Queen of Embers

XXIII. In Chains

When Sorne awoke, she was not in the basement of an inn. She was hanging by her wrists, a piece of information that kicked her into full sobriety. Cold manacles were keeping her at a hyperextended position, likely intended so she couldn't do anything other than hang. Her feet were shackled to the floor, but she could only barely touch it with her toes. It was stone on all four sides except for a narrow wooden door.

This is what happens when you sleep in an enemy city, Sorne, she snarled at herself. She was still beaten to hell. She took a deep breath and mumbled Badar under her breath, feeding each syllable just enough air to conjure up the magic in her veins. The ocean of power in her body felt as if it was thick with ice. Something was dampening her magic. Sorne grit her teeth as things in her body slowly snapped into place again. Her headache eased to the point where it was an annoyance and not an agony. She left the bruising on her face, arms, and legs. If they wanted to believe that her magic was unusable to her here, that was their mistake to make. She was just being helpful in that endeavor.

She was alone in the cell. Hopefully that meant Zhou had escaped. Sorne wasn't certain how exactly she'd come to be here, but she doubted it was Zhou's doing. Zhou's friends, however...

Sorne cursed herself roundly. It had been a stupid plan, a gamble. With their mage gone, the enemy wouldn't have something to destroy a besieging force right off the bat, but if a trap had been set for Vridash and Vipsania's half of the plan, she would never forgive herself. She turned her head towards the door when she heard the panel over its bars shut.

Now they knew she was awake. Marvelous. Whatever happened next, she would probably not appreciate it. Sorne was more infuriated than afraid, though the idea of what might happen to her people was terrifying.

"Ah, how are you feeling, Your Majesty?" It was noble by the accent, but the humor beneath it seemed worthy of a far more common bastard. The door opened, admitting her current host, several men with unforgiving smiles, and a small brazier that cast enough light for everyone in the room to see. Sorne assumed the implements heating in it were anything but an afterthought.

A sharp retort would have probably been the appropriate response, but Sorne was still contemplating her course of action. He had placed her restraints well, particularly since she had no wall to get purchase on. In theory, with Khashin, she could pull herself up, but she had no slack on her legs, which meant a tug-of-war with her own body. She rolled her neck thoughtfully and looked up. A solid ring, not a hook. That sank her first set of hopes.

This was going to hurt, no matter what she did.

A sharp slap across her face reoriented her to her current problem. "Mágissa Zahradnik warned me about you, creature," the nobleman said coldly. He was certainly of the blood, his brown hair of a paler shade and his eyes light in color, and his appetites had softened his body. This one was no warrior. Sorne always found it infuriating when someone who could send a thousand soldiers to battle couldn't walk up a hill without wheezing.  A commander needed to understand the risk and requirements, or they didn't deserve command. "Your magic can't save you here."

"I'm sure," Sorne said calmly as she stared directly into his eyes. "Genevais noblemen do think of everything. Look at Duke Ander Ezkibel...may he rest in peace."

"She doesn't need both eyes," he snarled.

If she was going to be damaged, she could at least enjoy it a little bit. "Won't King Cyclops get jealous?"

The noble grabbed an implement out of the fire. "I'll—"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," a smooth, feminine voice said. The door opened and a woman stepped in, flanked by two men in armor, one of whom held a simple wooden chair.