Page 148 of Thorn Season
“I’m a Wielder,” I breathed. “I’m everything you despise.”
“I could never despise strength. You were the only one fearless enough to Wield your power at the Opal. The only one worthy of such a power.” His brow creased in a perfect imitation of compassion. “You worried about my finding out, and it kept you from warming to me. So, isn’t this a relief—that I’ve known you and have wanted you anyway? You’ve always been safe with me, Alissa. Nothing shall ever harm you at my side.”
His voice rang deep with such emotion and sincerity that I might have once believed him. But just like Erik had known me since the Opal, I had knownhim.
I would not forget again.
Erik smiled ruefully, seeming to read my answer. “You’ll need to digest what you’ve learned. But you must appreciate, I cannot undo these chains until you reach a...favorabledecision. The Capewellswill prove troublesome now that they know your secret, and only together can we manage them. Together, we can carry all the power in the world.”
He slid the ring toward me, silver scraping the stones. For the second time tonight, he said, “Take as long as you need. I’ll wait.”
I stared at the ring, dazed. “I will never marry you,” I said weakly.
Erik lifted a hand to my cheek and I recoiled—because I knew it would be a tender touch, and that was somehow worse than a cruel one.
At my reaction, he dropped his hand. The torchlight swooped golden against his blond hair and gilded his outline. All painted in the glow, with his sculpted face drawn in sorrow, he appeared celestial—a portrait of a god in mourning.
“I hate to see you like this,” he murmured. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
He left the ring on the floor and stood. The door squealed shut behind him.
“I promise,” I whispered, and his eyes met mine between the bars. “I promise,” I went on, “that I’ll be the one to kill you. I promise I’ll enjoy it. And I promise that your death will be as painful as the deaths you have granted others. By all the gracious gods, Erik Vard, I swear it.”
A formal oath. As binding as any wedding vow.
Erik’s face was unreadable as he took the torch and left.
43
As a Daradonian Wielder, a part of me must have always anticipated imprisonment, because I took to it with grim resignation. I bore the hard floors, the cramping muscles, the heavy-lidded chamber pot. I didn’t even grumble when the tulle grew scratchy around my legs.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t grow accustomed to the dark.
Relief only came when Erik brought me trays of hot venison stew with hard cheeses and fruits and bread rolls, served in metal crockery and illuminated by a single candle. The first time I woke to the salty-rich scent, I upturned the tray in a fit of rage. The flame went out, and I immediately regretted it.
The candle at my next meal was half the size. I savored the light, not daring to breathe too hard for fear of extinguishing it. For every untouched meal, Erik granted me a shorter candle. On his eighth visit, when my stomach was panging, I succumbed to the entire tray. The next candle was twice the height. I blew out the flame and stewed in shameful darkness.
The way my meals were staggered, I could only track time by his appearance. When he was coiffed and smelling rose-sweet from bathing, it was morning. When his cape was wrinkled or his hair roguishlytousled, it was evening. But no matter the time of day, the dullroot never wore off.
When I noticed the growing soreness at the back of my neck, I realized why.
Erik was administering the dullroot while I slept.
At first, I tried to stay awake; once the poison left my system, I couldrun. Deep down, I knew Erik wouldn’t let it get that far. He’d possessed those canisters all along and could easily infuse the dungeon air with dullroot. Still, the idea gave me purpose, and for five meal trays, I didn’t even doze.
Then the stones became bitingly cold from what I suspected was the seep-through of an early-summer rain. The chill drenched the fires of my resolve, and I awoke shivering, with my head in Erik’s lap and his cape around my shoulders and his hand stroking my hair.
I lurched away so violently that I thwacked my head against the wall. He frowned, reproachful, but didn’t try to comfort me again.
After that, the water took on a faintly saccharine aftertaste. Nightmilk—a few drops per jug to ensure regular sleep. I wasn’t yet petty enough to die of thirst, so I drank deep from every cup, hating myself with each swallow.
Oftentimes, Erik would serve me and leave. “I have business,” he would say apologetically and add something encouraging about how the rolls were still warm.
But sometimes, he lounged against the wall beside me, like we were fugitives made allies by shared captivity. Once, he took the purple grapes himself, nudging one against my fingers every other bite. Trying to trick me into eating absentmindedly, like he had during our first dinner together, when I’d been preoccupied with upholding the conversation.
He ended up finishing the grapes alone, looking vaguely irritated, because the trick didn’t work now that he carried the conversations single-handedly. It wasn’t for lack of effort; he asked my opinions on various topics, hoping to engage my interest, while I remained mutinously silent. Surely there would come a point at which the thrill of the hunt gave way to boredom, and I would be no more satisfying to conquer than an injured deer on open grass.
But after twenty meal trays—most left cold and unfinished—that point still hadn’t come.
