Page 66 of The Eyes of Tamburah
Shyla remained in a crouched position. If she didn’t move, then she wouldn’t confirm her worst fear. However, the injury on her thigh burned with pain. Sitting down, she reached for the icy band around her lower left leg. Perhaps the temperature was due to having lost her boots, but when her fingers touched the metal circling her ankle, the cold shot right to her heart, freezing it in place. Further exploration confirmed what she’d dreaded. Someone—the knife wielder?—had cuffed her to a thick chain.
Crawling, she followed the links until she reached a metal loop secured to the ground. She panicked and grabbed the chain in both hands. No matter how hard she yanked on it, nothing budged. Then she tried pulling the loop from the ground. It didn’t move. And tugging on the cuff did nothing but cause the metal to bite into her skin, making her bleed.
Spent, she curled into a ball. Her palms stung and her dire thoughts whirred. No way to rescue Rendor if she couldn’t save herself. Had they left her here to die of thirst? How long could she last without water? A gritty bitter taste coated her already dry mouth. Did she have three or four sun jumps left? Why not kill her outright? Why bother with all this? Did they have other plans? And the most important question, who were they? Not the Water Prince’s guards or the Heliacal Priestess’s deacons. The Vagrant Prince’s minions? Another vagrant group? The treasure hunters? The professors? The monks? How did she manage to get so many enemies in a few sun jumps?
Since no magical answers popped into her head, she’d have to figure it out on her own. Well, as much as she could. At least having a goal helped.
What did she know?
The…room was cool, but not cold. From the little bit of moisture in the air, she guessed she was somewhere between levels twenty and thirty.
She pulled the chain slowly through her hands. It was smooth and not rusted. Fingering each link, she discovered they were welded closed with no broken or weak ones along the entire length, which was about four meters.
She crawled in circles around the loop, starting close and ranging further out with each circuit. At first she encountered nothing, but about a meter away, she found her pack. From what she could tell, it contained all her possessions, including the vial of blood, the remaining gamelu jerky, and her half-filled water skin. The crushing pressure around her ribs eased and she drew in her first real breath since she’d been captured.
Continuing her explorations, she touched a wall on the right side, but the chain prevented her from finding the edges. At least she would have a place to rest her back and to protect it as well. She ran her hands over every centimeter that she could reach, searching for anything on the wall that might help her. Nothing.
Shyla resumed her crawl. When she hit a low table with her arm, she slowed. On the top sat a glass pitcher. Dipping a finger inside, she touched a cool liquid. She sniffed it then tasted it. Water. Rolls of jerky were lined up next to it. She sat back on her heels. So they didn’t intend to kill her. At least, not yet. She wasn’t about to celebrate because, from the amount of provisions, she worried they’d planned to keep her here for a while, which might be worse. And Rendor would be dead.
The last thing she discovered was a collection station…well, not quite that elaborate, but it had lids and cleanser and would do. And it confirmed her fear over the length of her…stay. So why didn’t they leave her a druk as well? To keep her on edge?
She retreated to the wall and sat down to consider her situation. Her only chance to escape was if her captors returned and she jumped one of them. As for weapons, she had four meters of chain and the glass pitcher. Once she refilled her water skin and drank the rest, she’d break the pitcher, hoping to get a decent-sized shard to use as a knife.
While waiting, she’d practice the Ways of the Yarin.
* * *
It was disorienting without any way to tell how much time had passed. Shyla kept track of her meals, scratching lines into the wall with a piece of glass. She counted one sun jump for every four meals since she was eating more because of her increased physical activity. After she marked one sun jump, she grieved for Rendor. The captain probably had many deaths on his soul…well, no probably about it, but he’d treated her decently and saved her a couple times. Hanif’s comment replayed in her mind.Not without evidence. Right, Shyla?She had her evidence—the black river caused by those dead bodies in the prince’s special rooms. Tortures ordered by the Water Prince, but carried out by Rendor’s men. Based on that, she should be celebrating his death. Yet, she mourned his laugh—that small part of him she’d imagined was untainted. That part of him she, if she was being honest, liked. Probably more than was healthy.
Being in the darkness alone with her thoughts wore away the small kernel of hope she clutched tight. Instead, she redoubled her physical efforts. The heavy chain hindered her movements at first, but then she started incorporating it into a few of her defensive moves. A plan of action formed. She’d pretend to be weak or asleep when they entered, drawing them closer, and then she’d pounce.
As her incarceration lengthened, Shyla learned a few things about herself. She expected to miss having a cushion to sleep on or food other than dried jerky, but what she longed for the most was the sun. The warmth on her skin as it soaked up the sunlight and darkened. The rays streaming into her room through the mirror pipe and how they changed direction during the sun’s jump across the sky. And she’d give anything to argue with Banqui again. He always demanded accuracy and challenged her finds, but, at the end of a job, he always praised her work. She hoped the Water Prince didn’t kill him because she had gone missing again.
Even though she rationed as much as possible, her water ran out after two sun jumps. Anxiety churned in her stomach. Would they care that she needed more? Would they come? Would she be able to grab one of them? Would she be able to see after all this time in the darkness? No doubt the lantern light would hurt her eyes. She’d have to fight by feel.
It finally happened on the third sun jump of her captivity. A brightening. The darkness diluted just a fraction. It grew, revealing a tunnel. Eventually, the weak light exposed her surroundings. About what she expected—bare walls, the metal anchor in the floor, the collection bins and the table. Only one exit to the tunnel beyond. Because of the chain there was no need for bars or a door.
The light strengthened until it grew too painful for her to look at the tunnel. She closed her eyes, but it still stabbed through her eyelids. Tears leaked. Sitting with her back against the wall and her legs bent, she arranged the chain just so and palmed the glass shard, keeping it hidden under her forearm. She rested her forehead on her knees and listened.
The faint scuff of footsteps. An echo of voices. Then a deep hum. A rhythmic chanting. Odd. The sound wove through her. It pulled and tugged. It twisted and dipped. She concentrated, trying to determine the direction of the sound, but it surrounded her. No. It was inside her. It filled every space in her body.
And then with a snap, it was gone. So was the light. And her glass shard. In fact, after exploring her prison, she discovered her water skin was now filled. Another full skin sat on top of the table along with more sticks of jerky, and the broken pieces of the pitcher had been removed. The collection station had been cleaned out as well.
* * *
She paced around her small space. The chain rasped and clanked with her agitated movements. What in seven hells just happened? Did she fall asleep? Not during her only chance to escape! She ran her fingers along her scalp. Had she been knocked senseless? No lumps or tender spots anywhere on her head. Her stubble felt longer, but it was hard to tell without a mirror.
Frustration welled and the desire to punch the wall until her knuckles bled grew inside her. The pressure built until she screamed. The shrill sound bounced off the walls. At least the tension eased a bit.
A strange thought occurred to her then—what if help was just a shout away all this time? It was the first thing a person would do when in trouble, but she never considered it. Manic laughter bubbled. All her training and no thought to seek aid. She doubled over, hysterical, tears streaming from her eyes as she imagined a group of people coming to investigate the strange calls. They’d chastise her for not yelling sooner, break the chain, take her in…
Her crazed amusement died. The people who’d captured her had thought all this out in advance and wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like that. Plus only two people cared enough to come to her rescue. One was dead. The other was probably hanging upside down bleeding to death in one of the prince’s special rooms or was also dead by now. And if Jayden knew of her situation, he’d be the last person to help. No chance of her spilling vagrant secrets when there was no one for her to talk to.
Shyla sat against the wall and rested her head back. What if her captors sat in the tunnel listening? Perhaps waiting for her to voice her questions aloud? Or to beg for her freedom?
Feeling silly, she called, “What do you want from me?”
No answer.
