Taking Risks: Part 2

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Her temples throbbed, the pulse of blood through her veins pressing against her skull.

Carissa opened her eyes, blinking to clear them. She was lying on a bed, sinking into its thick maroon blanket. There was a wooden vanity against the wall, and two chairs situated next to the door. Carissa rose, the floorboards groaning beneath her bare feet, and tried the door. Locked.

Where was she?

Her last memory slowly trickled back to her. The Y'thapa. She'd chosen to take the Y'thapa. Now she was in the Reaper's fortress. She scrubbed her hand across her forehead. She remembered a few things: riding on a horse, dark forests, black tents, blurry silhouettes. The last few days felt like a dream, their details vague and wispy. The harder she tried to grasp them, the more quickly they slipped through her fingers.

Elon. She had to find Elon.

Carissa began to try the doorknob again. To her surprise, it twisted before her hand could reach it. She stepped back as the door swung inwards, and a woman entered. She was willowy and thin, hollows carved beneath her cheekbones.

Carissa studied her garb. A servant. But one she'd never seen before. "Why are you here?"

The servant had the most defined black eyebrows Carissa had ever seen. They rose, their jagged edges growing sharper. "To prepare you for the welcoming feast. Did they not tell you?"

The welcoming feast. The rebellion.

The fogginess in Carissa's mind dissipated. "Of course. Should I sit?"

The woman nodded.

Carissa seated herself in front of the wooden vanity, her reflection staring back at her. Grime, left from days of travel, lined the crevices in her skin. Her blue eyes were glaringly bright against the bloodshot whites of her eyes—possibly an aftereffect of the drug. At least it was wearing off.

The woman unlaced Carissa clothes, crinkled from sleep, before cleaning her with a damp rag and basin of water. Once Carissa and Elon escaped, she hoped they'd find time to bathe properly. The woman squeezed Carissa into an emerald green dress, its neckline steep and the sleeves nonexistent.

Carissa crossed her arms over her chest, cupping her bare shoulders with her hands. She hadn't worn garb this immodest since Iver. The woman began to powder her face, line her eyes, color her lips. She brushed out Carissa's hair and let it flow over her shoulders and down her back. When the woman stepped back, Carissa's breath stuttered.

She truly looked like a nightwoman.

Carissa strode close to the mirror. Was Zorelle trying to humiliate her? Or was she to be a nightwoman in more than appearance?

A wave of dizziness crested over her, and Carissa staggered before slapping her hands to the vanity. No. Not here, not now.

"Are–Are you alright?"

Her breaths came fast and hard, her vision narrowing as darkness crept up the edges. It was unlikely Zorelle would force her to be a nightwoman. After all, Zorelle was trying to sway Carissa to their side. It wouldn't make sense. Despite her rationale, her fingertips began to tingle, and the sensation crawled up her arms.

"Perhaps you should sit down."

Hands touched her bare skin, and Carissa flinched. And then she was sitting.

She just had to breathe—in and out. After a few moments, her vision cleared. That was more like it. She'd have to keep her panic under control or it would incapacitate her. Elon had trained her for this moment, and she wouldn't fail him.

Carissa looked up at the mirror, and queasiness surged in her stomach. She quickly glanced away. As long as she didn't think about it, maybe those memories would stay to the dark corner she'd confined them to.

The woman hovered close by. "Do you need water? Air?"

Perhaps she could use this. After all, the weaker they thought she was, the easier it'd be for her to escape. Carissa nodded. "Yes, yes please. I'd like water."

"Should I request that you not attend tonight's feast?"

Perhaps she should; there'd be fewer eyes on her and she'd be out of the way of the rebellion. But that wouldn't work. If she were locked it her room the entire time, it'd be impossible to escape. She needed the rebellion to serve as a distraction, and that meant being in the middle of it.

Carissa shook her head and offered her a thin smile. "No, it's alright. I just need a few moments."

The woman bowed her head before leaving the room. Carissa considered catching the door before it closed and escaping, but without the distraction of the rebellion, she'd likely be caught. The woman returned a few minutes later with a wooden cup of water.

Carissa sipped from it before setting it on the vanity. "I'm ready."

The woman helped Carissa to her feet and strode by her as they walked out the door, hovering like a worried mother. Two Reapers had been standing on either side of the doorway. They left their positions to trail behind Carissa and the woman.

Carissa cast a sidelong glance at her. She was a kind soul. Was it possible the woman would want to escape with her and Elon? Or would asking cause the woman to report Carissa's plans to Zorelle?

They turned a corner, and at the end of the hallway, Carissa caught a glimpse of the feast. Reapers were seated around a table, clothed in silk doublets and dresses. The finery seemed at odds with their wicked smiles and soulless eyes. In fact, judging from how short the sleeves were on the men and how high the dress hems were on the women, these weren't their clothes at all.

Silver candelabras held purple flames. A crimson runner streamed down the middle of the table, nearly hidden by the platters of food on top of it.

As they neared the feast, Carissa slowed her steps. "I don't even know your name, but if you find that you need help tonight, please feel free to find me."

The woman's expression creased in confusion. "...thank you?"

That was the best Carissa could do for her; she hoped it was enough. Carissa nodded once before entering the dining room.

A Reaper glanced at her and smirked before nudging his partner, who turned to face her as well. Within seconds, the entire room had fallen silent, all gazes on her.

Carissa held her head high, meeting the eyes of each Reaper as she passed by. She happened upon an empty seat and sat down.

"So nice of you to finally join us."

Carissa's gaze snapped to the left. "Zorelle. I'm afraid I wasn't feeling well. But I'm better now."

Zorelle inclined her head. "Excellent. I suspect you'll need your wits about you for tonight."

Carissa narrowed her gaze. "Why? Something I should know about?"

Zorelle smiled. "Not at the moment."

What could Zorelle be planning? And what was so important about tonight? Carissa allowed her gaze to roam the room. Tapestries lined the stonewalls. One depicted a woman playing a silver flute. Another was of children playing ball on a hill. A third showed a man lifting a sword, a topaz stone in its hilt, light shining from the blade.

Carissa turned back to Zorelle. "Whose tapestries are these?" They certainly weren't Esmerian, which made sense, given that this land used to be Nysia.

"They used to belong to the owner of this keep." Zorelle brought her goblet to her lips.

Carissa nodded to Zorelle's dress. "As do the clothes?"

She nodded.

"Then where's the owner?"

A Reaper to her right snickered. "You mean where isn't the owner?"

Carissa glanced at him. "What do you—"

"We left a part of him at the gate where we met him—his arm, I think? We ripped off a few fingers as we dragged him through this room. By the time we'd reached the stairs, he was missing his eyes." He smirked. "Needless to say, by the time we'd managed to drag him to his own dungeons, there wasn't much left."

Carissa couldn't do anything but gape. When the border had swept over Nysia, that's what the Reapers had done to these people—tortured, maimed, and robbed. Of course, she'd known the Reapers wouldn't have been kind to the people, but to hear it described in detail...

The Reaper's gaze glided somewhere behind Carissa, and the smirk evaporated.

A glance to the left revealed Zorelle's thunderous expression, which soon melted into a smile as she returned Carissa's gaze. Carissa sat back and fixed her gaze on the slice of meat before her. Zorelle could clothe Carissa in the finest silks and feed her the richest foods, but nothing could hide what she truly was: a Reaper.

Carissa held her goblet up to her lips to hide her expression of disgust. The drink was slightly cool and... tasteless. Carissa lowered the goblet. Its contents were the deep burgundy of wine, yet it tasted like water. How? And more importantly: why? She would have thought the Reapers would enjoy plundering the owner's supply of wine, which he likely had.

Just thinking of that poor man made her stomach coil. Was he still alive? Maybe she could rescue him too.

She glanced up. The Reapers across from her were laughing raucously. One swayed slightly in her seat, her hand cupping her mouth as a giggle spilled out. Perhaps the Reapers could only be inebriated through this drink.

But then she saw one grow sober briefly, his eyes flicking to a dark hallway where the servants stood. His gaze was sharp and narrow, his red eyes missing nothing. And then he began snorting and laughing again. The change was so abrupt she could almost convince herself she'd imagined it.

Her gaze wandered down the line of Reapers, all acting drunkenly happy.

The first night, they will likely have a welcoming feast. Once they're deep into their cups, we'll strike.

She swirled the liquid in her goblet, trying to act bored even as a chill of horror cascaded through her. This wasn't truly wine. The Reapers weren't truly drunk.

Which meant the Reapers knew about the rebellion. And they were prepared for it.

Carissa scooted her chair back, drawing Zorelle's gaze. She had to warn the others. Of course, that would ruin her plan to rescue Elon, but she couldn't just let these servants be slaughtered. "Excuse me. I need to relieve myself."

Zorelle stared at her for so long that Carissa feared she'd deny her request. "Very well. But don't be long. I wouldn't want you to miss tonight's... festivities." Zorelle gestured to one of the Reaper guards along the wall, and he stepped forward. "Dirth will escort you."

Carissa nodded—though it wasn't as if she had a choice. She'd have to be clever to escape her guard and warn the servants. The Reaper strode into the hallway, and she followed behind him.

Just as she was contemplating how to escape him, a servant appeared from around the corner, holding a tray of empty glass goblets.

Perfect.

As the servant passed the Reaper, Carissa sidestepped right into the servant. He stumbled, lurching forward to regain his balance. His tray hit the ground, and glittering flecks of glass scattered across the stone. The servant glanced up at her, his eyes narrow.

"I'm so terribly sorry. Allow me to help you." Carissa knelt and began to pluck the glass from the floor before placing it in her cupped palm. The servant joined her, and Carissa leaned close to him before whispering, "The Reapers know of the rebellion. Call it off and warn the others."

A cold hand clasped her upper arm and hauled her upright, causing the glass she was holding to fall back to the floor. The Reaper turned her to face him, bending close enough that his icy breath ghosted over her face. "What did you say to him?"

Carissa shrugged. "I was just apologizing for making a mess. I can be terribly clumsy at times, you know."

The Reaper's eyes narrowed, but he finally released her. He escorted her to the washroom—a tiny, dim room with an unsanitary hole for a toilet—and back to the dining room.

Carissa resumed her seat, her guard still hovering at her back.

Zorelle glanced up at the guard. "Anything eventful happen?"

Carissa could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped. Her chest tightened, squeezing her heart so hard that for a moment it stopped beating.

The guard nodded. "She bumped into a servant, causing him to drop the goblets he was carrying. As she bent to pick up the glass, she whispered something to him. She claims she was merely apologizing, but I think otherwise."

Zorelle nodded. "As you should. Return to your post."

The Reaper bowed at the waist before returning to his position along the wall.

Carissa picked up her fork and prodded her food. She contemplated eating it, to keep up her strength, but she couldn't afford to be drugged again.

Zorelle turned to face Carissa, draping her arm across her chair. "You still think they're on your side."

Carissa scooted a stalk of corcra shoot from one end of her plate to the other. "Who?"

"The servants. You're still trying to help them. None of them want your help, you know. Some are quite content where they are."

Carissa raised her eyebrows. "And the ones who aren't content?"

"Still don't want your help." Zorelle patted Carissa's head. "But that was sweet of you to try."

Carissa swallowed thickly. Did that mean Zorelle knew Carissa had tried to warn the would-be rebels? And yet she wasn't concerned?

Hours passed, and the dinner party went on. The Reapers' false laughter rang in her ears, and she was tired of shoving her food around her porcelain plate. Carissa shifted, the stiff seat cushion squeaking with the movement.

Zorelle glanced up through a curtain of white hair. "Patience. The fun is just about to begin."

Something crashed, and all gazes snapped that way.

A servant was glancing down at his chest, where a dagger handle protruded. The servant himself was holding another dagger, which fell out of his loosened grasp to the floor. The servant soon followed, his body thudding against the stone.

A nearby Reaper ripped the dagger from the man's chest, its blade glimmering with blood.

It appeared that the first rebel had just tried to kill a Reaper. And had failed. Hopefully that would deter the others from—

A servant dropped his basin of water and withdrew a dagger from the folds of his clothing. "For freedom!"

Bowls, food, and goblets flew through the air as servants threw away their loads and held up their weapons. Their shrill cries merged together as they charged the Reapers, surrounding the table.

The Reapers rose as one, their hands filled with the silver glitter of Scythes. The two armies met with a clash of steel and the spilling of blood.

A woman engaged Carissa's seatmate—the Reaper who'd bragged about murdering the owner of the keep. She was armed with no more than a broomstick. The Reaper swung at her, and the woman blocked his hit, the wooden broomstick clunking against the shaft of the Scythe. The Reaper swung again, and this time, his blade sliced cleanly through the broomstick.

The woman held up the severed end of the broomstick, though her arms trembled.

Before the Reaper could even draw back to swing again, Carissa swiped a steak knife from the table and plunged it into his back. She yanked it back out, oily black blood coating the metal. Just as the Reaper collapsed, a sharp stinging sliced through her side.

Carissa turned to face her new opponent.

A man stood before her, his youthful face streaked in blood and sweat.

Her stomach churned, and she retreated until her back hit the table. Surely he hadn't meant to hit her. He likely wasn't experienced with a dagger, and—

Carissa barely had time to block as he lunged for her. "Stop fighting me! I'm on your side. I want to you all to be free, like I am."

He sneered. "So we'll go from being a Reaper's slave to being a king's slave?" He swung again, but his form was sloppy.

Carissa sidestepped to avoid the blade. "No. Just listen to me: Elon can help you. If you don't have him on your side, then you've lost before you've begun."

The young man barked a laugh. "You're all the same, you know." He swung again, and Carissa blocked, the force of his blow jarring her arms. "Which is why"—he grunted as he swung again—"our leader said you were to be killed along with the rest."

Carissa shook her head. "No, Elon isn't like them."

"Oh, really?" The man drew back, his chest heaving. "I heard he wanted all of us to be his people."

"He does, but only because that's what's best for you. He wants you to be his, so he can protect—"

The man darted forward, his blade slicing through her upper arm. Pain tore through her skin, and Carissa clasped the wound, warmth seeping through her fingers.

The man's smile was fierce. "Once we've won this rebellion, I will be owned by no one—not Reapers and certainly not your king." He spat on the ground before charging her again.

Carissa blocked, but she could feel herself weakening. The man's defense was practically nonexistent, his swings leaving his chest and neck wide open. She'd avoided taking advantage of that weakness earlier, but now it seemed she had no option—not if she wanted to live.

The next time the man drew his arm back to swing, Carissa crouched before springing forward, ramming into his chest. Her blade swiped at his ribs, and the man backpedaled, a hand pressed to his side.

Bright red dripped down his knuckles, following the curve of his fingers. Nausea swirled in Carissa's stomach. She couldn't do this—these were the people she and Elon were supposed to save.

Carissa dropped her knife. "I don't want to fight you."

The man bared his teeth. "Then you'll die." Before he could run at her, she closed the distance between them. He stiffened, his eyes widening in surprise. Carissa took advantage of his hesitation and rammed her palm into his nose. It crunched beneath her hand, his blood wetting her skin.

He hissed and swung his dagger towards her.

She blocked his arm with her forearm, grabbed his wrist, twisted. The dagger clattered to the floor. She'd practiced so many of these moves with Elon that they felt almost rhythmic. Like a dance.

He swung a punch at her. She stepped back.

He tried to grab her hair. She ducked and slid forward, ramming her elbow into his middle.

He doubled over. She waited until he straightened. Then she smashed the heel of her palm into his jaw. He staggered backwards, fell. His head knocked against the ground, and he became motionless.

Carissa knelt and positioned her ear over his nose. His breath tickled her skin. He was alive. Good.

Carissa stood. The stones beneath her were slick with blood, most of it red. Screams and battle cries assaulted her ears. Someone was sobbing. Names were called. Carissa glanced up in time to see Zorelle bury her Scythe into an elderly man's chest. Zorelle tugged its hooked blade out, spraying blood on the ground.

Many of the servants were turning to flee now, and the Reapers were giving chase, laughing and sprinting as if they were out hunting deer.

Carissa scooped a dagger off the ground, its handle sticky with drying blood. She began to approach them but stopped. Though she wanted to help, she doubted they would accept it. She had to get to Elon and free him. He would know what to do.

She turned and sprinted into a hallway, nearly slipping in the blood. Her slippers slapped the stone as she ran. Where was the dungeon? How would she find it? Carissa slowed as her mind churned. The Reaper had mentioned the dungeon before, hadn't he?

We

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