Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(73)

At the end of the corridor was a large, circular room with a high ceiling and three doors set in the stone around the perimeter. At the far end of the room was a crumbling stone wall, stained and damaged by the wet, layered with fungus. Water trickled off it and pooled on the floor. Ash guessed that meant they were close to the river.

There were two large stone slabs in the central room, leather straps attached with iron rings, stained dark from long use and indifferent cleaning. Wrought metal chains and pulleys and leg irons dangled from the walls. Ash didn’t recognize the tools he saw there, but many of them bore an uncanny resemblance to medical instruments. The room stank of old blood, intentional pain, and terror. He took a deep breath, released it in a long shudder.

“Nervous, healer?” Karn gave him a sideways look.

“Feeling the damp is all,” Ash said, his mouth ashy with fear. There were two guards stationed outside one of the doors in the far wall, a door with no window. This must be their destination.

If it was Lyss, would she recognize him? He’d changed a lot in four years, and his hair was dyed brown, and yet—they had been so close, the connection between them so strong that she might.

What if she did, and called him by name?

What if he saw what had been done to her and gave himself away? He could not allow that to happen.

The guards unlocked the door and stepped aside so they could enter.

“Stay outside,” Karn ordered the blackbirds. He lifted two torches from sconces on either side of the door and led the way in.

The room was dimly lit by lamps set into niches in the walls. Their light didn’t make it all the way into the corners. The cell was roughly twenty feet square, hollowed out of stone, and empty of furniture. The ceiling was higher than in the upper part of the dungeon.

On the far side of the room, a low bed had been set up against the wall. There on the bed, under a pile of blankets, someone was dying. That understanding slammed into Ash like a runaway horse, all but forcing the air from his lungs.

Karn mounted the torches in sconces on the wall at either end of the bed. “Hello, Jenna,” he said softly. “We’ve brought another healer for you.”

Jenna. Not Lyss. And when he looked at the girl huddled in the bed, he realized that she was a stranger.

Ash all but crumpled to the floor, his relief mingled with confusion. If it wasn’t Lyss, then who was she?

“Healer?” Karn was eyeing him again like he didn’t know what to make of this wobble-kneed mage.

The prisoner watched them warily as they approached, like an animal in a trap. It was a girl, perhaps a little younger than Ash, a rough gray blanket pulled up to her chin. Her hair was tangled and appeared to be streaked with color. It was hard to tell, it was so badly in need of washing.

Her clothes were filthy, too—though they’d once been fine. She wore what looked like boy’s breeches and a torn linen shirt stained with blood and only the gods knew what else. A velvet coat lay crumpled up on the floor next to the bed.

Her hands were manacled together, attached to a bolt in the wall by a short chain. The skin at her wrists was scabbed and discolored, as if she’d struggled to get free. Ash’s fingers found the collar around his own neck and his stomach clenched with sympathy.

Her eyes, though—they were a striking gold color, clear and piercing, set into a planed face with a rather prominent nose. Raptor’s eyes that missed nothing. Undefeated in a place intended to extinguish hope.

She wasn’t the kind who could survive long in captivity, even if she hadn’t sustained a mortal wound. His heart broke a little.

“The first healer said I’d be fine.” Her voice was weak and thready, but there was an element of steel in it. “I thought he was the best you had.”

“Merrill said you wouldn’t let him come anywhere near you,” Karn said.

Smart girl, Ash thought.

The girl shifted on the bed, bunching the blanket in her fists. “Is that what he said? He’s a liar then.”

“Jenna,” Karn muttered, as if frustrated.

“Anyway. He said he didn’t need to touch me. He could diagnose me by my aura.”

“Blood of the martyrs!” Karn said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to save your life.” He gestured toward Ash. “This one is gifted.”

Jenna looked Ash up and down, and something like fear flickered in her eyes. “No,” she said, licking her cracked lips. “He’s too tall. I don’t want a tall healer. Bring me someone else.”

She doesn’t want a gifted healer, Ash thought. Is she worried that I might actually succeed in healing her? Or is she afraid that I’ll ferret out secrets that she wants to keep hidden?

Ash squatted in front of her, setting his kit down beside him, so he could take a closer, appraising look.

Her eyes were overbright, her breathing quick and shallow. Likely her pulse was rapid, too. He could feel a blaze of white-hot magic, centered in her midsection. That must be where the injury was. The girl was not a wizard—she had no telltale glow. Her arms were well muscled, like she worked hard for a living. She’d eaten well, too, at least until recently. Her skin had an unusual reflective quality—it shimmered in the light from the torches as if there were flames under her skin.

“I’m Adam Freeman,” he said. “How do you feel?”

Jenna gazed into his face for a long moment. “You are a wolf,” she said, her lip curling. She looked up at Karn. “Why did you bring a wolf into the palace?”