War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,69
one hand on his holstered gun should Rydal meet opposition. Sentinel Haven follows. I notice that his hands seem to darken, pooling with shadow like curling smoke. I keep close on his heels, with Jidansa at my side and Laeron bringing up the rear.
This is the easy part, I tell myself. And I’m right.
The passage curves, tracking below the observatory and beyond its bounds. There are no guards, no cameras. Nothing but the dim lights and the echo of our own feet.
I wonder if this place was made specifically for Prince Bracken’s children. Somehow I doubt it. The stone is old, though the walls are freshly painted the warm color of butter. It has an odd, calming effect I wouldn’t expect for enemy prisoners.
The Montfortans are strange indeed.
About a hundred yards on, the passage widens into some kind of receiving chamber walled by a bank of windows. I balk at them, looking out onto the glimmer of the city. The windows must be thick, because I can’t hear any alarms, though I still see the lights of them flashing up and down Ascendant.
I exchange a confused glance with Jidansa, who looks just as puzzled as I feel. She shrugs and jerks her chin to our right, where the chamber dead-ends at a single door.
It is unremarkable, not even reinforced that I can see.
When I lay my palm against the lock, intending to key it open again, I realize why.
“Silent Stone,” I hiss, drawing back as if burned. Just the distant ache of the ability-smothering weapon makes my skin crawl. “Torturous bastards.”
Jidansa makes a disgusted sound deep in her throat. “Those poor children. It’s been months.”
The others echo her sentiment.
All but one.
“Bad for them, good for us,” Niro says without any kind of sympathy. I round on him, sneering.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I growl.
“Silent Stone will have made them lethargic, sleepy. No one will notice when these two don’t move in the morning,” he says, poking at the covered bulk on Rydal’s back. His fingers tap against human flesh with little regard.
Right as he may be, I still scowl. “Let’s get them out,” I say, snapping my fingers. “Sentinel Haven, your assistance, please. And Niro, be ready to heal them. They’ll need it.”
I know what a prison of Silent Stone does to a person. I saw it firsthand in Barrow. Her sunken cheeks and dull eyes. The way her bones jutted, her cold skin veined with sickness. And she was a stubborn hellion, feeding on fury to keep herself sane, with a cause to hold on to, albeit a foolish, doomed one. Prince Bracken’s children are young, only ten and eight years old. Silvers born, reliant on their ability, with no memory of life without. I don’t want to know what the Silent Stone has done to them, but I have no choice.
I must look into the face of war’s horrors and never blink. My father did not. My mother and sister do not. I have to keep my eyes open if I can ever hope to win.
Win and go home.
Laeron opens this door, using his own canteen to form a watery key. It takes him a bit longer, battling the edges of Silent Stone.
Finally, he swings open the door and steps back, allowing me to enter first. I shudder as I step inside, steeling myself against the unnatural sensation. It’s more uniform than fighting with a Silence. Their abilities pulse with their hearts and concentration. This is constant. Unyielding. I swallow hard against the ugly, unnatural sensation.
In spite of my team at my back, waiting in the blissful safety of the passage, I feel more vulnerable than ever, a newborn baby exposed on a cliff.
The children sleep soundly, each one tucked into a nicely made bed. I glance around, expecting some kind of guard in the shadows. There’s nothing but the dim silhouettes of a well-furnished room and curtained windows. As in the passage, they look out through the pines and down into the city valley. Another torture. To see the world beyond your reach.
“Help me carry them out,” I mutter, eager to be rid of this place.
I reach for the dark-haired child in the bed closest to me, putting a hand to her face. Ready to clamp my fingers over her mouth, should she scream. Bracken’s daughter shifts at my touch but doesn’t wake. In the dim light, her skin is the color of polished jet.
“Wake up, Charlotta,” I murmur. My heartbeat doubles. We need to go.