Yet the hunger—the hunger was all consuming, maybe even worse than the welts across his back. The guards had whipped him several times by now, and the chains chafed his ankles, and the bricks hurt his skin, but the hunger was perhaps the worst. Every spider was a blessing.

One of these days, Tanin hoped, he would catch a rat. The rats scurried outside sometimes. He saw them in the hallway, yet none had yet come to visit. None were his friends.

I wonder if rats ever visited Sena as he languished in his prison, Tanin thought.

He thought back to the prince of Eteer, Issari's brother. The young man had always seemed odd, too quiet, too hurt. The memory of Sena hanging from the oak visited Tanin sometimes, a waking dream, a warning.

He lost his sanity while imprisoned, Tanin thought. I have to cling to mine. I have to. He clenched his fists, though he was so weak his fingers could barely bend. For Requiem. And for Issari.

At the thought of her, something swollen and wet filled his throat. His eyes stung and ice and fire filled his belly.

"Issari," he whispered.

She needed him. She was imprisoned too, held high above in the ziggurat, enslaved to the abina of Goshar. He had to find her, to save her. His fists shook. He would burn down this entire city to see her again.

He thought of her large green eyes, her determined mouth, her raven braid, her strength, her wisdom, her courage—an innocent princess who had become a queen, a priestess, a great leader. The thought gave him the strength to struggle to his feet. The chains binding his wrists and ankles jangled.

"I have to find you, Issari." He stumbled toward the door. "I have to . . ."

His head spun. He was too weak, too dizzy, but he tightened his lips and summoned his magic.

Red scales flowed across him.

And he screamed.

As his body grew, the chains cut into his wrists, ankles, and torso. Blood spilled. Tanin roared with pain, and his magic left him. He collapsed onto his knees, lowered his head, and trembled.

Boots stomped outside.

Tanin cringed.

Several guards approached the cell. They stood outside the bars, glaring in at Tanin. Each man wore rusty old ring mail, and their beards mimicked the armor, curled into tight rings. Whips and daggers hung at their hips.

One man shoved a torch between the bars. The flames crackled, spewed smoke and sparks, and forced Tanin back against the wall.

"What are you screaming about, weredragon?" the guard demanded. He spat on Tanin. "Shut your mouth or I'll bash in every last one of your teeth."

Cringing away from the flames—they felt hot enough to melt his eyeballs—Tanin spoke in a hoarse whisper. "Let me see her. Let me see Issari."