Linwe said “she,” which meant it would have been Cemalla. Damn. He closed his eyes. He was getting tired of hearing about Elves dying. He said, “I’m sorry. How long have you been here—and do you know where here is?”

One of the male Elves answered him. “We’re in the prison underneath the palace in Numenlaur. We’ve been here for almost two weeks.”

Elves could survive a long time without food and almost as long without water, but if they hadn’t had any liquid or nourishment in all that time, they had to be feeling poorly. He asked, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten or drank anything?”

“The witch who imprisoned us has been bringing us wayfarer bread and water every three days,” Linwe said. “But the last time was three days ago, and she didn’t leave any food or water when she brought you and the harpy in. We’re wondering if that means she’s decided to stop feeding us.”

“I met the witch,” he growled.

“Of course you did.” She sounded dispirited and listless. “I’m not thinking very clearly.”

“Don’t worry about it, Linwe. If I were you, I wouldn’t be thinking clearly either.”

Getting food and water every few days was barely sustainable. The thought of them imprisoned for almost two weeks, getting hungrier and thirstier as they listened to that water drip, infuriated him.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the bars. He wasn’t familiar with the exact spell that had been smelted into the metal, but it would be something to contain dangerous prisoners with a possible proficiency in magic. Every Elder Races prison had something of the same, some sort of way to dampen a prisoner’s magic.

He tried touching the metal, and whatever magic it held stayed inert, so he grasped two bars and looked at the crumpled figure across the way. Aryal hadn’t moved yet, although if she had been hit with the same spell as he had, she should be awake by now.

“Hey,” he said quietly to her. The sight of her ruined wings made him feel slightly crazed. He remembered the sound of her bone snapping. “Time to wake up, sunshine.”

She didn’t move or give any sign that she heard him. His throat tightened. She might be unconscious. The witch wouldn’t have locked her up if she had been dead.

Or at least she wouldn’t have been dead at the time she was locked up. If his wounds were still open, so were hers. She had been quietly bleeding all this time. Was the dampening magic on the bars interfering with their Wyr abilities to heal?

“Say something, Aryal,” he said.

Goddamn it. Come on.

She said in quiet, broken voice, “I’m not healing.”

After that, she didn’t speak again for a long time.

“I’m not healing either,” he told her.

She didn’t respond.

He started to pace. It made the wound in his thigh ache worse than before, but he ignored it. From down the hall, Linwe said, “That’s how Cemalla died. She got injured pretty badly when the witch’s wolf shadows attacked us. Her wounds wouldn’t clot. She bled out a couple of days after we were brought here.”

Caerreth, the bookish Elf, said, “I could have saved her if my magic had been working.”

“You’re a healer?” Quentin asked.

“I’m not very advanced yet,” he said. “But none of us sustained any injuries that would have required complicated healing spells or surgeries.”

Quentin was no healer, but he thought Aryal’s wings might call for some complicated healing or surgeries. He resisted the urge to smash his fist into the wall, as any possible damage he might do to his fist might not heal. He muttered, “We need to get the hell away from these damn bars.”

Caerreth said somewhat pedantically, “Yes, we do, but in regards to healing, we’ve had a long time to think about things, and we don’t think that the dampening spell in the bars down here had anything to do with Cemalla bleeding out. After all, healing is a natural physical process, not a magical one. We think it has something to do with the wolf shadows themselves.”

The younger Elf made a good point. It sounded like they had used their imprisonment to try to think things through.

“Have you seen anything like them before?” Quentin asked.

“No, so we don’t know anything for sure.” Caerreth sounded like Linwe did, very tired. “All we have is supposition. Have you seen anything like them before?”

“No. Do you think their bites are poison?” Quentin didn’t feel poisoned. He just felt in pain. He stalked back and forth, pacing laps.

“The wounds haven’t acted as though they were poisoned,” said Caerreth. “I think it has more to do with the nature of the creatures themselves.”

“I thought they were spirits, or ghosts,” Quentin said. He completed another lap and spun. How much blood had Aryal lost? Was she close to bleeding out?

“If they are,” Caerreth said, “and they can still affect the physical world, what if the wounds they inflict are spiritual in nature?”

Quentin thought about that as he prowled every inch of his cage. Spiritual, the way that Caerreth meant it, didn’t mean feelings or emotions, or some kind of religious experience. Instead it meant of the soul, or the incorporeal, as opposed to the physical. Magic had the same distinction, as it was spiritual in nature—incorporeal—but still had the Power to impact the physical world.

“If you’re right,” he said, “then magical healing might work.”

“Which we can’t do in here,” said Caerreth. He sounded as dispirited and listless as Linwe had.

Quentin wasn’t dispirited or listless. He burned with rage and determination.

He said, “That’s all the more reason why we have to get out of here. But then we already knew that.”

With that, he turned all the considerable force of his attention onto one thing: escape.

To test the dampening spell in the prison bars, he ran through a series of practice spells that were akin to a musician playing scales. The dampening spell activated, and he could feel it acting in counterpart to his. It was more sophisticated than anything he had encountered before. He cast a stronger spell and felt the dampener adjust to the shift, an equal weight of null to his magic.

The one dampening spell that he knew was more simple and oppressive, pressing the null as a dead weight throughout the air of the prison or cage, so that the magic user could not even summon Power to cast a spell in the first place.

That kind of dampener needed to be recast periodically because it expended Power all of the time. The spell on these bars would have been much more difficult to cast, but it would last much longer, perhaps indefinitely, only becoming active when needed and providing only enough Power necessary to block each surge of Power.

He studied the construction of his cell. He was not surprised to find that it was as well constructed as the dampening spell had been. Perhaps he could dig furrows between the stones if he had a sharp implement and years of time to do it. But even then, he didn’t think he would achieve much more than a couple of deep holes in the thick walls.

Now to try his ace in the hole. Holding his breath, he attempted the minimal shapeshift that would bring out his panther’s retractable claws.

He had heard a lot of argument over the years about whether the Wyr’s ability to shapeshift should be classified as magic or as a natural attribute. The real answer was that it was both, but it was also a kind of magic that was fundamentally different from other magic structures. Sometimes spells that were cast in counter to other magics didn’t affect the Wyr’s shapeshift ability at all.

Sometimes … luck did swing his way.

The claws on his right hand appeared, more slowly than he could flick them into existence outside of the cell, but they were there. He concentrated on his left hand, and five more retractable claws materialized. He stretched the fingers on both hands out and looked at them in satisfaction.

It was like nature just wanted him to have all these lock picks readily at hand, so to speak, and available. And Quentin had explored all kinds of training for his natural talents.

He walked over to the bars and set to work, arms through the bars and wrists bent so that he could get at the lock from inside the cell.

Sometimes magical locks required the matching magical key to unlock them. He hoped that wasn’t the case for these cells. After all, the dampening spell and the excellent construction of the cells were barriers enough if the prisoner were stripped of any possible tools. He held his breath and prayed that the builders of the prison were as logical about the construction of the lock as they had been about everything else, as he used the two curved claws of his forefingers to probe for the hidden tumblers inside the lock. When he felt the slight resistance that indicated he had engaged them, he twisted carefully.

The lock clicked open. He pushed open the door to his cell and walked out.

The prison block was a simple one. It appeared to be U-shaped, with an iron-reinforced oak door at the bottom of the U. The Elves were held in cells just around the corner from the door, on the other leg from where he and Aryal were held. They were talking, their voices slow and tired, and didn’t appear to notice the slight sound his cell door made as it swung open. He caught a glimpse of still bodies in some of the other cells neighboring his and Aryal’s, but he turned his attention away from the sight. There was nothing he could do for any of them.

Listening warily for any sounds outside the cell block, he moved quickly over to Aryal’s cell, picked the lock and eased the door open. He rushed to her prone figure and kneeled at her head.

She lay on her stomach and showed no reaction to his sudden presence. He stroked her black hair to one side and felt for a pulse. Relief blew through him as he found one. It was thready and too rapid, but it was there.

“Hey, sunshine,” he said softly. “You in there? Feel free to get snarky and cuss me out anytime now.”

She didn’t say anything. Maybe she was unconscious.

Gods, she was a wreck. He was appalled at the state she was in. Those magnificent wings of hers were sprawled awkwardly on either side of her body, torn and broken. That last shadow wolf had known exactly what to do when it attacked her. It had very clearly intended to ground her, and that was what it had achieved.

If she hadn’t hesitated to take off, she might have gotten clean away. She had waited for him, and when he couldn’t get to her, she had said she would come for him.

A burning knot sank into his chest, like the same emotion that gripped him in the tragic nursery, only this time it was even hotter, more painful. Avian Wyr typically did not survive well if they lost the ability to fly.

This couldn’t cripple her. That was all there was to it.

First, though, he had to make sure it didn’t kill her.

Carefully he moved her. He didn’t try to turn her onto her stomach, because that would shift her wings too much. Instead he lifted her up until he could hold her, putting her head on his shoulder. She lay against his torso in a dead weight.

He tilted his head sideways and looked into the harpy’s wild face. Her eyes were half-open. Did that mean she was still conscious?

“I’m going to give this to you straight up, sunshine,” he whispered into her ear. “You look like hell. Our wounds aren’t closing over. We need to get out of this cell block and away from the dampening spell in here. Then maybe we can see about getting some magical healing. But to do that, you either need to be ambulatory or you need to be portable, and right now you’re neither.”

He looked down at her again. Was that a flicker in her half-closed eyes?

“You have to shapeshift,” he told her. “That might slow down your bleeding some, since—since so many of your wounds are on your wings. And if you can’t walk, at least I’ll be able to carry you.”

“My wings are bad,” she whispered.

The burning in his chest grew more intense. He steeled himself against it. “Yeah,” he said. “Your wings are bad. You’ll probably need surgery. Maybe even a couple of surgeries. The sooner we finish here and get home, the sooner we can get to that and you can take to the air again. But you’ve got to move first.”

There was no self-pity on that feral, beautiful face. There was no emotion at all. “The thing is, Quentin,” she said in a perfectly rational-sounding voice, “I don’t know that I can do that.”

If she was too injured to shapeshift, if she had lost too much blood, she might really be dying.

“No,” he said. He shook his head. “No. I do not accept that.”

“Gods forbid something might happen that you don’t accept,” she said dryly. Her eyes closed.

“Stop it!” He shook her, not caring if it hurt or not. Hell, if it hurt, it might be just the jolt she needed. Her eyes flared open again, and she glared at him. Anger was good. It was awesome. He smiled at her. “I’m going to pinch you until you shapeshift.”

One corner of her mouth twitched. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

“You say that like it’s news. Or even a bad thing.” He found a place under her arm where she wasn’t injured, and he pinched her hard.

A spark lit her dull gaze. “Ouch.”

“Come on, sunshine,” he growled. “I’m not leaving without you, and I haven’t got all day. And if I have to drag you by the foot, you’re going to be a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than you are right now. Shift!”

Her breathing quickened, and her face twisted. He could feel the struggle in her body as she strained. His heart started to pound as he waited. A low, shaking moan came from her lips.