quarters. “You should wash first. And eat something.”
Jaxor paused, cutting his brother a look. Did Jaxor look as terrible as he felt? Shame bit into his chest. He must look like one of the Mevirax in his brother’s eyes, untamed, unpredictable, uncivilized with his well-used clothes and shorn hair. He hadn’t bathed in two spans, hadn’t eaten in just as long.
What would the council think? That was what Vaxa’an was asking him. Because sometimes, appearance was everything, especially in the Golden City. If he looked like an untamed barbarian, then that was the only thing the council would see. But if he looked like a son of the Luxirian throne…
Was Vaxa’an already anticipating the council’s verdict in his trial? Was he already trying to sway their opinions of Jaxor?
Something lodged in his chest at the thought and he reached out, clasping his hand around his brother’s wrist. Understanding was dawning, now that he was thinking about it. He only wished he hadn’t wasted time, that he had thought of it before.
He had to play the part of the Prime Leader’s brother. Not Jaxor, the traitor who’d left to seek out the Mevirax, who had their ink on his skin, but rather, Jaxor’an, son of Kirax’an.
Jaxor made for the washroom quickly. He turned on the bathing tube, marveling at the steady, warm stream that poured out. He’d forgotten about the tubes, so used to the iciness of the waterfall back at his base. He washed quickly, scrubbing at his dirty skin and unwashed hair. The water went cloudy before it ran clear and the moment Jaxor felt clean, he stepped out and dried himself off.
When he stepped from the washroom nude, Kirov was sitting on the sleeping platform. Vaxa’an had been speaking with him, but they ceased whatever conversation they’d been having when he reappeared. Next to Kirov on the cot were clean clothes—a dark tunic with long sleeves and hide pants, along with sturdy boots.
Jaxor pulled them on quickly, lacing the pants in a tight knot, his fingers remembering the pattern he’d always used, the same pattern of knot his mother had taught him before warrior training, the same pattern Vaxa’an no doubt still used.
Alongside the clothes was a tray of fresh, braised meat, still steaming, with fatty broth and a goblet of watered Brew. Jaxor made quick work of the food. Though it was delicious—he’d almost forgotten the skill of Luxirians when it came to braised meats—the moment he swallowed the last of it down, he nodded at his brother.
“I am ready.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Erin tracked time with three things. The first was the light through the sliver in the ceiling—though at times it could be misleading. It was so small that sometimes it was difficult to ascertain whether it was moonlight or sunlight. So she also tracked the temperature in the dungeon—warmer in the days, cooler at night.
And the last was Kossira’s visits. The female was punctual, she’d realized, coming twice a day, once in the mornings and once in the evenings.
Given these three things, Erin had decided she’d been in the dungeon for five days already. Five days since she’d been blissfully unaware and happy with Jaxor at his base. Five days since she’d last seen him or touched him. Five days since the Mevirax had taken her from him.
On the morning of the sixth day—the light coming through the crack in the cave was slightly warmer than silver—Kossira came down the steps, the same guard in tow.
When the Luxirian female saw that the tray from last night was cleared, that the skin of water was empty, she almost looked pleased, relieved. She set the lantern down and Erin looked at it, needing to see it. They left her in darkness, except for the small sliver of natural light. At times, she’d felt panicked and unbelievably frightened, feeling like the darkness was clasping her around her ankles, chaining her, slithering down her throat until she choked on it.
Again, she wondered about Jaxor’s fear of darkness. It was something she’d never asked him about. And the first question that Erin asked Kossira that morning, once she stepped into the cell and deposited the new tray on the floor, was, “Was Jaxor ever kept down here?”
Whenever Erin mentioned Jaxor, Kossira got uncomfortable…as if she wasn’t allowed to speak about him. Even the guard at the base of the stairs, though he didn’t know English, shot them a look at the name that fell from Erin’s lips.
A name that she’d whispered and