Endgame

Chapter Six

Chapter SixKelia awoke to pain so intense it almost rendered her unconscious again. She clutched at her right shoulder, stifling a scream as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

With a series of grunts and grimaces, she forced herself into a sitting position and leaned back against the cold, muddy earth of the wall. The reddish-brown tunic she'd worn for the last three days, now stained with mud and blood, had been soaked through. She shivered against the raw chill that permeated her subterranean prison.

Taking slow, measured breaths, she tried to block out the pain, to calm her mind. She reached out her uninjured hand, hoping to will her earth-Wielding ability into existence. A short distance away, the object of her focus—a small clod of mud—wobbled and tilted, but did not rise into the air. She pushed her concentration to its fullest, but it only succeeded in exacerbating the pain in her wrist. She let out a yelp, lowered her hand, and the mud-ball ceased its movement.

Tears leaked from her eyes as she cradled her hand against her body. “Arantha, help me,” she whispered, praying through dirty tears. “Please, O divine goddess, deliver me from captivity, I beg you.”

She glanced up at the sky through the wooden grate above her head. She'd long ago abandoned any hope of escaping on her own. The grate was too high to grasp and the walls of the hole her captors had thrown her in lacked any viable handholds. Not that she could climb anyway, with her shoulder sending shards of white-hot agony up to her brain every time she moved it. She repeated her prayer of deliverance, but no answer came.

Kelia moved her left hand to the back of her head, and winced when she felt a cluster of tender bumps where her hair used to be. Her captors had savagely chopped off the long, intricately braided tress she'd been growing since she became Protectress fourteen years before. A muffled sob escaped, and she gritted her teeth to hold back her anguish. Thankfully, these vile men hadn't desecrated her sexually, but depriving her of her hair felt almost as much of a personal violation.

The only face she'd seen over the past two days was that of a large, bearded man who came by twice a day to sneer at, spit on, or urinate all over her before throwing a scrap of raw, rancid meat at her. He wore a jacket made from animal skins, and his brutish face bore several streaks of blue and red dye. As far as she knew, only Vandans decorated their faces so.

Worse than the constant, shooting pain in her shoulder—a raw, festering remnant of her fight with Elzaria—and the putrid miasma of the prison she now found herself in was not knowing what had happened. She remembered standing over Elzaria, having bested her in a battle of Wielding. Then, without warning, came a blue flash that smashed into her with the force of a sandstorm, and everything went black.

She also remembered waking up several times, bound and gagged, slung over the back of a merych as they rode across the Plains of Iyan. However, each moment of wakefulness ended with a sharp blow to her head, sending her into unconsciousness again.

No one had told her anything, despite her pleas. For all she knew, every huntress and Wielder who'd stayed behind to safeguard their Stone had been killed. Including Nyla.

Nyla. My beloved daughter. You can't be dead. You can't be. I would know. Somehow, I would feel it. And besides, Arantha would not allow such a terrible thing to happen.

Would you, Arantha?

She pictured Maeve, her beautiful Terran lover, who had risked her and her son's life to protect them. They, and Runa, left for the Kaberian Mountains to retrieve Maeve's ship and return before the attack began. But, according to Elzaria, a squadron of her brother's soldiers laid in wait for them. Had this terrible man murdered Maeve, too?

No. I will not believe that. If Elzor and his sister possessed not only the Ixtrayu's Stone but Maeve's, they would have no reason to keep me alive. Which means Maeve is alive. She will come for me.

Kelia calmed her nerves again, holding her right arm still to avoid any more pain. She'd had a bond with Maeve ever since her first vision of the Terran pilot, which had only been magnified when they underwent the Sharing. Maybe, just maybe, she could reach out, touch Maeve's mind. Let her friend know she still breathed. Maybe she could even use their bond as a beacon, allowing Maeve to find her.

She closed her eyes, and slowed her breathing again.

She let her mind stretch out, into the inky blackness of whatever realm her Wielding originated. Arantha's domain.

Maeve … hear me…

Nothing.

Maeve, my love … please hear me…

Nothing.

The cuts on her face and head began to throb, and her concentration shattered. Her eyes shot open, and she dug her body even further into the wall. She covered her face with her good hand, trying to quell the despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

A stream of yellow liquid came pouring down from above, striking the ground in front of her. She pulled her feet up to her chin to avoid the noxious urine.

“Wassa matter? Ya don' like my piss?” came the deep, cruel voice of her jailer. “Well, too bad. Here's yer dinner.”

A foul lump of meat hit the ground one pace away, just missing the puddle of urine. She made no move to pick it up. Just the sight of it made her want to retch.

“Eat up, gell,” he said. She still refused to move or meet his gaze. “Ain't no more 'til tomorrow. If ya live that long.” He laughed again, then his footsteps moved away.

She stared at the unsightly lump of dead flesh in front of her, which several insects had already begun to feast upon.

No. I will not end here. By the bones of my mother, I will not end here.