“She’ll never agree,” Lucent says to Raffaele as they and Michel look over the Tamouran ship at port, still bustling with sailors loading cargo. “And even if she does—how will we travel with the White Wolf? I can hardly stand being around her. Can you?”
“It’s a shame I ever taught her how to focus her illusions,” Michel says. “You heard what happened in Violetta’s chamber. She attacked the soldiers and all but tried to kill you.” He nods at Raffaele. “You said yourself that she is beyond help. What makes you think a voyage with her will work?”
“I don’t,” Raffaele concedes. “But we need her. None of us link with fury, and we will not be able to enter the immortal world without each of the gods’ alignments—not if the legends are at all true.”
“This could just be a waste of time,” Lucent says. “You’re placing your bets on a theory of something that, according to myth, happened hundreds of years ago.”
“Your life depends on this, Lucent,” Raffaele replies. “As much as any of ours. It is all we can do, and we have very little time to do it.”
Michel sighs. “Then it depends on whether or not Adelina thinks her life depends on this too.”
Raffaele shakes his head. “If Adelina refuses, we will have to force her hand. But that is a dangerous game to play.”
Lucent looks ready to reply—but in that instant, a young guard hurries up to them. Clutched in his hand is a parchment, freshly arrived. “Messenger,” he says, bobbing his head once at Raffaele before handing him the paper. “A new dove. This is from Beldain, from the queen.”
Queen Maeve. Raffaele exchanges a look with Lucent and Michel, then unfurls the message. Lucent falls silent, and her eyes widen as she peers at the paper with the others.
Raffaele reads the message. Then he reads it again. His hands tremble. When Lucent says something to him, he doesn’t hear it—instead, it sounds like a muffled, underwater sound, coming from somewhere far away. All he can hear are the words written on the parchment, as clearly as if Maeve were standing with them and telling him herself.
My brother Tristan is dead.
Raffaele looks back toward the palace. A jolt of fear rushes through him. No.
“Enzo,” he whispers.
And before the others can call him back, he turns toward the palace and runs.
Lost life by stab wound in sacrificing self for the sake of his child.
May he rest in the arms of Moritas,
adrift in the Underworld’s eternal peace.
—Epitaph on gravestone of Tau Sekibo
Adelina Amouteru
I am alone in my dungeon cell. Illusions are useless if I have no one to affect but myself, and so I do nothing but curl up on the ground while soldiers stand on the other side of the wall, beyond my iron door. Out of my reach.
Unlike the dungeons of Estenzia, my cell is suspended high above the city in a maze of spiraling towers that funnel wind through their passages like maelstroms. A lone window sits high above me. Through it, weak slants of moonlight illuminate parts of the floor where I’m now huddled. I stay very still. The wind outside howls, taking on the tone of the whispers in my head. I try to rock myself to sleep. It has been far too many days since I last took my herbs to calm the whispers, so I can feel the madness creeping forward again, threatening to wrestle control from me.
I wish desperately that Magiano were with me.
Something creaks. My prison door. I raise my head to stare at it. The guards, they must be delivering my supper early. A sharp pain tugs on my chest. I frown as the door slowly opens—and then realize, somehow, at the last moment, that on the other side of the door are not the guards at all. It is Teren and his Inquisitors.
Impossible. He is my prisoner, trapped in Estenzia’s dungeons.
My heart leaps into my throat. I scramble to my feet, stumble forward and attempt to close the door. But no matter how hard I throw myself against it, Teren edges in bit by bit, until I can see his mad eyes and blood-soaked wrists. When I look away and back at the interior of my dungeon cell, I see my sister’s body lying in one corner, her face pale in death, lips drained of color, eyes staring vacantly at me.
I jerk awake. Outside, the wind is howling. I tremble against the stones of my prison floor—until I hear my door creak open again. Again, I rush toward it in an attempt to keep the Inquisitors out. Again, they push back. Again, I look away to see Violetta dead on the floor, eyes pointed at me. I jerk awake.
The nightmare repeats itself over and over.
Finally, I wake with a terrible gasp. The wind is still howling outside my prison door, but I can feel the cold floor beneath me with a solidity that tells me I must be awake. Even so, I can’t be sure. I sit upright, trembling, as I look around my cell. I am in Tamoura, I remind myself. Violetta is not in here with me. Teren is in Estenzia. My breath fogs in the moonlit air.
After a while, I gather my knees up to my chin and try to stop shivering. In the corner of my vision, ghosts of clawed, hooved figures move in the shadows. I look out at the night sky through the barred window and try to picture my ships waiting for me out at sea.
Just agree to Raffaele’s request. Agree to help the Daggers.
Indignation rises in my chest at the mere thought of caving to Raffaele’s demands. But if I don’t, I will stay helpless in this cell, waiting for Sergio to lead my army to storm the palace. If I simply say I will help them, they will have to agree to a truce and let me free. They’ll free Magiano. The thought turns round and round in my head, gaining momentum.
Raffaele has betrayed you many times in the past. Why not use this as a chance to betray him? Agree. Just agree. Then you can strike them when they least expect it.