Page 150 of Fires of the Forsaken
And how could I explain I wasn’t the bad guy? That I was an outsider too, and as trapped as she was? Neither of us belonged here, but we had no option to go home. It was either live in this hellhole or die.
“Death’s looking like the better option,” I mumbled.
“Don’t say that.”
I jerked back, cursing when I whacked my head on the fence post. “Ouch!Motherf—”I glanced up, rubbing at the back of my head, as Cheriour knelt beside me.
42
The Manipulator
Ihung limply in my chains, my arms quivering, wrists aching as the shackles dug into my skin. Tears streamed down my cheeks. No matter how hard I bit my lip or tongue, I couldn’t stem the sobs. Byron’s doing, of course. My grief was so strong, it was as though he’d physically reached into my chest and crushed my heart.
Then he touched my forehead again, and I was giddy. Full of life and laughter. My muscles yearned to run. To play.
Another touch left a hollow pit in my stomach, my chest once again gnawing with sorrow.
On and on this went. Happiness. Sadness. Happiness. Sadness. Until Byron finally drew away, his hands trembling, his face as pallid as mine surely was.
I sagged, the shackles biting into my wrists, forcing me to stand upright. My legs had grown weary; the muscles in my thighs and calves cramped.
I had toiled in that small, windowless room for several days, unable to move, sit, or lie down.
I was given provisions; scraps of moldy bread and ladles of gritty water that were tossedunceremonsiouly—unceremoniously into my mouth. I choked up more than I swallowed. And, as I could not leave the wall, even to use a privy…well, a body’s natural functions couldn’t be denied, could they?
So I stood in my own urine, with wedges of barely chewed food coating the front of my tunic, while my emotions withered in utter turmoil.
Byron suffered as well.
He staggered into the wall, his hand quaking so violently, he almost couldn’t raise his arm to rap his knuckles against the door.
But he managed. And, at his summon, a woman entered the hut.
She had a round, kind face, and a wild mass of steel gray hair, which she kept twisted in a long braid. She spoke gently to Byron.
“Here you go,” she pressed a flask into his palm. “That’ll steady your nerves again. Tsk,” she clicked her tongue when Bryon raised the flask to his mouth, his unsteady hand spilling much of the wine down his front. “Poor lad.” She used the hem of her shirt to clean the mess. “Somedays I swear it’s a curse the Celestials left you with.”
She turned to look at me. Burn scars wrapped around the left side of her throat. Both her hands also bore puckered blemishes. “It’s good work you’re doing, Byron.” Her eyes held no warmth as she studied me. Only revulsion.
Byron spilled more wine but consumed three large gulps. His shaking quieted. “Is there news from Darfield?” he asked.
“Very little,” the woman said. “But there was an attack…” She paused, turning her cold eyes on me again, as though unsure whether to divulge this information in my presence.
Byron did not ask her to continue. He nodded, took another long sip of wine, and straightened. “I am fit to proceed.”
The woman nodded, glowered at me once more, and left.
Byron drank from the flask again. And again, before he turned back to me. “What are Seruf’s plans?”
I stayed silent.
“Why did she send you?”
I said nothing.
“Why did she create you?”
The only response was my ragged breathing.
