Hollow Palace (Wattpad Exclusive)

Chapter Fourteen

Fourteen

She woke, choking. Or that’s what it felt like. A wad of cloth, sour-tasting like dried sweat, was jammed in her mouth. Her hands were bound behind her back and her ankles tied. Locked in a cedar box, her knees were crammed against one side, her toes bent against the bottom and her neck cricked from her chin being pushed against her chest. Her shoulder was on fire with pain.

Moving was impossible. Besides the lack of space, every time she tried to shift there was more pain. This was made worse by the fact that the box was being jostled. She could hear the rapid rhythms of horse hooves and the scrape and bump of the box on a wagon. Every hole they rode over jolted her and sent a cascade of pain through her like a shower of sparks.

She couldn’t see any light coming through any cracks or seams. Was it still the same night or was it the next? She guessed it must have been the same—she didn’t feel like she’d been unconscious very long. Unless they’d covered the box she’d been stuffed into, then it could’ve been morning already. Why for the love of the mountain sky would Syon abduct her? The only reasons she could imagine seemed too far-fetched to be true. And she didn’t have the energy to waste on guesses. Instead she focused on what she could hear.

The horses were moving very quickly, especially since they were hauling a wagon. She couldn’t hear anything beyond them and the thump-thump of the wheels underneath her. But she continued to listen, because it was all she could do to distract herself from the pain and panic.

Finally, the horses seemed to slow and they stopped. She heard a voice call,

“Hold!”

The vitra’s guards. They’d arrived somewhere, possibly Devpur. And they’d been stopped, which meant that whoever was bringing her probably wasn’t Syon. Unless the city guards were less intimidated than the towns’.

She began to call behind her gag, but the sound was weak and pitiful. Wriggling she attempted to bang on the back of the box. All she was able to produce was a dull thunk—not loud enough to draw attention. Over her mewing, she could hear deep muffled conversation and then the wagon rocked and moved forward. Damn.

Their pace was slower and the wheels clicked, rolling over stone. She could hear other sounds too. Someone had a hacking mucusy cough, it seemed distant, but it was loud—a morning cough. She could hear the tinkling bells of a donkey’s harness—a merchant cart. She began to hear more muffled voices and passing clomps of hooves. Devpur, it had to be. And hopefully, she still had two days to open the kosha.

After a time she heard the metallic groan of gate or a door. Soon after, the wagon halted. Heavy footfalls on stone, then a grunt and her box moved, sliding out of the wagon. She gritted her teeth as she was banged around, while the box was shifted and then lifted and then carried, bouncing with every damned step. Finally—finally—the box was set down on solid ground. She might’ve been relieved if she wasn’t covered in sick sweat, wondering what was about to happen next.   

 A lock clunked as the mechanism engaged. The lid was pushed open and she squinted against the firelight. Syon, his gold-adorned braid swinging over his shoulder, leaned over her. A broad hunting knife gleamed in his hand. She swore loudly at him behind her gag, “Awawa ur ach hit.”

Another figure appeared above her, bronze eyes and gold-encrusted, from the embroidery of his robe to the dust in his long black hair—Vamin Darshan. His pouty lips curled in a smile that made her skin crawl. “If you continue to squirm I can’t be held to account should my uncle’s steady hand slip while he cuts you loose,” he said. The top of his voice was light and amused, yet it was shadowed by a deadly rumble, like how a tiger might talk if it could.