Page 160 of A Flame of the Phoenix

CHAPTER FORTY

Tarly

They weren’t allowed to leave this room. Tarly couldn’t really complain—his makeshift bed of a sack of flour and an empty burlap sack was far more tolerable than the icy stone and prickly dead hay of his previous cell.

Jakon and Marlowe had each other and seemed to have made the best of what they had over the many weeks they’d been here. Tarly massaged his stiff good shoulder as he sat up, finding the humans already awake and chatting quietly to each other. He could eavesdrop, but he decided against it.

Then there was Reuben…a man who’d lost his sanity to Marvellas, cowering to himself in the corner, often muttering nonsense as if his thoughts were of a different person. His brown eyes darted all over the room, with no attention on his true surroundings, as if he were in a darker place none of them could comprehend.

Some of the things Tarly caught from his incoherent ramblings were mentions of the ruin and Faythe and how terrified he was—for himself, for her, for the world. Little madesense. Reuben often asked Jakon and Marlowe about Aurialis’s ruin, convinced they knew where it was. While Jakon was growing frustrated with him, Marlowe kept so patient and kind, making sure he ate from their small rations and kept warm. Unlike them, Reuben wasn’t made to stay in this room under watch—he just chose to some days and nights.

Tarly’s bad arm was numb. It had frightened him the first time it had happened, and he hadn’t alarmed Nerida at the time. Throughout the morning, feeling returned to it, but he wondered if there would be a time it would stay lame, and he would no longer be able to even use his bow.

He was becoming more useless by the day.

With that thought he stood, righting his clothing and slipping back into his position on the bench. He’d been here a week at least. Callen hadn’t come back. They were given food and water and escorted to relieve themselves or bathe under watch, but otherwise, they were locked in here. Tarly glanced over the table and the counters filling up with red vials of Phoenix Blood, but to his other side, Marlowe had only achieved another dozen, spelled for its intended use: to amplify the magickal abilities some fae already possessed.

“Does it hurt?” Marlowe asked gently. “It’s not until long past afternoon you start using that arm.”

The numb hand rested over his lap, while his other worked more intensely to compensate, grinding the herbs he needed, mixing the liquids, chopping other things. It had become routine now, and he didn’t mind it.

“There’s a dull ache. I have a pain-relieving tonic.”

From Nerida, and it was running low. He’d watched her make it and knew how to replicate it, but he didn’t have her magick to add to it, which he feared was the only thing strong enough to relieve his pain.

“I’m still trying to understand you,” Jakon said, less hostile than the beginning of the week but still holding his suspicion of him.

“You don’t have to understand. Come on—we have work to do.”

He watched them exchange a wary look.

Over the week, he done a lot of observing them, trying to understandtheirmotives here. One thing he couldn’t shake was how well Marlowe appeared at times. Jakon would make her laugh, or she’d wander around the room in a picture of health. Then, other times, especially when the guards would bring food or escort her out, anyone would think she couldn’t keep this task going for long before it killed her.

Tarly’s next move was a risk, but he scribbled on a piece of parchment, leaving it under a bottle he handed across to her. He didn’t make eye contact, keeping as disinterested in them and as focused on his task as possible.

They were always alone in this room, but maybe that was the security Callen wanted them to believe they had to watch them slip up and reveal an ulterior motive. He kept vigilant.

Tarly waited all day for her to respond, but a message never returned to him.

At night, when they retired from the duty, Tarly spent his last hours crafting arrows. It was more for distraction than enjoyment. His bad arm gave him enough functionality to whittle the scraps of wood he found, and he had a pouch of arrowheads. He didn’t tell anyone he’d taken negligible pieces of the Phoenix feather, only wanting to add something special to the fletching of his next craft.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and he exchanged a puzzled look with Jakon and Marlowe across the room in their sleeping corner. No one ever bothered to announce themselves.After a pause, when no one answered, a head shorter than he expected slipped around the door as it creaked open.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

She was a younger dark fae with long black hair, and for a second, he thought of Zaiana in her youth.

“You’re Amaya,” Marlowe said warmly.

The dark fae nodded. “Maverick said I’m to keep an eye on you. He’s left.”

Of course the dark fae who were born had once been young, children with the same complete innocence as anyone else. Amaya was at least seventeen in human appearance, but there was something about her that had retained a harmless nature.

When Amaya’s eyes slipped to him, her brows lifted, and excitement sparked in her eyes. “You’re an archer?” She crossed to him without hesitation. He didn’t answer, but when she spied his bow behind him she gasped softly. “Your bow is incredible.”

Tarly didn’t see the harm in showing her. In fact, it was unexpected to have such enthusiastic company for the skill.

“It’s made from silver oak,” he said, passing it to her. It was too big for her to use, but her entire expression lit up tracing the craftsmanship.

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