Queen Of The Great Underworld

22

One bench had clothes and a blanket drying over the back.

A figure pulled out of the shadows, a towel wrapped tight around her body, and her braids piled into a bun on top of her head. “Hot springs.” Tirta loosened her death grip on the towel. “There’s a whole series of them down here. This is the smallest and smelliest, so they sectioned it off for prisoners.”

Actual hot water. I wanted to dive right in.

“I’m glad it’s just you,” she went on. “They try to keep it to a few prisoners at a time—so we don’t conspire against them, you see—but you never know who you’ll be stuck bathing with.”

“So we’re safe in here?” I asked.

“As safe as we are anywhere in the Pit.” She draped her towel over the nearest bench and stepped into the water. “Do your laundry first, that way it can dry some before you have to put it back on.”

I followed her advice, unloading my belongings. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few minutes. I do my laundry fast.”

Apparently. “I meant in the Pit. As a prisoner.” Hopefully that wasn’t too rude to ask.

“Oh. I’m not sure.” She scrubbed water over her face, careful not to get her hair wet. “Time gets confusing down here. No sun. No proper calendar for prisoners.”

She didn’t know? It must have been a long time.

“Well, today is the tenth of Zabel. Just two decans until the Hallowed Restoration.” Those were the five days at the end of every year. Six days every fourth year. The Hallowed Restoration was supposed to be for reflecting on the previous twelve months and looking forward to the new year.

“Oh, I love the Hallowed Restoration.” She smiled dimly. “We don’t get to celebrate here, of course, but my family lights remembrance candles every evening, praying for health and guidance. Sometimes we exchange gifts.”

Lots of families had sweet traditions like that. I usually spent hours under the mistress of beauty’s brushes, followed by thirty minutes of time alone in the parlor with my family, during which Mother would tell all of us how we’d disappointed her throughout the year and how we could improve over the next. Then we often accepted invitations from Elbena Krasteba; the Luminary Councilor was—by general agreement—the best hostess. Sometimes her gatherings went on until dawn.

Mother probably would have a lot to say about how I’d disappointed her this year.

I turned my attention back to Tirta. “Why are most of the prisoners our age?” I’d seen a few adults in my cellblock and in the mess hall, but not as many as I’d have thought. “Do adults not get sentenced to the Pit?”

Her expression darkened. “Oh, adults are sent here too, but they expect things, you know? And then they die. We adapt better.”

I didn’t want to adapt. I wanted to go home.

But instead of saying so, I scrubbed my clothes and belongings clean, using the foul-smelling soap and a slanted area in the pool with several ridges carved into it. Not that I’d known how to wash my clothes until this very instant; I followed Tirta’s instructions.

“You’re going to do well here.” Tirta wrapped herself in her towel again. “You work hard. You behave. I can’t help but be curious how someone like you ended up in the Pit.”

I wouldn’t tell. Not even Tirta. Not yet, anyway. “I’m sure everyone wonders what a Sparrowgirl did to get here, too.” I smiled as warmly as possible so she’d know I wasn’t trying to be mean, just making a point. “We’re both odd here, aren’t we?”

With my laundry finished and hanging on a bench to dry—though how anything could dry in this steamy room was a mystery—I pulled up my twists and stepped into the water.

It was as I worked the soap down my arms and legs that I discovered the firmness in my muscles. Sarannai had said I was soft that first day of work, but after a decan, my fingers grazed the new ridge of muscle along my upper arm, a cord of strength down my forearms.

Yes, I’d done all the training exercises Instructor Boyan had given me. Yes, I’d regularly doubled as a perch for a small dragon. But I’d never been strong before. Jan and Ilydsey would be proud.

“Gerel is in your cellblock, isn’t she?” Tirta asked. “What do you think about her?”

“She’s difficult to like,” I said carefully. “But she knows about the Pit. She warned me about Sarannai.” And about Yarrow.

He hadn’t asked me about dragons again. Not since that day in the mess hall. Nevertheless, the threat of consequences haunted me. I couldn’t begin to guess what he’d do if I continued to refuse. But how could I tell him something so important?

I just had to hold out until my parents saved me.

“Be careful of Gerel.” Tirta picked a piece of dirt out from under her ragged nails. “Don’t trust her.”

“Why?” Gossip was the Anabeln way. Everyone had real secrets—like my counting—and people worked very hard to keep those hidden, but most were merely illusionary secrets. So Tirta sitting there, wanting to tell me something about Gerel—I couldn’t resist.

“I heard she tried to destroy the Heart of the Great Warrior and everyone inside it. Prisoners. Trainees. Warriors.”

That seemed . . . impossible. The Heart was huge. And underground. And all stone. Not even a Drakontos titanus would be able to burn it down. “How?” I whispered. Not that I wanted to destroy the Heart. I just wanted to get away from it.

“I don’t know.” Tirta shook her head. “Sometimes I wish she’d succeeded. In my dark moments, you know? But you can make a life here if you work hard. It’s not fun, but it’s a life and it’s better than nothing.”