Songbird's Cage

Chapter 30

Anger was rising within Lark. Anger at the Wilds, at the Weald, at Bastion, and most painfully of all, at Rory.

She slammed her shoulder against the door. They hadn't seen the need to lock it when Rory had been with her, but now that she was alone, she was trapped within the seemingly ever-shrinking chamber. After nearly a week, she was going mad within the confines of the cell room. It was dark now, late night or early morning, and no one had returned or even given her a word of explanation.

Lark pounded on the wood with her fist, with her shoulder, until her body was sore and her frustration was boiling over.

The latch of the door moved and she stepped backwards as it opened. A young Weald stood at the threshold.

"Get me Bastion," she ordered. The man began to protest, but she gripped the front of his shirt, catching him off guard and silencing him with shock.

"Now!"

"The soldier blinked, not moving until she pushed him away. He pulled the door shut, locking it again.

She waited. Minutes passed. Finally she heard footsteps. Bastion was in the doorway again, his cheeks flushed, looking groggy, miserable, and out of breath.

"Gods, Princess," he cursed. "What is it? They dragged me out of bed because of your racket."

"Where's Rory?" she demanded. Bastion rubbed his face.

"The sepulcher, I'm sure."

"Take me to him."

The Sylvan half-heartedly raised a brow at her sharp words and she exhaled, knowing that angering the people who kept her captive would do no good.

"Please," she said. "I'll lose my mind if I spend another minute in this room."

Bastion sighed. Then he took her by the arm, leading her out of the room.

The night was cold, snow muffling their steps. The grounds of Selaith were lit, hung with lanterns every two dozen paces. Lark hugged herself. She had only the thin clothing she had been provided, her bodice swept away in the pile of dirty, discarded clothes. Without one, in the brisk air, it was clear through the fabric of her shirt how cold she was. Bastion turned his attention to her, making her blush with embarrassment. He shed the woolen jacket he wore, wrapping it around her shoulders. She gave him a grateful word, slipping it on and holding it tight against herself. It was warm from being against him, the dense material smelling faintly of smoke and alcohol.

When they reached the carved stone entrance of what Bastion had called the sepulcher, she was out of breath, her lungs burning in the thin, icy air, but she was relieved to finally stretch her unused muscles.

Bastion gestured for her to enter the chamber. The strange chapel-tomb was carved into the base of the hills that formed the mountains around Selaith. She moved into the darkness, the Weald's presence heavy behind her. Stairs led upward, against what she would have thought, and a long hallway followed, leading deep into the earth. It was warmer in the cavity of the earth, beneath the icy skin above. The passage opened into a high-ceilinged chamber, and Lark stopped, her mouth open. Everything within shone dimly with a strange blue-green light, and she realized that the walls were covered in a strange plant, paths and tendrils reaching in every direction like ivy, creating a lattice of luminescence as the leaves and stalks glowed faintly in the darkness. Between the plant's reach were the images of the old gods, carved into the walls, and beneath the depictions were grave-markers, names chiseled into the rock. The eerie, restless feeling of magic permeated the air. Caught up in her surroundings, it took Lark a long time to notice Rory kneeling on the floor in front of one of the stone idols. His eyes were closed, his head bowed.