What she might say about the many secrets she knows, the biggest one being what I am.
Elisaf picks up on the unspoken meaning and turns to face the warriors. “You two will wait out here.”
Jarek snorts. “You don’t order us around, guard. I am second-in-command to the King’s Legion, and I outrank you. I go where she goes.” He jerks his head toward me.
Elisaf huffs. Everything these Islorians do involves a pecking order. I guess being the king’s friend doesn’t elevate him high enough.
Unfortunately for Jarek, I can play this game too. I meet his hard gaze and say with a saccharine voice, “And I am pretty sure I outrank you, warrior. You two will stay out here.”
His molars grind. I’m right, and we both know it.
Behind him, Zorya smiles. I can’t tell if she’s impressed by my mettle or imagining how she might like to kill me when all is said and done.
Another beat passes and then Jarek pivots on his heels and takes up position, his broad back against the wall. “As you command.” He leaves off YourHighness for Sheyda’s benefit, or maybe because he can’t stomach the words.
Gesine releases a shaky breath and whispers a soft “thank you” to me as the false priestess raps her knuckles against the door.
Silence answers.
“As I said, she has been sleeping a lot, especially with the calming tonics we’ve been giving her.”
They’ve been sedating her.
After another moment’s pause, Sheyda pushes open the door. A loud, eerie creak carries as she steps back to allow us through. Inside is a narrow, windowless room with stone walls. In the corner by the door, a wooden desk holds a single lantern and a vase with freshly picked wildflowers. The tray of food someone left has been upturned, the sliced apples and berries scattered, thick stew splattered over the wall as if the bowl had been thrown.
“Who’s there?” a thin voice calls out, pulling my attention to the far end, to the small pallet bed and the frail old woman with chalk-white hair seated upon it, the gold collar hanging off her skeletal neck. A cloudy gaze roams the space, not focused on anything. “Is that you?”
The simple question tugs at my memory. My father asked the very same thing the last time I saw him, on the streets of New York, squinting against the drizzle in search of his daughter’s face.
A sob wretches from Gesine, her face morphed with shock as she takes in her friend. The change between when she saw her last and now must be drastic. But she gives her head a shake and wipes her tears with quick strokes, gathering her composure. “It is me, dear Ianca.” She moves in to sit next to the old woman. They appear generations apart.
“My eyes, they are lost to me.” Ianca’s voice is sad.
Gesine collects Ianca’s shaky hands in hers. “I will be your eyes for you.”
There’s not much to see in here. It’s barely more than a furnished cell. My cage in the tower overlooking the execution square was bigger and brighter.
“And my mind. It comes and it goes, and it spins in circles, and it …” The end of the sentence ends in a garble I don’t catch.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Sheyda stands in the open doorway, watching curiously.
“No, thank you, priestess.” Elisaf shuts the door, pulling it tight.
“A man … a man … there was a man on a horse …” Ianca frowns as if trying to pull memories. “Do I hear this man now?”
I can already see similarities between my father and Ianca—both elemental casters whose minds have fractured, as Sofie called it. The muttering, the repetition, the air of confusion that swirls around them. And yet there are stark differences. My father “broke” a decade ago. This woman, only a few weeks ago, and yet her body seems to be failing far more quickly.
“You are thinking about Ocher, the kind gentleman who brought you here. The man you hear now is named Elisaf. He is King Zander’s guard, and he is going to help me get you out of Bellcross.” Gesine strokes a wispy strand of hair off Ianca’s face with a tender touch. “We will not be separated again. Where I go, you go.”
“We will spend my last days in Mordain?” There’s no missing the hopefulness in Ianca’s voice.
Gesine’s composure cracks, her expression buckling with sorrow before she smooths it again. “We cannot go back, remember?”
“Yes, yes, yes. My mistakes, my mistakes.” Ianca hangs her head. “I can feel her in the room. So very powerful.”
Gesine’s eyes flicker to me. “That’s right. Princess Romeria is right here.”
“The princess who is not the princess. One left and another one came. She is not the same.”