A Hand Weaving Chaos (Book 2 of The Fallen Gods Trilogy)

CHAPTER TWO

Minutes passed. Or maybe it was hours. Or possibly years. Finally...

"You're hands are bleeding."

Rydorel. He spoke in a voice deeper than Brexten's but which carried the same accented elegance.

So they were. Some of the blisters had broken, seeping blood and clear fluids down her fingertips. It even hurt to look at them. Inanely, she realized that she didn't know where she'd last seen her engagement ring.

"I won't insult you by telling you can't escape," he said.

"I know. Thank you."

He inclined his head as if she had paid him a very great compliment and stepped down the dais toward her. "You're in a heightened state of agitation now. It's written all over your face. They've shocked you to the point where you think you're going to lose your mind. You won't. This will pass eventually. Come with me."

She had no choice but follow as he walked past her, down the length of the violet carpet, and from the hall. His civility demanded the same from her. If aldar teres had dragged her any further, she would have screamed every step of the way. But Rydorel had asked, so she obliged.

She stared at his back, at the slight line of his shoulders rigidly squared under his gold embroidered tunic. He lived as their pampered pet and he knew it. More than that, he accepted the role and played it accordingly. His complexity did, and did not, remind her of Brexten.

After silently climbing several flights of darkened stairs lit only by a sparse arrangement of lamps lining the walls, they came to a long hallway with many doors. Rydorel picked one and opened it. Like a gentleman, he held the door, waiting for her to enter.

The room's only light came from the sliver of moon shining through a high barred window. To her right, she saw a small cot against the wall. Beyond that, she could make out little else. It made her cringe, that darkness, because it resembled the eternity between those two portals when she had lain in the aldar teres' filth, waiting to die.

"You will stay here for now," Rydorel said. He stood in the doorway. The light from the hall against his face made him look nothing like his brother. "Food and clothing will be provided tomorrow morning. Water for bathing will also be brought should you wish it. Your door will be guarded at all times and since we are three stories off the ground, I suggest you not jump from the window even if you could fit between the bars. Any attempt made would be highly hazardous to your health."

He turned to leave.

"Doesn't it matter to you that Brexten is still alive?" Jill made herself asked. But was he? Did she have the strength to believe otherwise? Do I even care now?

In a way that suggested he discussed nothing more interesting than the weather, Rydorel said, "No. Not so much as it probably should, and that worries me. Now, if you will excuse me."

He left the room then, closing the door behind him. Jill heard the lock click and listened to the sound of his receding footsteps down the hall.

And because not even Rydorel's calmness could hold her any longer, she went down to her knees. And cried. And was afraid. And wanted to go home.

*

Pain woke her.

It centered in her hands and throbbed in waves that left her faint. Throbbed, faded, then throbbed again. Groaning, she opened her eyes. When she did, she saw the reason for the pain's sharpness. Sunlight. It streamed in from high overhead through the room's only window, between bars of rusted metal. The light fell squarely on the bed, transforming it into a prison of fire.