Page 151 of Fires of the Forsaken
“If you would tell me—”
“I can’t give you the information you’re looking for,” I said. “How many times must I explain this?”
“Youwon’tgive me information.”
“There is a difference between ‘won’t’ and ‘can’t.’ Perhaps you should educate yourself on the definition of those words.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why do you protect her? It seems she is no longer inclined to protect you. Give me the information I seek, and I will release you from those chains.”
He simply wouldn’t hear the truth. Unless I fabricated a tale that suited his vendetta, he would ignore anything that came out of my mouth.
So we began the torment again. Sadness. Happiness. Rage. Joy. Despair. This continued for minutes, perhaps hours, the ever-changing emotions twisting my insides until Byron’s unsteadiness forced him to stop. Again, he went to the door. Again, the woman brought him more wine and waited until he steadied before she departed.
My head lolled as Byron suckled from his flask. Much of the drink sloshed down his front. The rancid scent of alcohol filled the room and burned my nostrils.
But, oh, how I wished he would offer me a drink. I would have gladly exchanged food for a few sips of wine. The moldy bread did little to ease the niggling pain in my belly, but perhaps the alcohol would have granted me a few moments of sleep.
Instead, I hovered in the foggy area between sleep and waking, unable to fully rest while chained to the wall. I dreamt. Or, rather, my addled brain conjured memories to trick me into thinking I was dreaming.
As Byron slopped his wine, I found myself transported to Terrick’s bookshop in Swindon.
“And this one,” Terrick’s eyes gleamed as he pulled a tome off the shelf, “has dragons—great winged beasts who breathe fire! Oh, but they’re not real, lass.” He laughed when I stumbled away.
“They’re not?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “They’re fiction stories.” He waved his arm, gesturing to thecolums—columns of books and parchments. “They all are. But sometimes the most effective stories contain a grain of truth.”
I was dragged from the fuzzy, albeit pleasant, memory when Byron spoke.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to lie down and sleep?” he asked. “Are you not yet tired of those chains?”
Sometimes the most effective stories contain a grain of truth.
Could I spin a potent tale around the truth? Would it be enough to end my torment?
Hope fluttered in my battered heart as I willed strength to return to my fatigued body.
“You’re a fool,” I spat, “if you believe Seruf has lowered herself to confiding in a human.”
Byron smiled. “So, you’re finally admitting—”
“I know nothing,” I said. “But this is my truth. I was born in Detha—”
“Detha?” Byron’s red-rimmed eyes widened. He sniffled. “That is in one of the islands of Uchen.”
I ignored him, as he’d ignored me these past days. “I became a hybrid and was brought here when I was five—”
“Is that when you began working with Seruf?” his eyes bulged. He reminded me of the fat toad—my first kill.
My palms prickled. Itched. “I was a child. Do you think a cosmic being such as Seruf has the time or desire to rear a child?”
Byron straightened; his nostrils flared. For the first time, he was listening.Trulylistening.
“I have never interacted with her, as I have said,” I continued. “I know nothing of what she is planning, as I havealsosaid on numerous occasions. But she created me.” The lie rolled easily off my tongue. Perhaps because it wasn’t a falsity. It was something I’d suspected for a long while. “Therefore, she must have a plan for me. Perhaps she was waiting for me to come of age. And if such a plan exists, she’ll not be happy when she learns of my confinement, will she?”
A flicker of uncertainty crippled Byron’s face before he raised his gnarled stump of a hand, gesturing around him. “As you can see, we’re amply prepared should she decide to pay a visit to Lamex.”
“Amply prepared?” I barked out a laugh. “You have one room and a single set of chains. Tell me, mighty ruler of Lamex, when Seruf comes to save me, how do you propose to containtwoFirestarters?”
