The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 12: Betrayal of Blood

Before long, Inna and Arran were both dragged to the door of her apartment, surrendered to a madman's mercy. One week in the immediate presence of a World Artifact and Inna no longer recognized her own father.

The gods have mercy on all of them.

As a last resort, Inna summoned the magic in her blood, intending to unleash a destructive wind. Next to her, Arran's form melted into its environment until the guards seemed to hold empty air in their hands. Their joint escape attempt was unsuccessful, though. A pair of iron handcuffs, sizzling with magic, locked around her wrists, and her magic dissolved, like a severed limb. She gasped in pain. Arran flickered back into view, his face distorted with equal distress, similar handcuffs binding his hands in front of his abdomen.

Some servants cried out Inna's name in shock when they passed, their hands clamped over their mouths. Though waves of shame swept through her with every step, she held her head high and met their stares with pride. The guards might have shackled her magic, but they would not strip her from her dignity too. She would not let them.

The descent to the palace dungeons took hours; it was over in mere seconds. The metallic scent of dried-up blood mixed with other human fluids greeted them long before they reached the cells themselves. Inna scrunched up her nose. The last man to have been imprisoned in this hellhole had been a Primsharahn noble accused of dabbling in slave trade, and that had been three years ago. Yet, the stench never wore off, an eternal reminder to those who ended up here of how well they had messed up. It was like the palace itself mocked them for their crimes.

But Inna and Arran had committed no crime. She clenched her teeth. Correction: she had committed no crime. By sheer coincidence, Arran had been accused of one he didn't commit.

A strong, unyielding hand shoved her into a cell, about four paces deep and three paces wide. No windows. A single, bare cot leaned against the far wall, at its footboard a chamber pot which hadn't been cleaned in ages. Arran grunted and swore when his escort threw him into the opposite cell, but the brutes merely laughed and closed the barred doors with a loud clang. The sound was so definitive that Inna winced, despite her brave, defiant demeanor.

The heavy thuds of the guards' boots disappeared back up the stairs to the land of the uncondemned. Howls of rage clawed at the tip of her tongue, yet screaming wouldn't help her get out of here sooner. Instead, the princess sank down onto the cot and buried her face in her hands. She missed Zazi's familiar weight coiled around her shoulders. In all the commotion, Inna had forgotten about her friend.

Her lips trembled with a weary, incredulous sigh. How had everything, her whole life, gone so wrong so fast?

"I'm sorry."

Her head snapped up, confused. He had spoken so softly she feared she had misunderstood him. "What was that?"

Arran's slackened body slid down the wall until he sat propped up against it, knees pulled up to his chin. He cleared his throat. "I said I'm sorry, Inna. For bringing you into my mess. This is all my fault." A choked-off, bitter laugh rumbled in his throat. His eyes were trained on the floor, avoiding her questioning gaze.

Inna clucked her tongue. "Oh, shut up, you idiot. Yes, you made my life ten times as complicated in less than twenty-four hours, but you are not to blame for our residence in the palace's loveliest quarters." She grinned and spread her arms at the dungeon walls around them, both gestures dripping with sarcasm. "In fact, my father's weakness is at fault here."

Frowning, Arran plucked at the sleeve of his blue tunic, which Tata had gifted to him last night. Inna wondered what wardrobe the maid had had to plunder for it. "I can count the times I've seen the Shah in real life on my hands," he said. "He never struck me like a tyrant, but his conduct in your apartment was bordering tyrannical, Inna. Is this ... normal behavior for him?"