Reign of Ash Read Online Free Page B

on the other end of the passageway, I won’t be able to wake you quickly enough. I can dull your senses, slow your breathing so the air lasts longer. You’ll feel as if you’ve had too much wine, so that the voyage won’t bother you quite so much.”
    Far over their heads, Connor knew that catapults continued their bombardment of the fortress. While Voss seemed confident that his fortifications could withstand the siege, Connor had felt nothing but cold dread with every pounding blow.
What’s worse? Staying here and possibly being overrun and tortured or being put in a coffin and buried alive?
    “Give me your arm,” Penhallow said. Dutifully, Connor rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a series of small, white, pinpoint scars. Penhallow met his gaze for a moment, then pressed Connor’s forearm to his mouth. Connor was used to the momentary pain of the bite as Penhallow’s fangs pierced his skin. It was through the blood that Penhallow read his memories, gathered the intelligence Connor provided as a spy. And it was through the blood that Penhallow provided the
kruvgaldur
, or blood bond, that imparted his protection and a weak telepathic link.
    “Don’t fight it, Connor,” Penhallow said quietly. “Let it take you.”
    It was instinct, not intention, that resisted the
talishte
’s compulsion. Penhallow had always been a kind master, asking for Connor’s cooperation rather than wresting information from him by force. Now, Connor felt the full weight of Penhallow’s power blurring his consciousness even as a primal part of him struggled to remain fully awake.
    Penhallow lifted his mouth from the wound, and immediately, the skin began to heal. Connor’s legs were unsteady, and both Penhallow and Voss reached to catch him as he wavered on his feet. Penhallow lifted him, showing no strain at hefting a grown man as easily as he might have picked up a sleepy child. He placed Connor into the coffin.
    “I will never let you out of my sight in the river,” Penhallow promised. “I won’t allow any harm to come to you. Don’t be afraid.”
    Groggy with the compulsion, Connor did not struggle as Penhallow lifted the lid of the coffin and fit it into place. He felt relaxed, as though he had drunk several bottles of wine. He recalled having been distressed over something but could not remember what. Distantly, Connor noticed glimmers of light around the coffin’s lid, and some part of his mind seemed to think that wasn’t a good idea.
    The sharp smell of pitch filled the coffin. One by one, the glimmers of light disappeared, and Connor lay in total darkness. The coffin was just wide enough for his shoulders, and barely long enough for him to stretch out to his full length. A memory surfaced, something about how the joiner sometimes broke a corpse’s legs to fit the box. Despite Penhallow’s compulsion, Connor shuddered.
    Inside the coffin, Connor jostled against the sides as Penhallow dragged the casket into the water. For a moment it seemed the casket might roll over, but before Connor could brace himself, the box righted. In the distance, he heard muffled voices, then felt the coffin sink until it touched the shallow bottom of the river’s edge. Then he felt the current take him, and he heard the rush and roar of the river as loudly as if he bobbed beneath a waterfall.
    The current grew swift, and the coffin yawed from side to side. Connor splayed out his arms and legs to brace himself within the narrow confines of the box. Yet his heartbeat did not spike with fear, and his breathing remained shallow and measured. He felt a curious sense of detachment, as if the journey were happening to someone else and he was only an observer.
    With a crash, the box pivoted and the impact slammed Connor against the side of the coffin. The water sounded as if it might rip the box apart, and its force buffeted the box like a cork. Again and again it slammed against rock until Connor wondered whether the wood would