"It's her fault that you--"
"Don't."
Kestra's face softened. "Do you mean when you were sent to the dungeons? We have to talk about that."
"No, we don't."
"I remember--"
Trina cut in. "Do you remember kicking him in the head?"
My hands clenched into fists. Of course Kestra would remember that. She had stormed into the servants' quarters, ten years old but thinking herself twice that age. I'd been asleep in a corner of the room. She had kicked me awake.
"You kicked hard for a ten-year-old," I said.
"I kick harder now. Besides, you took my mother's ring--you deserved it."
"I never did." Our eyes connected. "Nor did my friend John, whom you also accused to your father. You lied, Princess. You lied and got an innocent man executed."
Silence fell heavy in the room. For six years, I had waited to say that to her, but now that I had, I simply felt empty, as if the anger that had fueled me all this time had suddenly dried up. I should have expected this. No words between us would change that day.
John and I had each received ten snaps of a whip against our backs. Then we were thrown into Henry Dallisor's dungeons, bound with ropes that had cut into my wrists just like the twine was no doubt cutting into hers right now. Thanks to a sharp edge on the rocks of my cell, I'd escaped the ropes. Escaping the dungeons themselves was a matter of dumb luck, nothing more. John got no such favors from the fates.
Kestra's lashes fluttered, as if I'd care about her regrets. "I was ten."
"And we were friends! Or was that also a lie?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper now. "We were friends, Simon."
"You had a strange way of showing it." We all fell silent, until I said, "That's why I know you're lying about wanting to save your servants. I don't know your reasons for agreeing to Tenger's plan, but it's not about saving anyone. And when I figure out why you're really helping us, I'll do everything I can to stop you."
A tear finally escaped, landing on Kestra's cheek. But her voice was firm. "Try your best to stop me. But you will both end up in those dungeons again, where you belong. And this time, I will not have any regrets."
Despite the advantage of our situation, something in the tone of her voice set me on edge. I knew Kestra meant every word she just said.
During my first few months in the Lava Fields, sleep always brought on nightmares of the kidnapping that jolted me awake, but with lingering memories that threatened to suffocate me. On the worst nights, my handmaidens learned to fetch Darrow, the only one who knew how to soothe the fears away. He'd distract me with stories of his youth or sing playful tunes, despite the fact that under Endrick, music was illegal. Darrow was a terrible singer, the worst, but I never told him so.
Around that time, Darrow began training me to defend myself, and to think like a survivor. He filled my days with swords and disk bows, and our evenings planning battle strategies, making my poor lady-in-waiting and Cook stand in as our presumed enemy. If I survived this, it'd be thanks to him. How I wished he were here.
I wasn't anywhere near asleep, but I did let my body slump over as if I were. It was uncomfortable, and Trina made several comments about my unladylike slouch. But neither of them suggested releasing me.
After enough time passed, they seemed to think I was truly asleep and began talking more freely. Their voices remained low, barely more than whispers, but it was a quiet room and my ears were tuned to nothing except their conversation.
"She thinks Tenger's plan is going to fail," Simon said.
"She was only telling you that to make you doubt our mission," Trina responded.
"Maybe, but it echoed my own doubts. I served in that home. I've been in those dungeons, made of rock walls and wooden cell doors. There's nowhere to hide a weapon. Even if the dagger exists, are we certain the mythology of the Blade is true? Only a Halderian can hold it? Only the Infidante can kill Lord Endrick with it?"
"We have to trust the people who are certain," Trina said. "The Blade does exist, Simon, and it's somewhere in her home. And when we find it and the Infidante is chosen, we'll be heroes."
"Or martyrs." Simon lowered his voice. "After this is over, we'll become the two most hunted Coracks in history. Let's hope it's for a good reason."
It wasn't. I knew for a fact that Lord Endrick had ordered the kingdom to be turned inside out in search of the Olden Blade. Nothing had come of it. When his search failed to produce any results, he had declared the dagger a myth, and asserted that his immortal status could never be challenged.
But there was a problem with Endrick's story. Simon was right about that much. If it was a myth, then why had Endrick himself made a search for it? As much as Simon worried that the Olden Blade's existence was false, I worried that it was real.
"Let's try to sleep," Simon finally suggested. "We only have a few hours before we ought to be on the road again."