Free Sunbolt (The Sunbolt Chronicles) by Intisar Khanani Page A

else I can use? Saira? Tarek? I need something a little stronger than hairpins.”
    They check their pockets, but like me the soldiers had stripped them of their belongings.  
    “Do you have any more hairpins?” I press. Saira pulls the last pins from her hair, passing them through the bars to Alia. Unbound, her hair falls down her back in a cascade of black. Just the flow of her hair speaks to her noble heritage.  
    I gather what I have, then set aside four hairpins. It’s only a three-pin lock, but it’s best to keep a spare in case I break one. If I can solder the remaining metal together, that should be strong enough to finish the job.  
    I turn my back to the Degath children. Folding my legs beneath me, I cup my hands around the hairpins and lean down so that I’m curled over them. Even here, in the near dark, when I may already be dead, I dare not let my secret out. Instead, I let myself look beaten, and, my cloak obscuring my actions, I pour my magic into the palms of my hands.  
    I draw on everything I have: on the stone of the walls surrounding me, ancient and unconcerned, born of the earth; on the air, cool and heavy with damp, life-giving yet laden with the scent of death, a memory of pain. When I open my eyes, I see blearily that the pins have sealed together into a single misshapen wrench.
    It’s done. The wrench is made; the pins are ready. I have only to open the cages and find a way out. Darkness drips onto my fingers. I raise a hand to wipe blood from my nose, my motions slow, unsteady.
    Holding the wrench in one hand, I grab hold of a bar and pull myself up. The cage tilts around me. I stagger, my feet clumsy, heavy as stone.  
    “Ghost?” Alia asks.  
    I shake my head, trying to clear it, and lose my balance, falling backwards. The last thing I hear is Alia’s voice calling to me as my head hits the floor. “Ghost? Ghost? ”

    I wake to the sound of boots, the low rumble of male voices in conversation. I squeeze my eyes shut, open them slowly. The dark bars of a cage stare back at me. My memories snap into place. I try to scramble to my feet, but my sense of balance is off. Fighting a wave of dizziness, I crouch on the floor, swallowing down bile. Something metallic has rolled between the stones before me: my torque wrench.
    As swiftly as my shaking fingers will let me, I slip it into my pocket alongside the hairpins. When I look up, I make myself focus on the men. Blackflame strides towards the cages, his golden mane falling about his shoulders, his mage’s robes flaring as he walks. In their way, the four mercenaries behind him are as ornamental as his robe.  
    A tall, slim figure keeps pace with him, his short chestnut hair emphasizing the paleness of his face. He wears a rich ensemble of a tailored shirt, brocade vest, fitted pantaloons, and immaculate boots. A northman? As he offers Blackflame a grin, I catch the gleam of lantern light on unnaturally long incisors.
    No.  
    No.  
    I scramble towards the bars between my cage and Alia’s. “Alia—Alia! Listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t look at the men.” She stares back at me. She looks terrible: pale-faced to the point of sickliness, with dark bruises beneath her eyes. “Don’t look at them! Do you hear me? He’s a—”
    “Child,” the creatures says, his voice a friendly baritone. “Who is your friend?”
    “ Alia! ” I lunge for her, grabbing her sleeve and yanking her towards me before she can finish turning her head. “Don’t look!” I can feel the call of his voice even though I’m not his target. I have to fight to keep my gaze on Alia.  
    She jerks back to look at me. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.
    “Monster,” I whisper back. “A fang. Don’t look.”
    Her eyes widen with horror. Not because he’s a fang; I suspect she has met more than a few. The fangs that come to Karolene are often wealthy, moving in elite circles and visiting the court. But they also belong to clans who have signed