She hauled herself upright and stumbled along in response to their prodding, the taste of copper bright in her mouth, the red of her own blood likely staining her lips and her teeth.
She’d repeated this death march so often that she quelled most of the dread. Instead she monitored their progress, memorizing passwords spoken, though those would likely be changed regularly, and seeing how the guards checked clearances. Some procedures for departing the undercity had changed. Before, the guards dragged her through miles of rugged stone, heavy walls closing in, and the steep stairs that led out of the undercity to the upper tiers. There, they had modified lighting to mimic the effects of the sun. In the undercity, they were lucky to get supplements and often, the guards hoarded them, doling them out as rewards for good behavior.
This time, Lucan escorted her to a lift that few soldiers were qualified to access. Lucan must have attained a high rank in the tyrant’s service while she was gone. They hadn’t restrained her ankles, only her hands, so she kept her balance when he pushed her into the lift.
Lucan turned to his crony. “I can take it from here. Return to the barracks.”
“At once, sir.”
The respectful form of address confirmed Rowena’s theory that Lucan was a ranking officer. She said nothing as her former childhood friend stepped into the elevator in front of her and then blocked her from seeing him input a code into the keypad. Soon, they jolted into motion, each meter bringing her closer to facing the devil who haunted her dreams. With all her heart, she wished that wasn’t still the case—that she could offer the ultimate insult, not enmity but indifference.
But their bonds were rooted deep, Tycho’s in lust and obsession, hers in antipathy and loathing. One day she would root the tyrant out entirely, leaving him no room in her mind. And that, she suspected, would devour him like the legendary snake that ate its own tail. The tyrant feared little more than becoming impotent and irrelevant, subject to the judgment of the many he had wronged.
She drew in a deep breath as the long, tense ride ended and the doors swooshed open. The upper tiers smelled so much different, better ventilated, of course, but also those who lived here had access to running water and luxurious bath products. At first, when Tycho chose her, so long ago now, she’d thought it made her special. He didn’t hurt her in the beginning. No, he worked up to that. At first, he was all kindness and generosity, making her look forward to being called to his side.
No, I refuse to think about the gradual progression or the way he trained me. I’m not that girl anymore.
Lucan shoved her, hard. “Did you think he would want you straight from the pit? You must have forgotten the routine. First, you’re scrubbed and perfumed and oiled, made suitable to stand in his presence.”
Ah, yes. The beautification rituals. In the beginning, she welcomed them, and by the end, it was a dehumanizing ordeal. Rowena had forgotten that she had a few hurdles to clear before she’d see her tormentor again.
Lucan dragged her away from the royal tier. From here, she glimpsed the palazzo towering above the city. Vega Rising, where the tyrant lurked, was a massive complex built on a stone piazza adorned with myriad balconies and terraces. Inside, she remembered the endless corridors, some leading to opulent chambers, others down into Golgerra proper. Unlike the undercity, the stonework was exquisite, variegated in marbled hues from gray to amber, and when light shone from the palest mezzanine, it gleamed like a star.
High above in the vaulted ceiling, some cunning architect had emplaced crystals to catch the light, fed with electricity to simulate a day and night cycle. Lucan shoved her past the hydroponic gardens, and Ro drew in a breath brightened with the smell of verdant life. At other times, her visits had been rich with the scent of drying herbs. Obediently, Rowena marched past the market, open all hours of the day or night, where wonders could be purchased by those with credit or coin. Not that Ro ever had either.
Though she tried not to let Lucan see, she relaxed somewhat as he forced her to the bath house, where the tubs were constantly refilled with clean and steaming water. It was fed from deep in the earth using the aqueducts built throughout the upper tiers of Golgerra. She recognized none of the attendants, but that steadied her nerves.
“You have one hour,” Lucan told the woman who met them in the private spa. “Make her presentable or it will be you on the block next time. His Eminence is in no mood to be patient with those who fail him.”
The war must be going poorly.
How well she knew that the tyrant hated to lose. He’d taught her to play Risk and the first time she defeated him? That was the first time he punished her, the first time she learned that his golden façade concealed a monster.
“She’ll look like a goddess when I’m finished,” the attendant promised.
She was a round, middle-aged woman with wide eyes and a perpetually worried air. Her current task couldn’t be helping with her anxiety levels. Rowena wished she had the spare energy to reassure her, but even if she did, there was no guarantee any of this would end well.
Lucan sneered. “Be wary of what you promise. One hour, no longer.” He turned to Rowena with a grim expression. “Don’t try to escape. I have Elites watching each entrance and it won’t go well for you.” A pause. “Actually, why don’t you try? I might enjoy the entertainment.”
Slay knew one thing for damn sure.
I’m killing that asshole.
Lucan might not be the Big Bad, but he was a cog in the gears of the murder machine. Every collaborator in Golgerra needed to die—everyone who looked the other way, everyone who thought it was fine as long as they weren’t sent to the undercity. Rage nearly took the top of Slay’s head off, and he would’ve given damn near anything to shift and run and snarl and claw the shit out of something. But first, he couldn’t spare the energy, not when he might need that last-ditch defense sometime soon. And second, that would draw attention, exactly what Rowena had been trying to avoid when she agreed to be taken.
Fuck, I hate this.
There was nobody to tell him he had to crawl over the rest of the prisoners, but he did it anyway, settling in after a bunch of muttered complaints. Her empty pallet taunted him, a physical reminder of his failure to protect her. Slay didn’t let himself off the hook; a promise was a promise even if she’d told him to stand down. The rags they’d slept on together still smelled like her, and he couldn’t quell the ache in his chest, the abject fear that he’d never see her again.
That bastard could kill her.
No, Slay refused to let that terror take root. Rowena had survived that gauntlet before; she would again. She had to live to get her revenge and help to set her people free, alongside the rest of the resistance.
Focus on what you can fix.
At this juncture that wasn’t a hell of a lot. Slay tried not to brood, though he got precious little sleep and felt like shit from the constant, erratic wakefulness and the disturbing dreams. Apparently his brain had a lot of ideas of how the meeting between those two might go.
When he reported to the workshop, she still wasn’t back, and with every moment that she stayed gone, his bad feeling got worse. If only he could do something, but he didn’t have her connections, couldn’t read the resistance cipher, and nobody was talking to him. Period. Nearly at the end of his tether when he finally finished his shift, Slay swallowed another swirl of bootless fury.