“Watch them,” Vadim told Zev when they exited the room. “Make sure no one goes near those women without first being warded against Feraz witchspells. And don’t let the same men guard them more than once.”

“Yes, Most High.”

“Be sure they get what they need for their potion. I want twenty barrels of the stuff in four days’ time.” “Yes, Most High.”

“And see to it our friend Lord Death gets well fed. I want him strong and healthy by the end of next week. I have a feeling I’ll be needing him soon.”

Zev bowed without question. “Of course, Most High. I’ll see to it immediately.”

When the call came for the feeding of Lord Death, the High Mage’s oldest and most treasured prisoner, the umagi Melliandra made sure she was the one chosen. A full week had passed since Lord Death had nearly slain the High Mage, and though she’d practically had to tie herself to the wall to keep from going to him, she’d deliberately stayed away until now. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself by constantly being first in line to tend the most powerful prisoner in Boura Fell. The Mistress of Kitchens would get suspicious, and Melliandra’s careful, quiet plans for freedom would be ruined.

Tray in hand, Melliandra hurried down the winding stairs to the lowest level of Boura Fell and down to the last door at the end of the long, dark corridor. There, behind a sel’dor reinforced door, inside a narrow cage forged of floor-to-ceiling spiked sel’dor rods, his body pierced and manacled and weighted down by more sel’dor than any other prisoner had ever survived—and still guarded twenty-four bells a day—Shannisorran v’En Celay, Lord Death, the greatest Fey warrior ever born, lay captive.

He remained hidden in the shadows in the corner of his cage when she entered. She knew why—and it wasn’t the same reason umagi darted for cover when a Mage approached, or tunnel rats fled when a torch drew near. Lord Death didn’t hide in the shadows because he was afraid. He lurked there because he was a predator, blending into his surroundings as he stalked potential prey and calculated the probabilities of a successful attack.

She should have feared him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t except that she needed him.

“They tell me you haven’t been eating.” She set the tray down and pushed it towards the cell bars. She hadn’t been able to hide her surprise when the Mistress of Kitchens put an enormous, steaming bowl on the tray and commanded that Lord Death must consume every drop. The usual fare for prisoners was cold, fatted porridge, leftovers from umagi meals. Today, however, the food on the tray was a savory stew, thick broth swimming with plump grains, chunks of real meat (which did not look like or smell like tunnel rat), mushrooms, and chopped tuberoots. Melliandra had never had fare so rich. She’d never even been this close to such a feast. Her stomach growled loudly, something it had been doing since the moment she picked up the tray.

“Sounds like you need the food more than I.” Lord Death’s low voice rasped from the darkness.

She licked her lips. The temptation to sneak a taste was so strong she could hardly bear it. She closed her eyes and breathed in the heavenly aroma. “It’s hot. It smells too good to waste. Come, eat. You need your strength.”

“Why? Because you need me strong enough to kill the Mage for you?”

“Ssh!” She shot a look over her shoulder. The door to the cell was cracked open. “Voices carry in this place.” Thankfully, the guard wasn’t listening. Judging from the blissful sighs and sounds of slurping, the cup of stew she’d given him from Lord Death’s bowl was holding the guard’s full attention.

She turned back to Shan. “And yes, that’s why. You nearly killed him last week. I thought for a moment, I was free.”

Like a darrokken springing on its prey, Lord Death exploded from the shadow, crossing the cell in a single leap. His hands curled around the spiked cell bars. Eyes glowing bright, teeth bared and savage, he snarled, “You should have let my mate die. You should have let us die. Why didn’t you, for pity’s sake?” Then, as abruptly as it had come, his fury faded. He slumped against the bars of the cage, and his whole demeanor changed from anger to despair. “What have we ever done to you that you should keep us in such torment? “

She looked away. Pity was a stranger to her, shame even less familiar. But she felt both now.

“I couldn’t let you die,” she whispered. “You’re my only hope.” Her voice almost broke then, and she had to stop and clear her throat. Don’t be such a mush-hearted fool, Melliandra. You’ll destroy everything. But she could practically feel his pain as if it were her own. She knew what it was to be caged, to long for freedom that never came.

She gave herself a mental shake and sat up straight, steeling her resolve. She needed this man to keep his promise, and not just for herself. For Shia’s son, too. Only if the High Mage died could they be free.

“You’re the only one capable of killing the High Mage. He fears you. Everyone in Boura Fell knows that. The only thing he fears more is a Tairen Soul, and since it’s unlikely a Tairen Soul will make an appearance here anytime soon, that leaves you. I need you to kill him. It’s the only way.”

“The only way what?”

“The only way to be free.” A lifetime of caution stopped Melliandra from mentioning Shia’s child. She even tucked away all thought of him in that secret place in her mind where even the Mage could not go. “So long as the High Mage lives, there’s no life, no freedom for me. He owns my soul.”