“ZAY?” WIL WHISPERED INTO THE blackness.
It had been more than an hour, Wil was certain. It felt like an eternity. Maybe it was even morning outside.
Already she had paced the length of their tiny cell a dozen times, fumbling for something amid the iron bars and rock walls to manipulate for an escape. But there was nothing. Wil felt each bar and could not even find the lock.
Zay’s raspy, erratic breaths gave away her location in the tiny space. Wil knelt beside her, tentatively reaching a gloved hand and finding her ankle. In the darkness, Wil had managed to tear away her sleeve and fashion it into a bandage to staunch the bleeding. It seemed to have worked. But she could do nothing for whatever poison had coated the blade.
“Zay,” she said again, pleading. “You have to wake up.”
Silence, followed by a low groan. Zay murmured something that sounded like “Ada.” And then she said it again, gasping. “Ada? They’ve taken him.”
“No,” Wil said. “Ada is fine. But we haven’t been so fortunate.” She could tell by Zay’s stupor that Zay had been subject to a hallucinatory sleep serum, much like the one Wil had experienced on the ship. And it had homed in on Zay’s one real fear.
“I think we’re in the palace dungeon,” Wil said. “Is that possible? Is there a dungeon?”
“There are several.” Zay’s breathing was labored, and she sucked air through her teeth as she moved her wounded leg. “How long was I out?”
“I’m not sure,” Wil said. She wished she had even a fraction of Gerdie’s genius. He would have found some way to keep track of the minutes. Timed the drips of condensation and crafted them into seconds—something. But all Wil could decipher was the distance between the rock walls and the iron bars.
Zay murmured something about ships and drowning, and then she went silent and still again.
“No.” Wil shoved Zay’s shoulder with her gloved hand. “Stay with me.”
Nothing.
Wil paced the length of the cell again. Twenty iron bars. Three stone walls. A cell approximately wide enough for two people of her height to lie flat. All she could do was count. Numbers and little lengths and breaths that all added up to nothing.
She sat in the dirt again. No sense exhausting herself trying to find a way out.
She tried to be like the wind, to be everywhere, observe everything. But even the wind would never find her here.
“Torture.” Her father’s voice came back into her head, and just like that she was back in her memory of standing before him in the throne room. She was dressed like a princess, her hair pinned and neat, her spine straight.
“They’ll weaken you so that you’ll be easier to manipulate.”
She had paid such close attention. She had imagined herself hanging upside down. Drowning. Having her nails plucked from their beds. She imagined fire, blood, shouting.
But she hadn’t imagined silence and blackness, and now it all made sense. Princess Espel threw her down here to weaken her resolve. She would be back; it was only a matter of time.
Wil closed her eyes. She thought of the oval garden in the summer. She thought of how it buzzed, and how the trees were lungs that sighed as she ran through the paths they lined. She conjured up each map in Owen’s atlas and sorted all the countries and kingdoms alphabetically, and then in the order of their founding. She whispered their capital cities aloud.
She thought of Loom. Or rather, he came to her head uninvited, the way he always seemed to. He would know by now that something had gone wrong.
She felt that odd pain in her core again. Something churning.
“Southern Arrod,” she whispered. “Northern Arrod. Brayshire. Cannolay—”
There was a sound somewhere far to the left of her cell. And then a flickering orange glow as the torch was brought closer.
Wil sat up. She could just make out Zay’s limp form now; her lips twitched, trying to form words as she dreamed; her face was coated in sweat.
Footsteps were approaching as the light drew nearer. Wil worked to keep her face neutral and her breathing calm.
Princess Espel stood over her, on the other side of the iron bars. Her chin was canted, and she held something behind her back with both hands. All her daggers and vials jangled like bracelets and beads.
The girl in the silver robe stood behind her, glowering, torch in hand. The silver ink in Espel’s tattoos caught the light, like fragments of a secret language being decoded one letter at a time.
She regarded Wil with a gaze that was curious and cold. Then she tossed the thing she had been holding. It slipped between the iron bars and landed at Wil’s feet.
It was the ruby heart of the guard Wil had killed, all its arteries and veins etched into its surface, the edges jagged from where they’d been broken apart from the rest of him.
“What are you?” Espel said at last.
Wil didn’t reply. If she was to survive this situation, she needed to be whatever her captor needed her to be, and she wasn’t yet sure what that was.
“The Traitor sent you to destroy me,” Espel said.
“He doesn’t send me anywhere,” Wil said. “Your brother may have a lot of ideas for how this kingdom could be saved, but he’s an abysmal planner.”
Espel’s lips raised into something not quite a smile. “Boys,” she mused. “Do you have any experience with brothers?”
“Yes,” Wil said. “Quite a lot.” She kept her voice and her face neutral, but she began to hope that she was making progress with this elusive princess who stood to inherit her dying kingdom, and who was kept so well hidden that she was more legend than girl. Stripped of her guards, and with nothing but stone and torchlight behind her, she was still just a child.
“And your brother,” Espel went on. “Is he greedy like the Traitor? Would he try to behead a king in that king’s bed to claim the throne?”
“Yes,” Wil said, because that was just the sort of thing Baren would do.
“And what does your brother make of this?” Espel nodded to the ruby heart, which cast red shadows on the wall of Wil’s cell, like the blood of her unwitting victims.
Baren was unaware of Wil’s power. But even so, she knew that if he had seen for himself what she was capable of, his opinion of her would be the same as it had always been. “He says that I’m a curse who was never meant to be born.”
“Your Highness,” the girl in the silver robe began. “I do not think you should speak so freely with the prisoner—”
“I did not ask for your council, Masalee,” Espel snapped. “You are here to hold my torch, and that is all. If you cannot be silent, a sconce can replace you.”
The girl in the silver robe broke the distance between them in one fluid stride. “As your high guard, I cannot leave your vicinity, under the orders of the king.” There was an edge to the words.
Espel’s eyes were focused dead ahead. “I see. You fear my father more than you do me.”
“There’s no fear, Your Highness. There is only my duty to ensure the safety of my future queen.” Her eyes flashed to Wil.
Espel drew a long breath through her nose. “Your insubordination will be dealt with later. Once again.”
Masalee’s expression was unreadable, and she took a step back.
Compared to Loom’s description, Espel’s composure was a surprise. Baren had been the terror of Wil’s own castle, but his demands from the servants could be heard echoing down the halls.
Espel looked at Zay, and her expression turned to one of annoyance. “I suppose you should do something,” she told Masalee. “I want her fit to stand by morning.”
Masalee set the torch in a sconce and moved forward. She looked at Wil, and her jaw clenched.
She rested her palm to one of the bars, and under her touch the iron burned orange. The outline of hinges appeared briefly, and Masalee was able to open the bars like a door.
A marveler. Wil had heard only rumors of what marvelry could do; it was a skill that had originated in the East and slowly made its way around the world. But marvelers were a secretive lot. She had probably met dozens of them in the Port Capital and never known it.
If Gerdie were here, she’d shove him and grin like a fool. See that? I told you so. She could see his astonishment. She could see his sage eyes trying to draw logic from the absence of logic.
The thought disappeared as the bars slammed shut again.
Wil watched as Masalee knelt beside Zay, her robe gathering around her like a pond made of moonlight. She gracefully undid the binding on Zay’s ankle as though she were peeling away the ribbon on a package. The skin was angry and swollen where the knife had entered it, and the old wound on Wil’s own calf throbbed at the sight of it.
Wil tried to hide her fascination as she watched. Masalee rested her hands over the wound and blood stained her fingers. There was no flourish to it. No fanfare. She had the placid concentration of a doctor suturing a wound and who had done it a thousand times before. The shredded flesh reached for itself, like teeth in a mouth slowly closing.
Then the wound was gone, leaving crusted blood in the shape of it.
Zay’s brow furrowed in her sleep. Something troubling was happening in that head of hers, but at least the red from her fever seemed to be fading.
“Come,” Espel said, reaching for Wil’s gloved hand. “I take it these are meant to contain your power.”
Instinctively Wil’s hand rose to meet hers, this strange and fierce girl who was just barely her height. Espel called Wil’s ability a power, but she had a power of her own, a pull that commanded compliance.
Wil stood to approach her.
At once Espel seemed less menacing. Though something dangerous lurked ever in her eyes, she regarded Wil like a curiosity. She ran her fingertips up and down the length of the steel glove, marveling. “You’re from the North and you’ve wandered into enemy territory unprotected,” Espel said. “You’re quite brave, aren’t you? Even if it was a stupid thing to do.” She raised her eyes from the gloves to Wil. “Why?”
“To help in the aftermath of the attack.” Wil decided honesty was her only defense.
Espel’s fingertips returned to the steel glove’s palm. It was a strange dance, two girls from warring nations, stripped of their pretenses, trying to measure the threat before them.
Wil could still feel Loom’s absence, but it was not so menacing now. It was a dull pain in her stomach, where smooth skin had grown over her wound and created a pale scar. She felt tethered between the estranged siblings, as though they were each pulling her in different directions and refusing to let go.
“I apologize for the band of brutes that greeted you when you arrived,” Espel said, still holding Wil’s steel hand as they walked. “My father insists I take them with me at night. Rather useless if you ask me, the lot of them.”
Striding alongside Espel, Wil’s heart thudded so clumsily and with such force she was certain the princess could hear it.
“What should I do with her, Your Highness?” Masalee’s interruption seemed pointed.
Espel sighed through her nose, considering the options as though contemplating an assortment of pastries. “The nightlace from the blade should put her out until morning. I’ll deal with her then.” Espel turned back to Wil, her eyes gleaming. “Have you ever seen a palace before? You probably haven’t. The royals in Northern Arrod are quite stingy; they’ve got that high wall so that nobody can see their castle. But, even if you had, you’ve never seen one like this.”
Espel squeezed her hand before letting go. “It’s the greatest palace in the world,” she said. “It’s indestructible. Marvelers from all over the world have blessed it.”
“Your Highness.” Masalee stood, and her head moved just slightly in Wil’s direction and then back. A question.
“Masalee. Show our guest to the opal chamber,” Espel said, at once bored and toneless. “Be sure no one sees you. Use the channels.” Only Wil caught the way Masalee’s eyes darkened with—something. Disappointment?
No.
In the fleeting light of the torch, it looked very much like longing.