“Where are you taking us?” Larkin pleaded.
Her question soon answered itself. They’d been arrested by order of the queen. And now—amid the crumbling capital—they were headed to the palace.
FIVE
The palace cellblock smelled of old hay and piss.
Larkin was surrounded by three brick walls; in front of her, bars of luminite stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The other cells were full, the prison heavy with misery. She had a bucket to relieve herself and nothing else: no bed or blanket, and no light other than the torches that flickered between the cells. Her pulse sped as if she were trapped in the mines.
But this was worse than being trapped in a cave-in. A cave-in was unavoidable. She’d brought this upon herself. Upon Garran.
Her brother was locked in the cell to her left. With the brick wall between them, Larkin couldn’t see him. Her luminite shackles were gone, so she tried sensing him, but it was difficult with her head throbbing like she had every hells’ fury trapped inside of it.
Larkin crawled to the corner where the bars met brick. Garran threaded his hand through the bars and reached out into the prison hall, and she did the same, their fingers lacing together beyond their cells.
How could she tell him that she was sorry? It didn’t matter. Nothing could fix what she’d done. Larkin had only one option. It wouldn’t make things right, but at least Garran would know the truth of why they were here.
“I stole from the shopkeeper yesterday. I distracted him with magic.”
Garran’s disappointment chilled her. “I knew you weren’t telling the truth.”
“If I’d known what was going to happen—”
“That’s just it, Larkin. We do know what always happens: the worst possible outcome. Every time. You knew what would happen; you just chose not to think.”
She said nothing in response. Larkin knew Garran could sense her shame, and it was her only offering to him. She couldn’t reverse their fate or the pain she’d inflicted on her mother. It was burned into her mind—the broken heap of her mother on the kitchen floor.
“I didn’t think you’d dare to risk something so stupid, not after…”
He drifted off, but she knew what he was going to say. Last summer’s riot, when the price of luminite plummeted. They’d been caught in the crowd outside the mines. The soldiers had descended, slashing through the chaos with blinding luminite swords. She’d been so close—close enough to witness death, and not just once. There was enough blood to distinguish its sharpness from the scent of iron. The horror had roiled inside her, so violent she thought it would tear her in half.
The same horror she would have sensed today if she hadn’t been shackled. There was no such thing as a successful rebellion. Not Kyran’s uprising. Not the miners’ riot. Not Larkin’s brazen destruction and theft.
“I’m going to fix this,” she said.
“You can’t.” Garran’s defeat weighed heavy on her. He let go of her hand and pulled it back into his cell, out of reach.
He was wrong. She had no other option but to fix this. Propping herself up on her elbows, she glanced around her cell. Thanks to her resistance, the luminite bars weren’t close enough to completely inhibit her magic, and the surrounding brick walls looked old with deteriorating mortar. She could destroy a section of the wall, and she and Garran could shimmy between the break in the bars.
And then what? Somehow manage to dodge every guard until they found an exit? Neither of them knew the layout of this place. Not only that, but she didn’t know if she could bring herself to kill someone if they were spotted.
Larkin sat back against the brick, catching the eye of the girl in the cell across from hers. She leaned against the luminite bars and grinned at Larkin.
What do you have to be smug about? Larkin wanted to shout. Perhaps the prison had made the girl mad, though she didn’t look delusional. She watched Larkin with utter fascination. Her expression was curious, her mouth delicate and cheeks round.
Larkin couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you want something?”
The girl shrugged, reaching up to retie her mass of dark, crimped hair. “New visitors are always a refreshing sight, is all.”
Larkin stared at her. “Visitor implies I’m going to leave soon.”
The girl’s eyes were so wide that they caught all of the surrounding torchlight. “We’re all going to leave this place eventually. We’re mortal.”
Larkin rolled her eyes. The girl was mad after all. Larkin hoped her lack of a response would shut her up.
In the silence, the girl’s words kept churning inside her. They were mortal, and the dynasty’s stance on magic was set in stone. She and Garran were going to rot in here.
Larkin knocked the back of her head against the brick wall, the pain a punishing reminder of her stupidity. You can’t cry, she thought. She didn’t deserve to cry.
The girl tapped her fingernails against the bars. “Your crime?”
Larkin thought of Garran, who was surely listening on the other side of the wall. The wound of his disappointment was too fresh. “I’d rather not go into it.”
Standing, the girl moved about her cell, kicking moldy hay to the corners until the floor was clear.
“You’re an Empath, right?” She laughed as if she’d made another joke. “Obviously. There are only Empaths here. And those shackles they brought you in with! I’ve never seen anything like them.” She flung herself at the bars, beaming at Larkin. “You used magic, didn’t you?”
“I’d rather not get into it.”
The girl frowned. “Not much of a talker, I see.”
Larkin lay back on the grimy floor and folded her arms over her belly.
“That’s all right. Talking grows old after a while, even when you have as many great stories as I do. But I don’t mind if you’re quiet; it’s nice to not be alone. Your cell’s been empty for so long.”
Larkin wondered how long the girl had been in here, and what had happened to whoever had been in the cell before her. But further conversation sounded about as fun as pulling her teeth out one by one.
The girl busied herself eventually, pacing across the now vacant floor and scratching her chin, as if assessing something. Then, she began to dance.
From her precise, delicate movements, it was obvious that the girl was skilled. Strange for an Empath—when did she find the time to learn how to dance?
In the silence of the prison, she danced for the span of what must have been an entire damned mine shift, not even pausing when her hair fell loose. She even managed to work the act of retying her hair gracefully into her routine. Dancer’s deep copper skin sheened with sweat, but she didn’t stop until a guard stomped over from the cellblock’s entrance.
“Quit that!” he bellowed, unsheathing his sword.
As if on cue, Dancer twirled to the back of her cell and pressed herself against the wall. She bowed to the guard, so low her face was hidden. “Why of course, Your Excellency.”
The guard grunted, flattered. Something told Larkin that he was new to this post. “Excellency,” he muttered. “I’m not even a lieutenant. Just quit with the dancing.”