Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Something is wrong. I feel it in my bones. In the pit of my stomach. A wrongness I can't name, can't shake, can't claw out of myself no matter how hard I try.
I strip off the gray shift dress and stand before the bathroom mirror.
The new scar glares back at me — a reddened slash across my lower abdomen.
Jordi's wound. Now mine. I smooth healing elixir over it, letting my eyes fall shut as the soothing mix of aloe and mint seeps into my skin.
When I open them again, my gaze catches on the other scar.
The faded jagged line that looks like someone slashed me with a scythe.
A token from a past that simply exists with no memory of how I got it. Most days I forget it’s buried beneath the gold-threaded lines and sigils the Sages marked my skin with. For protection, they said. I glare at the sigil between my breasts that burns each time my anger rises.
I've learned to ignore that as well. I've learned to ignore a lot of things. I unfold the letters that were left underneath the slippers and read them while I dress.
Temp —
I'm sure you'll worry when you wake, so a few things: your purple potion worked. They're keeping me at the Hall to make sure the toxins are "fully out of my system." (They are. But they want me to rest, just in case.)
Anala says we're expecting more visitors than usual for the festival. The inns will fill quickly, so I told Draven his friends can stay in my quarters until his guest rooms are ready. If they're anything like him, you won't even notice they're there.
I love you, J
I pull on my black stockings, slip into the short maroon-fringed dress, and reach for the next letter.
Temp —
Arlo says you're still sleeping. It's been two days. We're worried.
I'm still at Reflection — long story. I need to see you before Constantine's speech at the square.
J
P.S. Give Draven the books in my bag if you get a chance.
Two days.
I stare at the words. Then at my hands. The black stain has faded. Only my fingernails remain darkened, the way they've been ever since the Sages tasked me with making the memory elixirs.
Two days. I was asleep for two days. I pull my hair into a quick ponytail and clasp my amulet around my neck. The Hall of Reflection sits on the border between Veritas and Lunaris, and I don’t want to risk going over there without it again.
When I glance back at the letter, the words are gone.
Godsdamn it. I unclasp the amulet. Watch the words bleed back onto the page. Jordi refuses to write on regular paper.
He's convinced the Council will find it. As if he's plotting some elaborate coup. Margot's words echo back. Uprising. Renegades.
I shake it off. My brother is many things, but he's not a fool. He knows something like that would get him banished — or worse. I unfold the last letter.
If I'm not here by the time you come, know this was meant to happen.
I saw it.
Trust me.
— J
The blood drains from my face.
I saw it.
If the Flame hadn't shown me that vision of my brother's hand closing around the scepter I might have overlooked those three words. Might have dismissed them as Jordi being dramatic. But I did see it. And this is Jordi. My hands grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.
Foresight is not a gift men are given in this realm. It's why so many of them have enslaved women who possess it. Caged them. Used them.
Wrung visions from their minds like water from cloth. The only other way for a man to see the future is to bargain for it. And only one god is said to grant that bargain. But Lugal doesn't have a scepter. Not that I know of.
Did Jordi somehow use Mortiana's scepter to bargain with her consort? That's the only explanation I can think of. But why? Why would my brother willingly enter a bargain with the god of war? What could possibly be worth that price?
That thought is what finally gets me moving. I slide into my patent shoes, grab my cloak, my keys. Yank the door open and freeze. The sconces in the shared space between my quarters and Jordi’s have been snuffed out.
Every nerve in my body screams as I turn to lock my bedroom door behind me.
I try to reason with myself that maybe I didn’t turn on the lights when I arrived, but I remember it vividly.
I strain to hear movement, but there’s nothing.
A prickle of awareness skates down my spine and spreads through my chest. I may not hear or sense anyone in the dark, but I know something is there.
I feel them watching me. Heart in my throat, I reach for the iron poker beside the fireplace. I grip it tight and turn slowly, lifting the poker toward the dark like a blade. I feel ridiculous. But I'd rather look like a fool than die as one.
“What, exactly, are you going to do with that?” The voice is deep. Quiet. Laced with something that might be amusement. I go still. Then I tighten my grip and swing the poker into the dark.
“Who's there?”
Low laughter ripples through the shadows and curls into the pit of my stomach.
“Who is there?” I call out, my voice wavering. “What do you want?”
I lift a trembling hand and summon fire.
The flame that answers is small and shaking.
Pitiful. But it's enough to see the outline of a massive figure lounging in one of the wingback chairs at the center of the room.
Long legs stretched out. Arms draped over the rests like a king on a throne. His amusement washes over me, unbidden.
“Nice trick,” he murmurs.
I grip the poker tighter. “Who are you?”
He doesn't answer. Instead, every sconce in the room flares to life at once.
I flinch against the sudden blaze of light, blinking hard as my eyes adjust. When they do, I study the intruder. A dark hooded cloak swallows most of him. Everything but the sheer size of him.
He’s built like Jacobi Draven, my brother’s mentor, a former warrior turned scholar. But Draven would never sit like that. Sprawled in the chair like he owns it. Like he owns the room. Like he owns me.
The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. It could be one of his friends. If this is how he greets strangers, by lurking in the dark and laughing at their fear, we’re going to have a problem.
My eyes dart around the room. Land on Jordi's satchel behind the chair. If the scepter is in there— No. There's no way I'm getting within arm's reach of this man.
I can't fight him. I’m not sure I can fight anyone. The Sages made us take combat lessons, so in theory I know how to punch, kick, stab. In reality, my skills lie in avoiding those things even when it comes to people my size.
“Who are you?” I bite out, keeping the poker pointed at him as I take a step toward the door.
“Why don't you have a seat?”
“Tell me who you are.”
“Sit down, and I will.”
“No.” I take another step toward the door. “Who are you, and why were you sitting here in the dark?”
He tilts his head. Just slightly. Like a predator deciding whether to pounce. “Waiting for you, of course.”
The poker trembles in my hands. I adjust my grip, but my palms are slick with sweat.
“What does that mean?”
A pause. Then, slowly, he rises from the chair. “I was sent to collect a debt.”
The poker slips from my fingers. It clatters against the stone floor, and I don't move to pick it up. I don't move at all. I can't with the Flame's words echoing through my skull, over and over, drowning out everything else: My warrior will arrive soon to collect your end of the bargain.
I stare at my collector.
And he stares back.