The steps to the cells are the same, but seem longer, stretching down into the deepest parts of the Hall. The dungeon rises to greet us and no less than six Sentinels stand guard. An icy chill runs through my bones, but I don’t shiver. I can barely move.
Four figures stand in the cell, each one bloody and bruised. Despite the dim light, I know them all. Walsh’s eye is swollen shut, but she seems all right. Not like Tristan, leaning against the wall to take pressure off a leg wet with blood. There’s a hasty bandage around the wound, torn from Kilorn’s shirt by the looks of it. For his part, Kilorn looks unscathed, to my great relief. He supports Farley with an arm, letting her stand against him. Her shoulder is dislocated, one arm hanging at a strange angle. But that doesn’t stop her from sneering at us. She even spits through the bars, a mix of blood and saliva that lands at Evangeline’s feet.
“Take her tongue for that,” Evangeline snarls, rushing at the bars. She stops short, one hand slamming against the metal. Though she could tear it away with a thought, ripping apart the cell and the people inside, she restrains herself.
Farley holds her gaze, barely blinking at the outburst. If this is her end, she’s certainly going to go with her head high. “A little violent for a princess.”
Before Evangeline can lose her temper, Cal pulls her back from the bars. Slowly, he raises a hand, pointing. “You.”
With a horrific lurch, I realize he’s pointing at Kilorn. A muscle twitches in Kilorn’s cheek, but he keeps his eyes on the floor.
Cal remembers him. From the night he brought me home.
“Mare, explain this.”
I open my mouth, hoping some fantastic lie will fall out, but nothing comes.
Cal’s gaze darkens. “He’s your friend. Explain this.”
Evangeline gasps and turns her wrath on me. “You brought him here!” she screeches, jumping at me. “You did this?!”
“I did n-nothing,” I stammer, feeling all the eyes in the room on me. “I mean, I did get him a job here. He was at the lumberyards and it’s hard work, deadly work—” The lies tumble from me, each one quicker than the last. “He’s—he was my friend, back in the village. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. I got him the job as a servant, just like—” My eyes trail to Cal. Both of us remember the night we first met, and the day that followed. “I thought I was helping him.”
Maven takes a step toward the cell, looking at our friends like it’s the first time he’s ever seen them. He gestures to their red uniforms. “They seem to be only servants.”
“I’d say the same, except we found them trying to escape through a drainpipe,” Cal snaps. “Took us a while to drag them out.”
“Is this all of them?” King Tiberias says, peering through the cell bars.
Cal shakes his head. “There were more ahead, but they got to the river. How many, I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s find out,” Evangeline says, her eyebrows raised. “Call for the queen. And in the meantime . . .” She faces the king. Beneath his beard, he grins a little and nods.
I don’t have to ask to know what they’re thinking about. Torture.
The four prisoners stand strong, not even flinching. Maven’s jaw works furiously as he tries to think of a way out of this but he knows there isn’t one. If anything, this might be more than we could hope for. If they manage to lie. But how can we ask them to? How can we watch them scream while we stand tall?
Kilorn seems to have an answer for me. Even in this awful place, his green eyes manage to shine. I will lie for you.
“Cal, I leave the honor to you,” the king says, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. I can only stare, pleading with wide eyes, praying Cal will not do as his father asks.
He glances at me once, like somehow that counts as an apology. Then he turns to a Sentinel, shorter than the others. Her eyes sparkle gray-white behind her mask.
“Sentinel Gliacon, I find myself in need of some ice.”
What that means, I have no idea, but Evangeline giggles. “Good choice.”
“You don’t need to see this,” Maven mutters, trying to pull me away. But I can’t leave Kilorn. Not now. I angrily shrug him off, my eyes still on my friend.
“Let her stay,” Evangeline crows, taking pleasure in my discomfort. “This will teach her to treat Reds as friends.” She turns back to the cell, waving open the bars. With one white finger, she points. “Start with her. She needs to be broken.”
The Sentinel nods and seizes Farley by the wrist, pulling her out of the cell. The bars slide back into place behind her, trapping the rest in. Walsh and Kilorn rush to the bars, both of them the picture of fear.
The Sentinel forces Farley to her knees, waiting for her next order. “Sir?”
Cal moves to stand over her, breathing heavily. He hesitates before speaking, but his voice his strong. “How many more of you are there?”
Farley’s jaw locks in place, her teeth together. She’ll die before she talks.
“Start with the arm.”
The Sentinel is not gentle, wrenching out Farley’s wounded arm. Farley yelps in pain but still says nothing. It takes everything I have not to strike the Sentinel.
“And you call us the savages,” Kilorn spits, forehead against the bars.
Slowly, the Sentinel peels away Farley’s blood-soaked sleeve and sets pale, cruel hands to her skin. Farley screams at the touch, but why, I can’t say.
“Where are the others?” Cal questions, kneeling to look her in the eyes. For a moment she falls quiet, drawing a ragged breath. He leans in, patiently waiting for her to break.
Instead, Farley snaps forward, head butting him with all her strength. “We are everywhere.” She laughs, but screams again as the Sentinel resumes her torture.
Cal recovers neatly, one hand to his now broken nose. Another person might strike back, but he doesn’t.
Red pinpricks appear on Farley’s arm, around the Sentinel’s hand. They grow with each passing second, sharp and shiny red points sticking straight out of now bluish skin. Sentinel Gliacon. House Gliacon. My mind flies back to Protocol, to the house lessons. Shivers.
With a lurch, I understand and I have to look away.
“That’s blood,” I whisper, unable to look back. “She’s freezing her blood.” Maven only nods, his eyes grave and full of sorrow.
Behind us, the Sentinel continues to work, moving up Farley’s arm. Red icicles sharp as razors pierce through her flesh, slicing every nerve in a pain I can’t imagine. Farley’s breath whistles through gritted teeth. Still she says nothing. My heart races as the seconds tick by, wondering when the queen will return, wondering when our play will be truly over.