Don’t, something whispered inside him. Don’t give in to despair. When you do that, then he’s won.
“You mean he hasn’t already?” he whispered.
“What?”
He drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady himself. Then he went back to her and sat down by her side. He took her hand in his—so small, so very small—and stroked it gently.
“Jenseny.” He said it quietly, very quietly. Was he afraid that someone might hear? There was no one within sight now, but what did that mean in a place like this? “The fae that I use is too weak here; I can’t do anything with it. What about the kind of fae that Hesseth was teaching you to use? Can you see that here?”
She hesitated. “Sometimes. It was strong right after we came down here. There isn’t too much now, but sometimes it changes fast. I never know.” She said that apologetically—as if somehow the shortcomings of the tidal power were her fault.
He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “When it is strong, when you can use it . . . do you think you could Work this?” He didn’t point to the bars of their prison—the real issue—but to the thin chain between his ankles. Metal was metal, and if she could use the tidal fae to alter his bonds, then maybe there was hope for the bars as well.
But she cast her eyes downward and said miserably, “I tried. On the boat. Only I’m not good enough . . .”
“You just need practice,” he comforted. Thinking wryly, And you may have a lot of time for that here. “Let me know the next time you feel there’s enough to work with and we can try—”
Footsteps. He stopped speaking suddenly, hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them. What would happen if the Prince found out about Jenseny’s tidal sorcery? And for that matter, since Tarrant had sold them out, why the hell didn’t he know already? There was a mystery worth examining!
The first figure to come into sight was a soldier, followed by three others. They must think me capable of miracles, he thought dryly, If they imagine they need that kind of manpower. Following them was the rakh from the river, his mane not hooded now but bared to the shoulder, golden highlights playing along the fur as he entered the chamber. The latter nodded toward the bars, and one of the soldiers took up station there. Armed, Damien noted. Another nod, and a pistol was drawn. The cold steel barrel pointed directly at his face.
“Come over to the bars,” the rakh commanded.
Slowly, heart pounding, he obeyed. The barrel was now little more than a yard from his face; even a born jinxer couldn’t miss a shot like that.
“Turn around.”
He turned back toward Jenseny. She was crouched like a frightened animal, ready to bolt if threatened. Where? To what haven? Where could one find safety in this place?
“Put your hands between the bars,” the rakh commanded.
He felt his heart sink as he realized the purpose of all these directions. But what choice did he have? He extended his arms behind him, far enough that his hands slid between the bars. Cold steel shackles snapped shut about his wrists, pinning him in place. He tested them once to see how much slack they allowed him. Not much.
“He’s secure,” the rakh announced.
Footsteps approached from behind. Damien tried to twist around, to see who was approaching, but the angle was wrong and the light was bad and all he could see was the sweep of crimson cloth as a tall, robed figure made its way toward his cell.
Then: a key rattled in the lock. The heavy door was swung aside. A man entered the cell, and took up position directly in front of Damien.
Oh, my God . . .
With one part of his mind he saw the body that stood before him: lean, aging, draped in a sleeveless robe of crimson silk that opened down the front to reveal a tighter, more tailored layer. He was fifty, maybe sixty, and the thin gold band that held back his hair betrayed graying temples, aging skin, a receding hairline.
Utterly familiar.
For a moment he was back in the rakhlands. Kneeling before the Master of Lema, his hands tied behind his back with simple rope (what he wouldn’t give for that now!), at the mercy of her madness as a demon whispered behind her shoulder, There is always torture.
They were the same, she and this man. Not in body. Not in gender. Not even in their features, or any other physical attribute. But in their clothing—their bearing—even their expression! Watching him move was like watching her move; being bound before him was like reliving that awful day, when he waited in vain for the earth to move, to save him from her madness.
“Prince Iso Rashi,” the rakh announced. “Sovereign Lord of Kilsea, Chataka, and the Black Lands.” And he added, “Called the Undying.”
They didn’t look at all alike. They couldn’t be related—could they? The woman had left this region more than a century ago. Could two people be so very alike that after a century’s isolation their taste in clothing would still develop identically? It was crazy. It was impossible.
It had happened.
“So,” the Prince said. His voice was a smooth baritone, even and disciplined. “This is the soldier of God who would lay siege to my throne.”
He managed to shrug. “I gave it my best.”
The expression that came across the Prince’s face was eerily familiar; he wished he could forget where he had seen it before.
“So you did,” he said softly. “And now that your efforts have been dispensed with, you can make up for the trouble you caused me by rendering a simple service.”
“I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”
“None at all,” the Prince assured him. “But as for how much it hurts . . . that’s up to you.”
He reached out to take Damien’s face in his hands—and for a moment the situation was so much like what Damien had experienced in the rakhlands that panic overwhelmed him, and he tried to back away. But the bars at his back allowed no retreat, and the cool hands settled on his face with firm authority. Jenseny started to move toward them, but Damien saw her and warned her, “No!” There was nothing she could do to help him now. “Stay where you are! Don’t interfere.”
“How very considerate of you,” the Prince murmured.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. He tried to shut his eyes, but it was as if his lids had been glued open. The chill blue gaze of his captor drew him in, and its power skewered him like an insect on a mounting board. Where the hell is he getting the power from? Damien thought desperately. Then he felt the fire that was pressed against his cheek, the glowing ring that was pouring out tamed earth-fae to fuel the Prince’s Binding. Like Tarrant’s sword, Damien thought. Remembering all too well what that sword was like, and what it was capable of doing.
“Tell me about Gerald Tarrant,” the Prince commanded.
Images exploded in his brain, sight and sound and emotion all bound together into a blazing tapestry of memory. The Hunter in his forest. Ciani, helpless in his arms. Rakh dying in agony. Blood. Fear. Revulsion. He shook as the memories poured through him, all the emotion of a long, hard year packed into one terrifying instant. The boy that Tarrant killed. The women he tortured. The horror of knowing that they had to go in and rescue him, that there really was no choice, that the Hunter would live and thrive and feed because of Damien Vryce-
“No,” he gasped. “Stop it, please!”
—and then this journey, this terrible doomed journey, the days and the nights and the battles and the horror and then that moment at the river, that terrible moment when all his hopes came crashing down and he looked at Tarrant and he knew—he knew—it was over, it was all over, their efforts were for nothing and all the dying was a waste, the Hunter had proven true to his nature at last and betrayed them to the enemy-