The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 65

Sam disliked wagons.

He disliked them more when he was bound hand and foot, blindfolded, gagged, and stuffed in a cold corner that smelled of dead fish and feet. Someone had stripped his jacket from his shoulders, leaving him in nothing but a tunic that did little against the bite of winter air.

The sedative or the fall had done something to his head. He couldn't think straight, couldn't get his limbs to move like he wanted to. All he managed in the end was a disgracefully pitiful moan through the cloth between his teeth.

Something that sounded like a muffled laugh came from the front--or what Sam assumed was the front--of the wagon. "Don't you worry, boy. You'll be out of here soon enough. Not that that's a good thing, considerin' yer destination."

Which is...? He wanted to ask it, wanted a reply. But he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

The wagon came to a jerking halt after the echo of a wooden bridge under the wheels and the crunch of cobblestone. Feet hit the ground outside, and Sam heard a muffled conversation. A moment later, the back of the wagon creaked, and Sam's blindfold was pulled off. Squinting in the sudden light, he looked up, able to make out the silhouette of a pudgy man perched on the lip of the wagon's bed, looking down at him.

"Here's where I say farewell, boy," the man said, a broad smile fading into view as Sam's vision adjusted. Spires and stone walls reached into the sky behind him, chipped in places and weathered by time. "Welcome to Erilian."

Sam would've swallowed if he could've. Erilian. The Serpentine capital. Home to more than two-thirds of the population. And, more importantly, home to Agnir himself.

***

He hadn't expected to meet the king for a while yet, and he'd hoped the meeting would end in blood. Fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

The hall to the throne room, if Sam had to assign a word to it, was shabby. Fraying carpet, dusty banners, smudged windows, old iron chandeliers with no candles in them. It was a false impression, he knew, the poverty here. Agnir was rich, much richer than any other struggling kingdom. The only problem was, this cheap decoration was no illusion. Agnir had plenty of money, but he'd spent far too much of it building an army than was good for anyone trying to defend themselves against him.

Sylph was silent beside him, closed off, her eyes straight ahead. She was beautiful, he supposed, in a cruel way. Sharp, straight curves that told of plenty of training, skin that was so pale and smooth it looked like wax, blue eyes speckled with brown. He saw now that she couldn't have been much older than him, but stopped himself in the middle of the thought. No one's age was a given in this castle. It only made his mind twist harder. He winced, and thought of Crynia's smile and her lips on his cheek to help calm him. It only made him ache.

And he realized, then, that he might never see her again.

The guards seemed to be the only thing Agnir had bothered to make presentable. Fitted armor, weapons that looked sharp as broken glass, helmets that hid their expressions. Sam's chains clinked around his ankles and wrists as he was led past them, his mouth dry and full of the taste of dirty cotton from the rag still stuffed there. He was voiceless, drowning in the sound of his own silence, and it made him want to scream.

When the doors swung open, Sam stared. So he'd been wrong: Agnir did spend money on the castle. There were shiny marble floors that seemed to soak up light, jagged walls of black stone, a hanging fixture of strange, opaque glass that hid whatever the source of light was, and straight pillars lining either side of the room. The king had spared no expense here.

The real eyecatcher, though, was the man. He sat on a throne as any king would, but he wore no crown. No, he seemed to know his appearance was quite enough to intimidate people. Broad shoulders cloaked by a simple black shirt, a frame built for fighting wrapped in dark cloth. His hair wasn't long, but it curled around his ears and over his forehead, half-shadowing a fresh scar that streaked through his eyebrow. Someone had dared attack him, then. And they'd gotten bloody close to carving an eye out. Or two.