everything. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the revealing dress the Kaiser made me wear that night, the way he treated me like I was his to display however he liked. His hands on me, searing like a brand. S?ren had looked ill, though I’d imagine it was a good deal easier to witness than it was to withstand.

“You’re supposed to be getting rations like everyone else,” I say. “Dragonsbane promised me you would be fed.”

He glances away. “Rations have been delivered thrice a day without fail. They force water down my throat but they haven’t yet forced me to eat.”

He still won’t look at me, so I let myself look at him. In just a few days, his skin has stretched tightly over his bones, making him look more specter than person. Unbidden, I wonder what his mother would think if she could see him now, but I push that thought away before the Kaiserin can shame me from beyond the grave.

“Why aren’t you eating?” I ask him.

He pulls his knees up, curling in on himself. I take a step closer.

“Many years ago, my father had the Theyn train me how to be a hostage,” he says. Talking seems to pain him, but he continues. “My father said we had a lot of enemies and that we had to be prepared. The first thing the Theyn taught me was not to eat their food.”

I can’t help but snort. “You think we poisoned it?”

He shakes his head. “It’s about control. As long as I refuse to eat, you are on my terms. You don’t want me dead or you would have killed me already, which means you need me. But the second I accept your food, I become dependent on you and lose that control. It’s a mind game, little better than a staring contest.” He pauses for a second. “Back then I made it three days without food. It’s easier this time—mostly I’m in too much pain to remember to be hungry.”

He doesn’t say it like he’s looking for pity or an apology, just stating a simple fact. I close the distance between us and pick up the tray, setting it down in front of him.

“I need you to eat, S?ren,” I say, but he doesn’t move. “I’m not your enemy.”

At that, he laughs, but the sound is weak.

“Friends, enemies, I don’t think it matters anymore. The chains are just as heavy, no matter who holds the key,” he says.

“I know a thing about chains, even if my own were usually metaphorical,” I tell him.