“We will come with you. Our honor is at stake. If there is trouble, we will deal with it in our own way. Once you have your man, you will return immediately to the First City. The dolphins are waiting to carry you.”
“Trust me, I don’t want to stay down here any more than you want me down here,” said Skylan. “The sooner I can breathe real air and feel the sun on my face, the better.”
Manta’s frowning gaze went to Wulfe. “About the fae princeling-”
“He’s coming,” said Skylan flatly. “He’s here in case something goes wrong. And nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong,” Wulfe whispered.
“Shut up,” Skylan muttered, and put the breathing tube back in his mouth.
* * *
Skylan found himself in an unusual situation, one he didn’t like. All his life, he had been in command. As a child of eight, he and Garn, Bjorn, and Erdmund and the other boys spent their leisure time forming a shield wall and charging into imaginary foes. Skylan had been their war chief then. He had been their war chief when he and his friends stood together in a real shield wall. Now, for the first time, he wasn’t in command.
Manta had made it clear before they left on this mission that none of her warriors would serve under the leadership of a male and Skylan had been forced to agree to accept Manta as his commander or abandon the mission. Although he had boasted to the Aquins that he could do this alone, he hadn’t truly meant it. He would have tried, of course, because Farinn was his man and he wouldn’t abandon him, but he knew quite well he would have failed.
He climbed the stone stairs that led out of the water and up to the dungeon level, keeping in the rear, staying out of direct light, for he didn’t want the guards to get a good look at him. The breathing mask on his face, the harness around his shoulders, the clamshell attached to his back, and the serpent armor over his chest provided some disguise, but anyone looking at him closely would see that he wasn’t an Aquin.
He glanced over his shoulder, back down the stairs and into the water. Wulfe’s head bobbed on the surface, along with the silvery heads of the oceanaids, trying to see what was going on. The oceanaids had no love for Aelon, according to Wulfe, who said they had heard about his depredations among the fae from their cousins, the dryads. The oceanaids had offered to help if there was trouble. Skylan, more frightened of this than he was of the Warrior-Priests of Aelon, had issued a strict order that the oceanaids were not to get involved. Wulfe had only grinned. Skylan had left the boy and his fae friends with the gloomy feeling he was doomed.
The dungeons of the Fourth City were exactly like those in which Skylan had been imprisoned, only larger. He could see the prisoners hanging in nets suspended from the ceiling.
Aquins were by nature a peace-loving people, fond of simplicity and order in their lives, and the dungeons were not very crowded, for not many Aquins broke the law. There was no thievery because the Aquins kept nothing of value to steal. The idea of murder, of one Aquin taking the life another, was impossible to imagine. Aquins who did break their society’s few laws were brought before the Queen, who passed judgment on them, which meant they spent a few days in a net to think over their wrongdoing.
Skylan counted twenty prisoners hanging in nets, compared to no more than a few in the First City. Skylan guessed that the expansion of the prison of the Fourth City was occasioned by the need to lock up those dissenters who did not find Aelon to their liking. They were probably being held captive so the god could convince them of the error of their ways.
He quickly spotted Farinn, whose blond hair and fair skin stood out in contrast to the bluish-green skin of the Aquin prisoners. The young man was in the second cell and lay curled up in a ball of misery in his net, paying no heed to what was going on around him.
Having located Farinn, Skylan turned his attention to the guards. They were all males and one of them was a Warrior-Priest with the serpent tattoo on his head. Skylan sucked in a breath. The Warrior-Priest was wearing a sword made of brass, so that it would not rust. The sword hung from a belt around his waist. He had no sheath for it. Judging by the unblemished surface and high polish, the brass sword was brand new. The hilt was wrapped in leather, either whale or shark skin. The blade was slender, made to suit the hand of the lightweight Aquins. In a realm where a brass key was a rarity, this sword must be worth a fortune.
A Warrior-Priest with a valuable sword was no lowly prison guard, Skylan realized. This priest was a high-ranking officer. Why was he here? Skylan kept an uneasy eye on him.
Manta walked forward confidently, with a bit of a swagger. The Warrior-Priest advanced to meet her. Skylan had been taught from an early age to look at how a man, any man, handled his weapon. A friend could turn to a foe in an instant and then Skylan had better be ready to fight. He noticed without even being aware that he was noticing how the Warrior-Priest fidgeted with the sword’s hilt. The man was unsure of himself, his grip shifting, trying to find a comfortable hold. When the Warrior-Priest walked forward, he got the blade tangled up in his legs and nearly tripped himself. Skylan grinned behind the mask. The sword was newly-forged and so was the swordsman.
The Warrior-Priest eyed Manta. “What are doing here? Did you bring a prisoner?”
Manta launched into her explanation.
“You have a Vindrasi prisoner,” she said, and continued on with her speech. She stumbled again over the word “priestesses,” which made Skylan wince, but otherwise she did well.
Skylan shifted his gaze from the priest to Farinn. Manta had spoken loudly. The prison cells were quiet and Farinn could hear her quite clearly, especially when she said “Vindrasi prisoner” and mentioned the Spirit Priestesses. He remembered these women and the hateful tattoo. Farinn rose to his feet, his hands on the net.
Skylan shuffled a little nearer to the cell, to let Farinn get a look at him. Farinn clung to the net, straining against it as though he would rip his way through it, sucked in a deep breath, and shouted with all his might.
“Skylan, run! It’s a trap!”
CHAPTER 34
“So that’s why the priest bastard is here,” Skylan muttered to himself.
Manta and her warriors were in front of him, standing between him and the Warrior-Priest. The Aquins were startled, wary, wondering what to do. The Warrior-Priest cast his gaze over the women and gestured to the guards to take care of them. The Warrior-Priest circled around, coming for Skylan, who noted that the priest was having some trouble removing the sword’s hilt from the belt loop.
Skylan took advantage of the man’s delay. Skylan shoved aside Manta and ran to meet the Warrior-Priest. Skylan briefly considered grabbing Manta’s spear as he dashed past her, decided his bone knife would serve him better. The Warrior-Priest saw Skylan draw his knife and smiled.
A novice warrior watches your weapon, Norgaard had taught his son. A skilled warrior watches your eyes. Skylan gave his ear-splitting war call, partly to intimidate his foe, but mostly to let Farinn know that they were going to be fighting their way out. Torval’s name echoed and banged its way around the cavern, sounding so fearful it almost frightened Skylan. He waved his knife threateningly in the air, and jumped up and down, howling, trying to look and sound the part of a bloodthirsty Vindrasi.
The Warrior-Priest did not cow easily. He stood his ground, his sword in his grip, his hand unconsciously clasping and unclasping the hilt. His eyes were fixed on Skylan’s wildly swinging knife. He was not watching Skylan’s feet.
Skylan kicked the Warrior-Priest in the knee. The man’s leg buckled and he went down. He dropped his sword, his hands instinctively reaching out to keep himself from falling. The moment the blade hit the stone, Skylan slammed his foot down on it. The priest stared up at him, his mouth open.