Chapter 4
Cyra
The cold nipped at my skin as Bressen and I stepped through the portal before the looming edifice of Revenmyer the next day. I’d only ever seen the prison in a vision I’d stolen from Magdalene’s mind, but that vision was nothing compared to the real thing.
The fortress sat at the end of a jetty as the ocean roared at its back, the surf crashing against the stone so that water sprayed into the air, keeping the lower half of the building wet. The entire structure was made of gleaming black obsidian that rose high into the perpetually dark sky.
According to Bressen, the sun rarely shone at Revenmyer. On good days, the sky was a dismal gray canvas as far as the eye could see. On bad days, like today, it rippled with stormy black clouds that flashed with jagged fractures of lightning.
On the worst days, though, when the clouds broke and the sun burst through to reflect off the shining surface of the obsidian, that’s when the prisoners cowered the most. Those unfortunate enough to have windows shrank into the corners of their rooms away from the sunlight beaming across their floors.
The light blinded them, their eyes so used to the darkness they’d nearly forgotten what color looked like, and any skin exposed to the sun would burn within minutes.
Even those in cells deep within the prison where there were no windows seemed to sense when the sun was out because they were restless and agitated on those days. It was as if they could feel the light through the walls and were reminded that life existed outside of Revenmyer.
Or so Bressen had explained to me earlier in one last futile attempt to convince me to stay behind. It only made me more determined to come.
I wrapped my cloak tighter around me as the wind whipped the hem of it at my ankles, and I took in the fa?ade that in any other place might be considered beautiful.
Its black stone walls were intricately carved and rose into arches and spires, the likes of which didn’t even adorn the most opulent palace or temple in Callanus.
Before I’d seen a vision of the place, I’d expected it to be rough and drab with little ornamentation, but it was the exact opposite.
The building drew you in despite itself, as if it were a lovely carnivorous flower that lured its prey only to close around it before the victim could realize it was in danger.
I shuddered and Bressen drew his arms around me.
“It’s not too late,” he said. “You can go back.”
I noticed he didn’t say we could go back. Now that I’d planted the idea in his head, he was determined to see Glenora. I’d be damned if I let him talk to her without me, though.
I stepped away from him, and he let me go with a beleaguered sigh as I started toward the prison.
“Cyra, stop,” he said before I’d gone more than a step or two.
“You’re not going to talk me out of this,” I told him.
“I’m not trying to,” he said, “but you can’t go any further until I open the wards. You’ll be thrown back if you touch them.”
“I can raise and lower wards,” I reminded him, turning around.
“You can raise and lower your own wards,” he corrected. “The wards around Revenmyer can only be controlled by me and my seneschals.”
“And Magdalene.”
His eyes flared as he remembered Magdalene had used her control over the wards to help Sandrian escape. “Fuck,” he said, running a hand through hair the same color as the prison. “I forgot about that. She can get in anytime she wants.”
“Can’t you have someone else replace the wards?”
Bressen shook his head. “According to the prison’s history, the wards were put in place by the Protector.
Magdalene said they were put in place by one of her predecessors, so I assume that means they were put up by a Hand of the Protector.
If we’re correct that Praya is a Hand of the Creator, then-”
“Then Magdalene is a Hand of the Protector, and that’s why she can get through the wards,” I finished for him.
He nodded.
“Maybe any Hand of the Gods can get through the wards,” I said.
Bressen canted his head to indicate it was a fair point.
“Let me try,” I suggested.
He paused, and I knew his gut reaction was to refuse me, but we had little choice. Magdalene could get through the wards, so if there was any chance I could take down the current ones and put up ones of my own, we had to take it.
“Wait there,” he said.
He stepped forward and reached out to feel for the wards. A second later his hand touched something and the air became cloudy.
“Here’s the edge,” he said. “See if you can touch them. Go slowly.”
He stepped back, and I moved forward to take his place. I reached up hesitantly, remembering what he’d said about how the wards would react to someone not authorized to go through them.
I felt their presence as my hand got closer, like there was some kind of static electricity in the air that made my hair stand on end. My fingertips tingled, and I saw the space in front of me go opaque as it had for Bressen.
For one exciting moment I thought it had worked. Then I was thrown back violently by a jolt that reminded me of Sandrian’s lightning.
I cried out as the wards repelled me, but Bressen’s strong arms caught me before I hit the ground, and he tipped me back up onto my feet. My legs were like jelly, and I clung to him as I tried to get them to hold my weight again.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I…I’m just a little shaky.”
“I guess that answers our question,” Bressen said. “I’ll have to ask Phaedrus if he has any ideas about how to replace the wards.”
I eased my hold on Bressen and tested my footing to see if my legs would hold. He let go of me reluctantly, and I stepped away from him.
“Do you need a minute?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
He hesitated, then stepped up to the wards and touched a hand to them. This time an arched doorway opened, its edges rippling.
My body balked instinctively at stepping closer again, but I forced myself to move as I hurried through the doorway. Bressen stepped through after me and closed the passage behind him.
Before us lay a long, narrow stone walkway where ocean water churned on either side.
I walked behind Bressen as he led the way up to the prison, and I used my elemental magic to quiet the water so it stayed away from the path.
Rocks near the building broke most of the waves before they got this far, but water still rushed into the small bay from an inlet behind the prison, and the water eddied restlessly once inside, lapping up over the path in places.
I held it at bay until we’d crossed the walkway and ascended the stairs to the entrance.
“I usually have to fly over the path to avoid getting my shoes wet,” Bressen remarked as we climbed the stairs.
We crested the top and saw someone waiting for us at the iron gates of the prison. I stopped walking for a second, and words failed me as I took in the figure standing there.
It was a tall woman with wispy white hair that flew away in all directions, and she wore robes of bright fuchsia that stood out starkly against the dark backdrop of the prison.
She was older than any other perimortal I’d met thus far, or at least I assumed she was perimortal.
She was slight of frame, and her face was well-wrinkled with age, but she stood straight as she waited for us to approach.
“My lord,” the woman said as we stopped in front of her. “Good to see you as usual. I hope you’re well.”
Her heavy eye makeup made her golden pupils nearly shine like my own silver ones, and up close now I saw her robes had ornate beadwork on them.
“I am,” Bressen said. “Hettie, this is my wife, Lady Cyra of Hiraeth. Cyra, this is Hetsibar, my second in command. She prefers Hettie.”
I opened my mouth to greet the woman, but the words stopped in my throat as Hettie swept into a deep, almost comically exaggerated bow. I looked at Bressen in alarm, but his face showed only amusement.
“My lady, it’s an honor to meet you,” Hettie said as she rose and met my eyes. “Please, come in and make yourself at home.”
She turned without another word and strode into the prison, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.
Hettie is a little…eccentric, Bressen said into my mind as we followed.
Some advanced warning would’ve been nice, I told him.
And miss seeing the look on your face when you met her? Not a chance. I’ll warn you that she’s a mind wraith, though, he said, so keep your shield up around her.
“The two of you shouldn’t think so loud,” Hettie said over her shoulder. “You’ll wake the demoni.”
My head snapped to Bressen, and I saw he was frowning.
Is she reading our minds? I asked him incredulously.
No, she’s just guessing, he answered. I think.
We followed Hettie through the front doors and into a small antechamber. It was lit from above by a wrought iron chandelier, but the flames from the candles struggled to light the space as the obsidian walls drank in their glow.
In front of us, a large iron gate barred the way to a spacious atrium lit by more chandeliers as well as lanterns along the walls.
Above the gate hung a sign with some kind of ornate, scrolling characters that reminded me of the lettering in the ancient book Phaedrus was translating, and I shuddered as I wondered what dire warning or promise the sign contained.
I imagined it foretold the horrors that lay ahead or urged prisoners to abandon any hope of leaving.
Grief hit me as I wondered what my father had thought when he’d first seen the sign upon entering the prison.
Aramis had been a special case, one of the few prisoners to leave Revenmyer alive, and the only one Bressen ever knew of to leave it as a free man, absolved of his crimes.
I couldn’t imagine what he’d felt when he’d entered this room decades ago, knowing he’d spend the rest of his life here in the prison despite being innocent of the crime for which he’d been convicted.