Tall and regal, the woman had flawless porcelain skin, hair the color of cinnamon, and eyes as dark and cold as ebony.
Serepta.
She stepped into the transport, moving with a lithe grace. Her long black cloak flowed behind her. She paused in front of Gryff, her gaze frigid as she stared down at him.
He looked up at her, his own gaze defiant.
Then, slowly, Serepta turned her attention to Marri. “And who, pray tell, are you?”
“I’m…” She glanced at Gryff, who shook his head imperceptibly. “No one.”
“You must have a name.”
“Cay,” she said. “I’m Cay.”
Serepta lifted one brow, then summoned one of the guards. “Who is she? Why have you brought her here?”
“We don’t know who she is, but they were together so…” He shrugged. “We brought her along.”
Serepta nodded. “You did well. Take her to the dungeon and take him to my room.” She looked down at Gryff, a cruel smile playing over her lips as she bent down to rake her nails over his cheek. “Strip him of his clothes and chain him to the wall.” She glanced at the woman thoughtfully. “I’ve changed my mind. Take him to the dungeon, as well.” Curling her fingers around a lock of his hair, she jerked his head back, forcing him to look up at her. “See you soon, wolf man.”
Fear coiled deep in Gryff’s belly as he watched her exit the transport. His worst nightmare was about to come true.
* * *
Marri curled up in the cleanest corner of her cell, her arms wrapped around her middle. She couldn’t stop trembling. She was afraid, so afraid. Afraid for herself, but mostly afraid for Gryff. She could see him in the cell across the way. Serepta’s guards had stripped him down to his loincloth. They had shackled his hands high over his head so that his feet barely touched the cold stone floor. The loose end of the chain attached to his collar was secured to an iron ring in the wall. The shackles around his ankles were chained to similar rings in the floor. It made her ache just to look at him — his body stretched painfully taut, every muscle sharply defined. Though sweat dripped down his back, he shivered convulsively. It might have been from the cold; she thought it more likely a bad case of nerves. He had to be afraid of what was coming. Had she been in his place, she would have been terrified.
The dungeon was silent save for the ticking of a clock, a distant drip of water, and the ragged rasp of Gryff’s breathing.
She had never been inside a dungeon before. She knew there was one at home but her father had forbidden her to go there. She wondered if it was as cold and dreary as this one. The walls and floor were gray stone. There was no furniture in the cells for a straw tick on the floor and a smelly chamber pot in the corner. A single candle burned in a wrought iron sconce on the wall near the entrance. Its faint light did little to dispel the gloom.
A rustling in the tick drew Marri’s attention. Grimacing, she pressed against the wall. She didn’t know what lurked in the straw. She fervently hoped it wasn’t a rat.
She had to get out of here, but how? For a moment, she considered telling Serepta the truth but that seemed a foolhardy thing to do. She didn’t know what her fate would be at Serepta’s hands, but she knew what fate awaited her at home. If she was going to die, she was glad it would be at the hands of a stranger. It would be less painful, she thought, than being betrayed and murdered by her own blood kin.
“Gryff?” Just saying his name made her feel better, though she had no idea why that should be. He couldn’t help her now. No one could.
He grunted softly.
“I’m afraid.” It was a silly thing to say. He knew she was afraid. They both were, but somehow it made her feel better. There was no shame in admitting it, after all. She hadn’t been raised to be a warrior woman, but to be a wife and a mother. All her life, the ladies of the keep had looked after her. They had pampered her and spoiled her, taught her how to do needlepoint and dress her hair, how to greet guests and set a proper table. No one had thought to teach her how to defend herself from a witch.
She looked at Gryff again, wishing he could turn around so she could see his face. She longed to go to him, to put her arms around him and ease his pain, to dry the sweat that continued to drip down his neck, shoulders, and back.
She couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, feeling, as he waited for Serepta. Dread coiled deep in her own belly at the mere thought of the fate that awaited him. She covered her mouth, choking back bitter bile as she realized that she would be there when it happened. She would hear the hiss of the whip, smell the blood, hear Gryff’s anguished cries.
How would she bear it?
How could he?
Marri huddled in the corner, trying to make herself as small as possible, as the door to the dungeon opened with a hair-raising shriek.
And then Serepta appeared. A long black wool cloak covered a blood-red dress. In one hand, she carried her staff; in the other, a thick black whip.
Just looking at it made Marri shudder with revulsion. It was an instrument of exquisite torture, there was no doubt of that. Hoping to escape the witch’s notice, Marri pressed deeper into the shadowy corner and closed her eyes.
At the sound of a key turning in the lock, Gryff’s whole body stiffened with dreadful anticipation.
“So,” Serepta said, her voice a hideous purr, “here we are, together again.” She glided across the rough stones to caress his broad back. “It always seems a shame to mar such perfection.”
Filled with dread at what was coming, he said nothing.
His hands curled into tight fists when he heard her shake out the whip. He knew that sound. It still haunted his dreams. She snapped it a few times, no doubt to remind him of the pain to come.
He flinched even before he felt the lash slither across his bare back. The pain never failed to surprise him. It was always worse than he remembered. His blood felt hot against the chill of his skin. He wondered if she had chosen to wear red so that his blood wouldn’t show when it splattered over her gown.
She plied the whip again and yet again. He clamped his jaws together, determined not to cry out this time.
Four. Five. Six. His back was on fire, a solid sheet of flame that burned deep without consuming him. Blood flowed from the wounds, ran over his buttocks and down the backs of his legs. He heard Marri gasp each time Serepta plied the lash.
Coiling the whip, Serepta moved to stand in front of him. “Why do you make me do this?” She ran her fingers down his chest, the long, sharp nails leaving bloody furrows in their wake.
He shuddered at her touch.
She caressed his cheek, her expression thoughtful. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”
“Miss you?” He snorted softly. “Sure, I missed you, the way a hound misses its fleas.”
Eyes blazing with anger, she slapped him. “You will not speak to me like that!”
“No? What more can you do to me?”
“I can let you die.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Serepta glared at him, and then she looked past him, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and swept out of the cell.
Eyes closed, Gryff sagged against his bonds, grateful for the reprieve, until he heard Marri cry out in pain.
Groaning with the effort, he glanced over his shoulder to see Serepta chaining Marri’s hands over her head.
“Serepta, no! Dammit, leave the girl alone.”
Shaking out the whip, Serepta plied the lash in a sweeping arc. The leather ripped through cloth and flesh.
Marri screamed as the lash bit into her back.
Coiling the whip, Serepta returned to Gryff’s cell where she kept her promise, whipping him until the flesh was flayed from his back and he hung limp in his chains, too weak to cry out. Standing there, her gown stained with his blood, she let him suffer for almost an hour before, with a murmured incantation, she healed his wounds.
Moving to stand in front of him, she cupp
ed his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. “Who is the girl? What does she mean to you?”
“She’s just a stray I picked up in Bosquetown. Said her name’s Cay. She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“We shall see. In the future, the girl will suffer for your disobedience and your insolence. Rest well, wolf man.”
A flick of her hand extinguished the candle, and then she was gone.
Gryff took several deep breaths. “Marri? Marri, are you all right?”
She whimpered softly in reply.
Gryff swore under his breath. He could withstand whatever Serepta threw at him. He had endured five years of torture and humiliation at her hands, had tried time and again to escape in spite of the consequences because he had nothing to lose, but now…He swore again. Now, because of Marri, Serepta had him right where she wanted him. He would do whatever she asked. If he didn’t, Marri would be the one to suffer for it.
Muttering an oath, he closed his eyes. Why was it, whenever he thought things couldn’t get any worse, they always did?
Chapter 9
Artur paced the floor of his private chambers. Earlier that day, his father had announced that Artur would marry the Princess Kallen. Artur had known the alliance was coming. He knew the reason for it, but the thought of wedding and bedding the horse-faced princess of Sirrus was daunting. He had seen the wench only twice and been repulsed by her on both occasions. Neither her face nor her figure appealed to him. But, as his father had told him so many times in the past, an alliance with Sirrus was of far more importance than Artur’s personal feelings on the matter.
With an eye on the lands and dowry Kallen would bring, Artur could hardly refuse. Once she had produced a male heir, and a second son as insurance should something befall the first, he would have no further use for her. Her demise would be easily arranged. A sudden, fatal illness, a fall from the tower window, a riding accident, perhaps, and he would be rid of her, free to marry a woman of his own choosing. Had Marri not been his kin, he would have chosen her…
Ah, Marri. She professed no interest in the throne, but history was rich with stories of men and women who denied they wished to rule and later changed their minds, wreaking havoc in the kingdom. Better to eliminate any and all potential rivals now. Her very presence would complicate things, especially if their father took it in his head to believe her suspicions about the deaths of Cobb and Caddin.
Moving to the mirror that stood in the corner, he stared at his reflection. “Soon,” he murmured. “Soon, the kingdom will be mine.”
As far back as he could remember, he had coveted the throne. As the youngest child in the family, he had always known that the only way he would ever obtain his heart’s desire would be by force or deceit. Even then, he had discounted Marri. She was only a girl, after all. And Annis had early-on expressed her desire to take holy vows, sparing him the need to be rid of her.
It had infuriated him to know that Caddin was being groomed as the heir to the kingdom. Artur was wiser than both of his brothers, better suited to rule their holdings, and yet his father could not, or would not, see that his youngest son possessed qualities and leadership abilities that Caddin did not.
Artur slammed his fist against the wall. It had galled him that everyone in the kingdom had curried Caddin’s favor. The young women of the court had fawned over him, hoping to gain favor with the future king.
When it became obvious to Artur that his father was too blind to see that Caddin lacked the wisdom to rule the kingdom, and that Cobb was more enamored of his mistress than power, Artur had taken matters into his own hands.
He turned his head this way and that, imagining his father’s crown on his head. Marri was the only thing standing between himself and the throne. If Dunnin failed him, then, as distasteful as it might be, Artur would eliminate her himself.
Striding to the window, he cursed softly as he gazed out into the courtyard. Dunnin had been gone a fortnight without a word. Did Marri still live?
He turned as his mistress called his name. Ginna was a plump but pretty wench with fiery red hair and odd, yellow eyes. She had been his mistress since he was sixteen. He would miss her, he mused as he crawled under the covers and took her in his arms. But she was fast becoming another complication he could no longer afford.
Chapter 10
Eyes closed, Marri rested her forehead against the cold stone wall of her prison cell, grateful to be free of the chains that had bound her. Never in all her life had she been so miserable. Her back burned like the fires of Cuadra. If one stroke of the lash hurt this much, how had Gryff endured so many more? She groaned softly. Her legs ached. Her arms ached. She was hungry. And thirsty. So thirsty.
She kept hoping she would awake in her own bed and discover the past few days were only a horrible nightmare. Although it hadn’t all been horrible. Parts of it had been nice. The parts with Gryff…
She glanced at the cell across the way. Chin resting against his chest, he looked like he was asleep, though how he could sleep standing up, with his arms and legs stretched to their limits was beyond her. It had been hours since he’d said. She missed the comfort of his voice. Now, drowning in the heavy stillness of the dungeon, everything seemed worse, if that was possible.
She twitched as something brushed against her ankle, screamed when something fat and brown scurried over her foot and disappeared through a crack in the wall. A rat! She hated the dirty, disease-bearing creatures!
“Marri, are you all right?”
“There are rodents in here!”
“Is that all?” His faint laughter echoed off the walls.
Marri scowled. How could he laugh at a time like this? They were locked in a dungeon. No one knew where they were. No one would come to their aid. Tears stung her eyes. How could something like this have happened to her? All she had ever wanted was to be allowed to marry and raise a family. She wasn’t interested in court intrigue, had no designs on the throne. Now, she yearned for nothing more than to return to Brynn Castle, but even that was no longer possible, not when Artur was determined to see her dead.
Tears trickled down her cheeks and she dashed them away with her fingertips. But the harder she tried not to cry, the faster the tears came.
“Marri, crying won’t solve anything.”
She sniffed. “I know, but I…I can’t help it.”
“Dry your eyes. I’ll get you out of here.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I will. I promise.”
She couldn’t imagine how he would accomplish it, but he had escaped this dreadful place before, and she pinned all her hopes on that.
* * *
Gryff shifted from one foot to the other in a vain attempt to get comfortable even though he knew it was impossible. Serepta had healed his wounds but his whole body ached from the unnatural position of his arms and legs. His limbs were stretched to the limits of their endurance, his muscles screamed for relief. He licked dry lips, wondering if and when Serepta would allow them nourishment.
He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marri, but it was too dark to see more than a vague outline. He knew she was afraid and in pain. He didn’t know where she came from, but he was certain she had never been mistreated in her entire life. He hadn’t missed the fact that her skin was baby soft and unblemished, that her hands were smooth and without calluses, that she was totally ignorant of the ugly side of life.
Maybe she really was a princess.
Maybe her father was out there, searching for her with legions of armed warriors.
And maybe Serepta would kiss him on both cheeks, wish him Godspeed, and send him on his way.
He was dozing when the door creaked open and an old woman limped into view, a covered tray in one hand and a torch in the other. She set the torch in a holder, removed the tray’s cover, and slid one plate under the door of his cell and another under Marri’s. Picking up the tray, she hobbled out of the dungeon.
Moments la
ter, an ape of a man shuffled into view. He had come earlier and released Marri from her bonds. Entering Gryff’s cell, he removed the shackles from his wrists and ankles, but didn’t unlock the collar’s chain from the iron ring in the floor.
Wordlessly, he stepped back into the corridor, locked the door and shambled back the way he’d come.
Gryff’s legs were numb and refused to hold him. Stumbling forward, he sank down on his haunches, his stomach growling as the scent of beef and vegetables tickled his nostrils.
Besides the bowl of soup, there was a loaf of dark brown bread and a cup of tepid water.
He ate quickly, the soup’s warmth strengthening him. Only when his hunger had been assuaged did he glance in Marri’s direction.
She was sitting on the floor, sipping daintily from the crude wooden bowl. Feeling his gaze, she looked up. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be all right. How about you?”
“My back hurts.” After what he had been through, Marri felt guilty for complaining. Still, the witch had healed Gryff, while the wound in her back was still raw and oozing blood. She could feel the wetness, warm against her skin. It should have stopped bleeding by now. Why hadn’t it?
“I’m sorry for getting you into this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said quietly. “How long do you think she’ll keep us down here?”
“Until she tires of us, or until…”
Marri stared at him, all the color draining from her face. “Or until we’re dead?”
“Don’t think about it. Brooding won’t help.”
Nodding, she set the bowl aside, her appetite gone. Gryff had promised to get her out of this dreadful place, but she was afraid he was just trying to make her feeling better. She wanted desperately to believe him, but she was sorely afraid that she was never going to see her father or her sister again.