Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
For an elven with the ability to read my mood through my pulse—to catch every jump of fear, every stir of desire, every pull of guilt—he finally has it wrong. I’m not angry. I’m hurt. If I allow myself a moment to absorb how much, the ache might swallow me whole.
I’m saved from responding as Gesine and her floating globe ascend from the city’s bowels with the poise of a shadow, her inky hair hidden within the hood of her cloak. Elisaf is on her heels, nimbly rushing to ground level.
Between the caster’s magical light and Elisaf’s torch, I can finally discern the crowded, low-ceilinged room we’ve climbed into, cluttered with wooden crates and barrels of various sizes. Another dusty storage space that hides Cirilea’s secret passageways.
Gesine flicks her wrist, and a stack of crates slides across the gaping hole in the floor, concealing its existence.
Despite our current predicament, my heart skips a beat with excitement, as it does every time I witness real magic in this world.
“A skiff awaits us at the dock. The most discreet path is along the seawall.” The light of her globe fades until it vanishes. She gestures toward Elisaf’s torch, its firelight glinting off the gold collar that encircles her neck. A reminder that she is still shackled by Queen Neilina, even this far from Ybaris. “There is a metal bucket of water by the door. You must leave that behind.”
“This is my city, High Priestess, and we don’t need your guidance on how best to move through it.” Zander’s voice carries a biting hatred I haven’t heard since the days when I was the treacherous princess who murdered his parents.
But Zander’s wrong. It’s Atticus’s city now. Zander practically handed his crown to his opportunistic brother when he ignored the aspirations even I could see.
Tonight, we need all the help we can get, including from this caster.
Gesine may be thinking along the same lines, but her expression remains stoic as she dips her head. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Zander’s stern gaze flickers to Elisaf, who promptly dumps his blazing torch into the bucket. The flame sizzles, throwing the tiny storage room into darkness once again.
With Elisaf’s guiding hand on my shoulder, we creep out of the shack single file, Zander leading the way, his footfalls silent against the dirt path. A lean-to cluttered with scrap wood and fishing nets sits directly ahead. Beyond it and to the right are rows of one-story shanties. They’re the homes in the Rookery that Zander and I visited on more than one occasion, doling out gold coins to the loitering peasants. No one lingers on the porches now, though, save for a stray cat devouring its kill.
Rhythmic waves lap against rock on my left, the only hint of the yawning expanse of sea beyond. A warm, briny breeze grazes my cheek, and it is a welcome shift from the stench of waste. If this were any other situation, I might feel the urge to sit and absorb the calm those waves carry.
But up the hill, past the stone wall that serves as a barrier between Cirilea’s finer class and the humans it deems worthless, steel clangs against steel, drawing a disturbing wave of déjà vu. I’ve heard those sounds of battle before, upon waking in a strange world where two moons sometimes hang in the sky. That night, Princess Romeria was also at the root of the death and destruction.
Shouts soar in the streets behind us, and my panic surges. Soldiers found us at the apothecary. It’s only a matter of time before they follow us here.
“We must not tarry.” Gesine’s voice is too serene for the situation, but I appreciate it.
“This way.” Zander leads us along the narrow passage at the water’s edge.
I trail closely, noting every loose stone that tumbles past the retaining wall to plunge into the black waters below, praying that I don’t lose my footing and mirror their path.
With the city fair in full swing, people have flocked to Cirilea from every corner of Islor to sell and buy wares at the market and imbibe in the lively nighttime entertainment on Port Street. But it’s eerily silent in the Rookery tonight. Not a soul dallies outside the dilapidated walls. No curious faces peek out from behind the grimy glass panes. The streetlights are extinguished, save for the odd lantern, its glimmer timid. Surely, these people recognize the noise of battle from above and want no part of it. Has news of Atticus’s treason traveled to these hovels yet? Do these humans care which king governs when Islor’s laws keep them chained in a life of servitude?
Some must care, at least. Humans like my seamstress, Dagny, who hoped for change under Zander’s rule.
“Tell me, High Priestess, did your all-knowing seers foretell of Islor’s king scampering through sewers and along shorelines like a rodent?” Sour humor laces Zander’s words.