Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(72)

Karn unfolded to his feet and walked toward Ash, moving gracefully, like a cat. “Where are you from?” he said to Ash, his eyes fastening on his collar.

Maybe I should get a decorative scarf to cover it. “Tamron,” Ash said.

“From your speech, I would have guessed you were from farther north.”

Ash stiffened. He should have expected the spymaster would be familiar with the accent. Karn had probably tortured his share of military prisoners. But Ash hadn’t realized he still had one. “My mother was from the Fells, but I’ve never wanted to go. They say there are monsters there.”

“There are monsters here, healer,” Karn said.

You’re right about that, Ash said to himself. “About the patient. Is it plague, Your Majesty?”

“Plague!” King Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Why would you think of plague?”

“They say there’s plague in Delphi,” Ash said, acutely aware of the weight of the bottle in his sleeve. “I—if it’s a concern, I have a tisane that might protect you if taken early. I could make up some now, and—”

“Who told you I came from Delphi?” Karn interrupted, eyes narrowed.

“No one, sir,” Ash said, not wanting to involve Marc. Get hold of yourself, sul’Han, he thought. I think this collar is cutting off the blood to your brain. “I heard that travelers had arrived from the north, and I assumed—”

“It’s not plague,” Karn snapped. “It’s a sixteen-year-old girl with a stab wound.” He rolled up the map and slid it into its case.

“We need someone who can keep whatever he sees to himself,” the king said. “Can you do that, Freeman?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ash said. “Thank you for your confidence in me.”

“We would be . . . most distressed,” Karn said, “if word were to leak out about this, do you understand?” The lieutenant’s hand crept to the knife at his belt, making the implied threat explicit.

“I understand, Lieutenant Karn.” Ash’s curiosity burned hotter. Who was this patient? Why was it such a secret? Had he been chosen for this task because he was considered expendable?

That’s when he put the pieces together. This patient—a sixteen-year-old girl—had come from the north in a closed carriage. It was a big secret he needed to keep to himself.

Lyss.

His heart stuttered, and then began to pound. It was like he couldn’t get his breath.

Maybe she’d been wounded, taken prisoner, and brought here.

Ash breathed in, breathed out, struggling to still himself. After the attack at Oden’s Ford, he knew Montaigne was targeting his family. He knew, and yet he’d whiled away his time in a stable. He should have acted sooner. He should have found a way to stop the king before this happened.

If it is Lyss, he thought, I will find a way to save her. Unbidden, Taliesin’s words came back to him. The time will come when you will wish that you were a better healer.

“Healer?” Karn tilted his head, frowning. “Is there a problem?”

“No, lieutenant,” Ash said, his gut churning. “No problem at all.”





25


IN THE KING’S DUNGEONS


They left the king’s apartments with two blackbirds in tow, using the first available staircase to descend to the cellar level. Karn led the way, with Ash in the middle, and the guards behind. They wound their way into the heart of the castle until they came to a stout wooden door sunken into the wall, blackbirds to either side. Behind the door, another staircase descended to a level beneath the cellar.

Ash couldn’t help recalling his last visit to the cellars with the bloodsucking Darian priest. “You keep your patients in the cellar?” he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

Karn gave him a long, measuring look. “This patient we do,” he said, pointing down the staircase. “This way.”

At the foot of the stairs, there was another door, a metal one this time, and two more guards before it. The guards saluted the lieutenant, eyed Ash, and ushered them through. The door clanged shut behind them, and when Ash heard the bar being thrown, his suspicions were confirmed. They were in the king of Arden’s dungeons.

Claustrophobia settled over him like a shroud. If it was Lyss, how could he possibly get her out of here, especially if she was injured? And if these southerners ever became aware of who he was, he would be killed or clapped into the cell next to her. Imprisoned and tortured, most likely. The son and daughter of the queen of the Fells would be worth more alive than dead.

Ash slid a finger under his collar, touched the bottle hidden there. He knew how to get dead if he needed to.

They walked through a dark stone corridor, just wide enough for two to pass abreast, poorly illuminated by torches stuck into niches in the wall. The floor was uneven underfoot, carelessly excavated in some remote age. The air was dank and stale, as if it had been rebreathed so many times that there was nothing nourishing in it.

There were doors to either side of the corridor, with high, barred windows, none large enough to get a man’s shoulders through. He heard sounds from some of them, wounded sounds and weeping, the repetitive wailing of the insane. Ash quickly turned away. You can’t save everyone, sul’Han, he thought.

The floor sloped downward, and they passed through two more checkpoints with guards. They took several turns until they were in an area where the doors were farther apart, suggesting the cells were larger. Although they were farther underground, the air seemed better there, too. He noticed ventilation shafts driven through at intervals. Most of the cells in this area seemed to be empty.