Chapter
30

Lirra

I SPEND THE DAY PRACTICING FOR THE JUBILEE showcase and trying to make a list of possible oil makers. No names come to mind. That’s because my head is a mess. All I can think about is last night’s conversation. Aodren made logical sense. There is no future for us, not when I won’t go to Malam, and yet, I cannot stop the hurt flowing through my veins.

When the night settles over Malam, I decide to return to the castle.

It’s a brash decision, but I’m not satisfied with last night’s conversation. Aodren and I need to come to a better understanding. He may want to end this spark between us, but he can’t put an end to our deal. We’ve agreed to exchange information. I need to get to the root of the imposter Sanguine to prove to my father that he can rely on me. That he can trust me. That I can be an asset to him.

Once I’ve snuck inside the castle, I stop at Leif’s room. I’ll check on him to see how he’s dealing with the oil’s affects. But my door is on the knob when I hear his loud snore sawing through his room. He needs rest. I’ll visit him another time.

I leave and continue on to Aodren’s quarters. I slip in with silent steps. He’s hunched over his desk, head propped on his hand as he reads through a stack of letters. He glances up and pushes a chunk of golden hair off his face. His emerald gaze flickers with shock, before clearing into an unreadable mask. “You’re back.”

“I came to talk about the oil.”

He frowns. “Is there not a better time we could discuss Sanguine? It’s quite late, Lirra.”

I hate the precise way he says my name.

“Aodren, can I ask you something?”

His mouth is slightly open, as if he’s about to talk. But he closes his lips and nods.

“Did you . . . did you enjoy our time together?” I ask, the question tumbling out of me. I should be embarrassed by my inability to accept his rejection.

He blinks. “Yes.”

My throat clicks as I try to swallow over my dry tongue. “I—I did too. We have a week left.”

“Yes. But—”

“We don’t have to waste the week,” I say, hoping it comes across as bravery. Not desperation. But the aftertaste of last night’s hurt is chalky in my mouth.

Aodren stands and walks around the side of his desk. “What are you suggesting, Lirra?”

I take a deep breath. “I like spending time with you. And you said you like spending time with me. It’ll be easier to stay focused on the oil if . . .” My heart isn’t hurting. “If we work together. Why waste the time we have left when we can spend it enjoying each other’s company? We were working well as a team.”

Aodren’s brows dip together, and I notice a small scar slashed across the right one. “But what about when I must return to Malam?”

“It won’t be any different from parting ways now,” I say, though that is a lie. Every moment I spend with Aodren, deepens our connection. I don’t want to think about walking away from him seven days from now. But I’d rather do it in a week, than now.

Aodren eliminates the distance between us and takes my fingers in his hand. “If you’re sure. I could go for this plan you’re suggesting. In fact, it sounds like the best plan I’ve heard at the summit.” He smiles and I feel it down low in my stomach. “Perhaps I was too hasty last night.”

“Perhaps you were jealous,” I tease, changing the focus from serious to playful. If I keep things light with Aodren, I can avoid falling for him more than I already have.

“Jealous?” His shadow consumes me, and his finger guides a hair around the shell of my ear, drawing out my shiver. “Perhaps a little.”

“Only a little?”

He grins the most blindingly handsome grin, and I have to lock my knees against its power. My heart tries to bang a path out of my body.

Those green, green eyes darken, flickering through all the shades of the skyward trees. And I think, If only I could wander in this forest forever.

But we don’t have forever. I need to take charge of the time we have left, keeping things light and fun so when he returns to Malam, he won’t have made a complete hash of my foolish heart.

I move first, leaning in, tipping my chin, and rising on my toes. Aodren’s golden lashes flare as I stop just before my lips meet his. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond; he stares at my face, as if he might be memorizing it. But the lingering insecurity from our talk roots deeper, uncertainty and embarrassment tangling like untended weeds around my assertiveness. I start to edge away. His hand slides around my cheek, stopping me. He kisses me lightly, gently, forcing my mouth to surrender to his with agonizing slowness.

“I was a lot jealous,” he whispers some time later on a shared breath.

I cannot help but smile.

“You vex me, always. I’m jealous of anyone who gets time with you. I want all your free moments. I cannot stop thinking of you, wanting to talk with you, searching for you when we’re apart. We’ll have to make the most of our time together because this is madness, Lirra.”

Another fissure in my defenses. “Then we’ll lose our minds together.”

The words seem to unlock something inside him, chasing away his sweetness. Aodren’s fingers wind through my hair, scattering pins. He tugs me closer. His stubble-roughened chin scrapes my cheek, and a lash of frenetic energy, wild, charged, and free, snaps between us like lighting cracks across the sky.

I’m lost in him.

In all the time Aodren and I have spent together, I didn’t realize a gale was burgeoning. But the winds were brewing, churning, building into a terrible, overwhelming storm. And though I have the ability to control the wind, I realize, all too late, my walls are down and my heart would rather seek shelter in the safety of Aodren’s arms.

The next morning, in the early hour, a sliver of muted gray light sneaks past the castle curtains. Aodren and I spent the evening talking about the oil and the upcoming jubilee showcase. When we both started to yawn, Aodren asked me to stay. His request was sweet and full of concern for my safety, so I agreed. A rustling comes from the other side of the bed, where Aodren slept on the floor.

Groggily, I slip out of bed and quickly pull on yesterday’s dress over my chemise.

I hear a swift intake of air behind me. Aodren’s gaze remains on my back, where hidden under my layers a large section of warped skin wraps my left side—an old, thick, puckered scar from the fire that killed my mother. He must’ve saw it before my dress was in place.

“Lirra . . .” His voice is somber and filled with an ap-ology.

“It was a long time ago. I’m fine,” I say, but the emotion in his expression doesn’t fade.

“You’ve sacrificed a lot,” he says after a long, silent moment in which his attention to me doesn’t break. His narrowed focus makes my palms sweat. “You know, I see all that you do for your father and your friends. The weight of obligation you carry is similar to mine.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but I’m not that noble.”

“No?”

“Your obligations are to a kingdom.” I glance at the door and then turn back to face him. “Mine are to a few people. There is no comparison.”

“I disagree.” His mouth lifts into a sloppy and tired morning smile. “I think we have more in common than you think. We’re both willing to sacrifice ourselves for the people we care about.”

It’s a kind sentiment, but if it were true, I would put more consideration into helping him out at the jubilee. Instead, I shoot him a smile, make a plan to meet him tonight at the showcase, and then slip out the door.

It isn’t so easy to slip out of the castle. The halls are filled with servants making morning preparations. I manage to sneak into Leif’s room to check on him, but he’s sleeping like a hibernating bear. When I cannot wake him, I leave the castle and return home.

I spend the day preparing for this afternoon’s showcase, the first part of the Channeler Jubilee. When the afternoon rolls around, I pack two outfits—a carriage driver’s costume and my favorite dress, a pretty green and lace one for the showcase—and then go to see Orli. Tonight, before heading to the tournament field for the showcase, I must try to see Leif once more. There’s no way of knowing if Leif has consumed as much oil as Baltroit. But I need to be sure he will make it through this. It’s bold and daring to keep returning, but so far, the guards’ schedule has been consistent with Da’s notes. And this is a risk I must take because Leif was asleep the last two times I went by.

The showcase starts during daylight hours, and because it draws crowds even larger than the tournament events, there is a greater chance I could be seen walking away from the cathedral on the cliff. I want Orli to drive me away from the cathedral so no one knows I’ve been to visit Leif.

Only, when I get to her house and talk to her, Orli’s answer is an emphatic no.

“I understand,” I say. She’s been struggling with leaving her home since we saw Baltroit die.

She unbraids and rebraids her hair three times while we sit in her pristine white room. She’s fidgeting. I can see she wants to give me a reason, but I don’t need an excuse. I never want to push her more than she can handle.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for your jubilee performance. I feel like I’m letting you down, just like your da. I don’t want you to be alone for your big moment.”

I squeeze her hand to show that I understand why she can’t come and that I don’t blame her. “You’re not letting me down, and neither is Da.”

“I thought we didn’t lie to each other.”

“It’s silly to be hurt,” I argue. “I know he’s busy. I know he works hard.”

Her fingers abandon her hair. “But so do you. And what you’re doing is important too.”

“I know. And you don’t have to worry about me being alone. Aodren is meeting me before the showcase. Did I tell you he asked me to represent Malam in the jubilee?”

Her eyes widen. “What? Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“I misspoke. He didn’t ask, exactly. But Aunt Katallia can’t do it because she’s in the Guild, and he’s desperate to find someone else. He wants me to offer to help, but I cannot do that. That would mean taking on Malam’s name. After what they did to me . . . to you . . .” I lie back on her bed and stare at the white ceiling. If I squint, her room reminds me of a snowy winter in Malam. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Orli scoots off the bed and walks to the window. She pushes the curtain aside and peers out into the sunny morning. “Malam didn’t do anything to me.”

I almost miss what she’s saying. But she turns around and repeats her words.

“It was a handful of deranged people. Not Malam. Not Aodren. And the same goes for you and your mum.”

I roll to my side and prop my head on my hand. “What are you saying?”

“I was just thinking if that’s your excuse, maybe you should rethink it.”

My feet dangle as I maneuver off the bed. Frustration at her judgment kicks through me. “That’s easy for you to say. What things are you not doing because you’re stuck in the past?”

Orli’s eyes widen with hurt, and instantly I wish I could pull the words back in.

“You’re right,” she says, abandoning the window. At one time, she would’ve hit back with harder punches. She would’ve made me look at the truth. Because that’s what we used to do for each other. Always tell the truth. How is it we started skirting around the difficult issues? Why have we stopped asking hard questions? Is it because we’d have to answer them ourselves?

“Do you have your da’s letter still?” Orli asks out of the blue.

“I do.” It’s been in the bottom of my boot since it came. I never follow his orders to burn them.

“I could try to locate where he was when he wrote the letter.”

It’s impossible not to stand there and gape. She hasn’t used her Channeler magic since her return. She waited outside the showcase auditions because the number of Channelers there made her uneasy. Who is this girl, standing before me now?

“It takes too much energy,” I say, immediately searching for ways to protect her. I realize what I’m doing and press my lips together. Since when did I become her guardian?

To be fair, my argument is valid. It takes an overwhelming amount of magic to locate a letter’s origin. Also, it might not be that helpful because Da might have left the area. Still, it should be her decision, not mine.

“Seeing as I haven’t been using much energy, I have some to spare. Besides, I want to help with the oil. There’s no way to know where he is now, but the blood charm used on your letter is made from land magic. If there are any threads of energy left, I could locate where he was when he sent the letter. Maybe if you know where he was, it will help you find whoever is responsible for the oil.”

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. It takes an incredibly powerful Channeler to perform a blood charm, and we know that a powerful Channeler is responsible for the oil. Could it be that it’s the same person? Da always fulfills his side of a bargain, but what if he stopped looking into Sanguine because he didn’t want to implicate a friend?

And even if it’s not the same person, I haven’t seen Orli this determined in months. She’s finally willing to use her magic again. I don’t want to stand in the way of that. I dig the letter out of my boot and hand it over.

When she apologizes again for not coming tonight, I nudge her shoulder. “You’re already doing something to help me. I’m proud of you for taking this step. Don’t worry about anything else. I like being a carriage driver.”

“Then why’d you bring the dress?” She points at the green material poking out of my bag.

I shrug, and then blush. The truth is I’d hoped Aodren would see me in it, but all I tell her is, “In case a change was needed.”

Orli snorts. “Sure. Tell your king hullo from me.”

Your king. I like the sound of that too much.

I go to the cathedral on the cliff early, armed with ale, sweet cakes, and Beannach water. If Leif is suffering as Baz did, he’ll need some distractions to take his mind off the Sanguine.

Sneaking into the castle at this hour is much more dangerous than early in the morning or late at night. The number of times I’m forced to slip behind a curtain or duck around a statue is twice that of other times I’ve roamed these halls.

When I reach Leif’s room, however, it’s obvious any risk taken to get here was worth it. He’s a sweating, fidgety mess. Leif paces from one end of the room to the other. He doesn’t even notice I’m here until he’s walked past me a half dozen times. And then he startles and curses.

“Shhhh,” I hiss, mindful of the guards who walk the castle corridors. It was difficult enough to maneuver around them. Drawing their attention now wouldn’t be good.

I cross to the table and pull the items out of my satchel. “I don’t know if these will help, but they might.”

He holds up the ale and snorts. “Should I change one problem for another?”

I know he’s never been much of an ale drinker, and I can see now ale isn’t the best thing. “Don’t be rude. I was only trying to help.”

He rubs a hand over his ruddy cheeks and then flings away some sweat. “Thanks,” he mutters, and paces away. “I wish I never had any of that damn oil.”

“The first bottle saved your life.”

Leif spins around and smacks the post of his bed. “I meant the bludgering fake stuff.”

I don’t respond. He’s more volatile than the last time we spoke. It’s clear by his bare feet and rolled trouser legs, he’s staying in for the night. A good decision, all things considered.

“Why do you look like a scrawny boy?” he asks. His nostrils flare, and for a moment I think he’s going to spout off something meaner, but he reins in the anger and takes a steadying breath. It’s the oil talking.

“It made sneaking in easier.” I shrug.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for acting like a massive scrant.”

“It’ll pass. Usually you’re only a small one.”

Leif smiles. It’s warm and kind, a break in the storm clouds. Even if he is relaxed only for a minute, I’m grateful to have him back. The glimpse of the true Leif saddens me, though, because it proves how damaging the oil can be in such a short amount of time. “Good luck today, Lirra.”

After saying goodbye, I take the servants’ walk to sneak down to the lower floors, but I only make it one level before footsteps and clanks clatter ahead. The aromas of roasted duck and freshly baked bread hit my nose, and I know it must be servers approaching with a meal.

There’s nowhere to hide. I go back up the steps and dart out of the passage into the grand hall, where I hide behind a pillar. But there are guards nearby, so when the servants pour out of the passage, I use their distraction to rush around the pillared rim of the room and lunge for the nearest open door.

Blue and gold flags, Shaerdan’s colors, hang from the ceiling and drape the sides of the corridor. If the servants’ entrance is in the same location as in Akaria’s quarters, I know how to find my way out.

“Where are you going?”

My stomach leaps into my throat, and I slowly turn around to face whoever has discovered me.

No one is there. I spin around to check the empty hall and tiptoe forward a fraction of a step, testing to see if someone is watching me. No one? I huff out a soundless chuckle. I walk another couple of steps and see a door cracked open a sliver. The person who asked the question is in that room. I must’ve overheard part of a conversation.

Male voices rumble from the door. One sounds like Judge Soma. I turn and scurry away, but I pause. Judge Soma has secrets. I can tell by the way he watches others. This conversation might have some information I could use later. Da always said I should make the most of every listening situation.

I wedge behind the nearest draperies. That is when a man’s voice—one I don’t recognize—growls, “Sanguine’s not gonna help with added skill.”

I draw in a silent breath. Sanguine.

A third man’s response sounds irritated. “Sod off, Folger.”

Folger Falk, Otto Ellar, and Judge Soma?

A chair scrapes the floor and then the judge says, “Then don’t take it for yourself. Give it to the Kolontians.”

A man chuckles. “Eliminated Baltroit easy enough.”

I swallow a gasp.

“I didn’t know . . . It shouldn’t have happened,” a response comes, quieter than the others, stitched with remorse. Maybe Otto?

I need to flee this area and be gone long before they have a chance of finding me, but the need to know what’s going on grounds me in place.

“He was a fool. How many bottles did he swallow?” This comes from Soma.

“Eight. Must’ve drank them all in one day. He was spun. I coulda told Baltroit that Judge Auberdeen had his sister the night before, and he would’ve attacked the chief judge.”

Baltroit was set up on purpose. They meant for him to start a fight so he’d be eliminated. Otto might not have thought it would end in Baltroit’s death, but what of the others? Did Folger and Soma mean for him to die? My chest somehow feels too tight and at the same time hollow, and my heart is banging so loudly.

“Keep it quiet, men,” Soma says. A chair scrapes again, and the door hinges creak. I flatten myself against the stones. “Nothing comes back to me, understand? I don’t want anyone knowing I’m feeding you oil.”

They agree, their voices moving closer to my location, until footsteps clatter on the hall floor. They’re leaving. I shrink even farther into the wall, not daring to breathe until the air shifts from the corridor’s door swishing open and closed, and no more footsteps can be heard.

The roar of blood rushing through my veins is dizzying. I wait another minute or two, until I’m certain they’ve left.

This is proof Soma is the supplier. It makes sense. Prudence said one of the men was tall, and Soma certainly is that. He has a history in trading. And his position in the kingdom would make this dangerous enough for Da to not want to be involved. I have to tell Aodren. Once he knows, we can go together to the chief judge and stop the imposter Sanguine from ruining any more lives.

I dart into the empty hall and rush toward the servants’ passage. My arm catches on something. I trip backwards, cap tumbling off my head, and slam into someone’s body. It’s Judge Soma. He has an iron hold on me. I yank away, trying to free my arm, and his fingers tighten, his grip bruising.

“Lirra Barrett, you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Let me go.” I thrash to free myself. He twists my arm behind my back until pain screeches through my shoulder and I stop.

“You shouldn’t listen to private conversations.” It’s a deadly low whisper that sends a blast of alarm through me with hurricane force. “Guards!”

A sheen of nervous sweat dampens my tunic, as the guards drag me down to the holding chamber. I can barely breathe. I cannot go in the cell again. The darkness ahead reaches for me. It clogs my throat. We march closer, but the guards don’t stop. We don’t stop at the holding chamber. Why aren’t we stopping? They’re not going to free me.

Anxiety scuttles down my spine. Whispers across my neck.

“Where are you taking me?”

They don’t bother to answer. Instead they open a door, wherein their lantern light falls on a half dozen torture devices. I start to kick and yank away, but their grip is too strong. I twist my hands, drawing on my Channeler magic. We’re not ever supposed to use it to harm, but right now it’s a necessity to protect myself. I conjure a wind, pulling it to me, and forcing the men to struggle against the gust. I jerk out of the guard’s grip.

“Stop her,” he shouts.

I change tactics, not wanting them to alert any other guards, and I call the air from the man, creating a vacuum so he struggles to breathe. His eyes widen, and he tries without success to suck in air. I won’t do this too much longer. Just until he passes out.

A hand slams my face. My head whips to the side, and I stumble, pain bursting across my cheek.

“You scrant,” the second guard curses.

Splotches blink across my vision. I clutch my face and groan.

“We’re going to let you rot down there.” His spittle wets my cheek. “You used your magic to hurt a man. That’s against the law.”

He drags me past the tables to a small door at the rear of the room. The guard I pulled the air away from pulls the door open, and light from his lantern spills into the space beyond.

He curses at me. “Get down there.”

It’s a narrow room; at least, from what I can see of the rounded walls, it doesn’t seem as if it’s more than a body’s length in diameter. But it’s deep. So deep I cannot see the floor. It could be three stories deep, or ten.

The guard chuckles darkly behind me, the sound echoing down into the hellish hole.

This is an oubliette.

This is the room in the castle, where criminals are left to rot. Every child in Shaerdan has been scared into finishing their chores by threat of the oubliette.

My legs lock up. I twist and try to jerk away while focusing my energy into my palms. But the guard smacks me again, and my lip splits. The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue.

The men shove me so that I stumble forward, falling halfway over the edge. I cry out. I scramble to grasp the rope ladder, and my heart turns frantic and tries to punch free. The guards laugh. One tells me to climb down before he loses patience and tosses me to the bottom.

Bastard.

The ladder twists and sways with my descent. The anticipation of being locked in here has me breathing like I’ve scaled a mountain. It saps my energy, making it feel like I’ve gone a league before I reach the bottom of the oubliette. I try to convince myself it’s nothing to fear.

The moment the ladder is out of my hands, the guards tug it upward, leaving me no way to climb out. Then they slam the door.

I shudder and stare at the residual lantern glow peeking around the door’s edges. A hand squeezes my lungs, and icy fingers walk across my neck.

I breathe in and out and in and out, keeping the rhythm the same until I’m calm. Calmer than the time I fell into the neighbor’s dry well. In hindsight, the well wasn’t frightening. I made it out alive. I tell myself that this oubliette is just like the well, so there’s nothing to be panicked about. Nothing at all.

The light snuffs out.

An exhale rattles out of me. I suck in, but the air is too thin. It doesn’t fill my lungs. I try again: in and out, in and out. Why is there not enough air?

I’m not afraid. I was fine in the dry well. I’m fine here. Finer than if they’d hanged me. There’s space to sit. Space to curl up and sleep. There’s air to breath, I just need to slow down. I’m fine, really I am.

I sit down and pull my knees to my chest. My foot hits a stick. Were prisoners of old allowed to build fires? Any fire in as tight a space as the oubliette would have to be really small. My fingers grope around and find something hard and round and made with holes and teeth and—ohgodsohgodsohgods. The skull falls from my hands and clatters against other sticks. Sticks that are actually bones.

I prop my head on my legs and fight for a semblance of calm. Focus. Panic isn’t going to help me escape the hell out of this hole.