Tray in hand, Melliandra hurried down the winding stairs to the lowest level of Boura Fell and down to the last door at the end of the long, dark corridor. There, behind a sel’dor reinforced door, inside a narrow cage forged of floor-to-ceiling spiked sel’dor rods, his body pierced and manacled and weighted down by more sel’dor than any other prisoner had ever survived—and still guarded twenty-four bells a day—Shannisorran v’En Celay, Lord Death, the greatest Fey warrior ever born, lay captive.
He remained hidden in the shadows in the corner of his cage when she entered. She knew why—and it wasn’t the same reason umagi darted for cover when a Mage approached, or tunnel rats fled when a torch drew near. Lord Death didn’t hide in the shadows because he was afraid. He lurked there because he was a predator, blending into his surroundings as he stalked potential prey and calculated the probabilities of a successful attack.
She should have feared him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t except that she needed him.
“They tell me you haven’t been eating.” She set the tray down and pushed it towards the cell bars. She hadn’t been able to hide her surprise when the Mistress of Kitchens put an enormous, steaming bowl on the tray and commanded that Lord Death must consume every drop. The usual fare for prisoners was cold, fatted porridge, leftovers from umagi meals. Today, however, the food on the tray was a savory stew, thick broth swimming with plump grains, chunks of real meat (which did not look like or smell like tunnel rat), mushrooms, and chopped tuberoots. Melliandra had never had fare so rich. She’d never even been this close to such a feast. Her stomach growled loudly, something it had been doing since the moment she picked up the tray.
“Sounds like you need the food more than I.” Lord Death’s low voice rasped from the darkness.
She licked her lips. The temptation to sneak a taste was so strong she could hardly bear it. She closed her eyes and breathed in the heavenly aroma. “It’s hot. It smells too good to waste. Come, eat. You need your strength.”
“Why? Because you need me strong enough to kill the Mage for you?”
“Ssh!” She shot a look over her shoulder. The door to the cell was cracked open. “Voices carry in this place.” Thankfully, the guard wasn’t listening. Judging from the blissful sighs and sounds of slurping, the cup of stew she’d given him from Lord Death’s bowl was holding the guard’s full attention.
She turned back to Shan. “And yes, that’s why. You nearly killed him last week. I thought for a moment, I was free.”
Like a darrokken springing on its prey, Lord Death exploded from the shadow, crossing the cell in a single leap. His hands curled around the spiked cell bars. Eyes glowing bright, teeth bared and savage, he snarled, “You should have let my mate die. You should have let us die. Why didn’t you, for pity’s sake?” Then, as abruptly as it had come, his fury faded. He slumped against the bars of the cage, and his whole demeanor changed from anger to despair. “What have we ever done to you that you should keep us in such torment? “
She looked away. Pity was a stranger to her, shame even less familiar. But she felt both now.
“I couldn’t let you die,” she whispered. “You’re my only hope.” Her voice almost broke then, and she had to stop and clear her throat. Don’t be such a mush-hearted fool, Melliandra. You’ll destroy everything. But she could practically feel his pain as if it were her own. She knew what it was to be caged, to long for freedom that never came.
She gave herself a mental shake and sat up straight, steeling her resolve. She needed this man to keep his promise, and not just for herself. For Shia’s son, too. Only if the High Mage died could they be free.
“You’re the only one capable of killing the High Mage. He fears you. Everyone in Boura Fell knows that. The only thing he fears more is a Tairen Soul, and since it’s unlikely a Tairen Soul will make an appearance here anytime soon, that leaves you. I need you to kill him. It’s the only way.”
“The only way what?”
“The only way to be free.” A lifetime of caution stopped Melliandra from mentioning Shia’s child. She even tucked away all thought of him in that secret place in her mind where even the Mage could not go. “So long as the High Mage lives, there’s no life, no freedom for me. He owns my soul.”
“Then how is it possible you are here, asking me to kill him for you? I thought no umagi could plot against his master.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“If you want my help, you’ll make it my business.”
She glared at him in stubborn silence.
His brows rose, and he crossed his arms. “I have nothing but time, little umagi.”
She huffed a frustrated breath, then dug a small cup from her pocket and thrust it through the cell bars. “Fine. Eat your stew, and I’ll tell you.”
Shan tilted the serving cup and shook more of the stew into his mouth. It was good. Jaffing good. The best food he’d had in years, possibly even centuries.
“So there’s a secret place in your mind where you can hide thoughts from the Mages?” he repeated as he chewed the flavorful chunks of meat. The little umagi had told him about how one day she’d discovered that she could keep secrets from the Mage, and how she’d been testing it over the last months. “So where did it come from? How did you create it? “
“I don’t know. One day it was just there. And I realized that what thoughts I keep there are private. The High Mage can’t see in. It’s like a room protected by privacy weaves, and it gets larger the more thoughts I keep there. That’s how I can have this conversation with you and know he will never learn of it.” She watched him dip his cup into the bowl again, and when he carried it to his mouth, she licked her lips.
Despite a thousand years of horrendous torture, despite a soul-deep enmity for the Eld, the Fey called Lord Death felt his heart squeeze with pity. Poor child. Those big, hungry eyes of hers had been tracking every move of the serving cup since he’d begun to eat, and even the hand pressed hard against her stomach hadn’t been able to quiet its growls. If her presence was another of Vadim Maur’s twisted games of torment, it was the best attempt of the millennia. Because, gods help him, he had fallen for it.
“Do all umagi have this secret place?” Shan drained the cup in two mouthfuls.
“I don’t think so. I think I’m the only one.”
“The stew is very good. You should have some yourself.” He offered her the serving cup and nudged the half-eaten bowl of stew towards her. “Go on. Every child deserves a treat now and again.”
Her eyes flashed up, molten silver and full of sudden ire and cynicism. “I’m no child. And treats are just bait to trap the stupid.”
“No bait here, child. Just a shared cup to seal our…” he started to say “friendship” but realized the little umagi would probably ruffle up some more, so he settled on a different word, “… agreement.” It hurt his Fey heart that any child should be so misused she suspected a trap in even the simplest kindness. “Teska. Please. It’s really quite delicious.”
The offer was too much temptation to refuse. She snatched the cup from his hand, dipped it in the bowl, and poured the still-warm stew into her mouth. Her eyes closed in bliss. Judging by the look on her face, she’d probably never tasted anything so good in her life. That realization hurt, too. His heart wept for her—almost as much as it wept for the daughter of his own blood whom he’d never seen, never held.