Another cell door opened. She winced with the expectation of sensing another death, but only heard a struggle.
“Devon,” the woman boomed.
“You’ll burn in Kyran’s hell for this,” growled a male voice.
Larkin made out the noise of restraint. Devon was being taken, not killed.
The remainder of the cellblock visitors neared, and Larkin caught sight of a white gown skirting the soiled floor. Her eyes followed it upward to a jewel-embroidered bodice.
Please, my queen.
It was a face she’d seen only from a distance—sharp and stoic, with flawless citrine skin and eyes of ice.
Larkin gripped the bars, her pulse thrumming in her fingers.
Melay.
She felt her bones lock up. She had never thought she’d be so close. The man named Devon had cursed Melay to Kyran’s hell. After what Melay had done to her family, Larkin knew she should want to do the same. Her surprise held her back.
Larkin was certain this wasn’t a chance for an audience with the queen. Melay wouldn’t have come all the way down here just to help move Empaths to different cellblocks or order killings, especially not when the very capital was crumbling.
Something was terribly wrong.
The lieutenant Hathius walked beside Melay, a fleet of guards close behind. The queen’s frown was hard, her eyebrows arched. The moment she halted in front of Larkin’s cell, her guards followed suit.
The queen craned her neck to peer at Dancer. “Elfina.”
Dancer stumbled backward, all grace and poise gone. Melay’s lieutenant unlocked her door. The girl’s eyes found Larkin and waited, like she wanted Larkin to say something—a whispered warning or encouragement.
Larkin’s lips parted, but she had nothing to offer. She’d known Dancer—Elfina—for a handful of hours at most, the girl’s brightness bordering on annoying, but she’d been friendly. Now Larkin didn’t know what was going to happen to her.
Elfina hesitated before gliding forward. As soon as she was within reach, the lieutenant grasped her wrists and cuffed them behind her back. He secured a collar with the telltale flash of luminite around her neck before a guard swept her away.
Melay continued onward, not bothering to as much as glance at Larkin. She stopped again, this time in front of Garran’s cell.
No.
“Garran.” His name rolled off Melay’s tongue with familiarity, and hatred awoke inside Larkin.
The queen lifted her hand, her fingers curling inward like spider legs, beckoning Garran forward. A ring gleamed on her finger, the large gem a vivid, unsettling blue.
Larkin knew that color. Hauyne. Beautiful and brittle as all hells.
Do something, you idiot.
Garran’s terror erupted inside her. Larkin quickly siphoned his emotion. The hauyne in Melay’s ring shattered with a crack, bright flecks tinkling against the floor.
Larkin’s heart thudded as Melay slowly lifted her hand, examining the empty ring setting with detached curiosity.
Hathius drew his sword and started for Larkin, but Melay stopped him.
“His sister…,” began the lieutenant.
“I know who she is.”
Melay’s eyes narrowed, and Larkin wondered if the queen understood that Larkin had actually used magic in a room full of luminite. Her stony face gave no indication.
“Very well.” Melay rapped on the bars of Larkin’s cell, and the lieutenant stepped forward, sliding his key into the lock of her cell.
Her plan had worked.
Larkin stepped out of her cell, and the lieutenant yanked her arms behind her back. She didn’t know what the queen had in store for her. It didn’t matter. She’d be the one to face the terrifying unknown, not Garran.
Her brother slammed his hands against the bars. “Larkin!”
She wanted to tell him to be brave, but the words remained lodged in her throat. All that mattered was that he knew how much she loved him.
Her heart swelled until she was certain he could sense her. More than anything.
Hathius fitted her with a luminite collar, the bone-deep sensation of Garran’s grief snuffing out.
SIX
Larkin stumbled between two guards as they shoved her forward, leaving Melay and the lieutenant Hathius behind. At the last set of cells before the exit, a man was slumped over, a river of blood curling into the hall.
Larkin’s legs weakened at the sight, her guards hauling her upright. She comforted herself with the idea that if they wanted to kill her, they would have already done so.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, knowing they wouldn’t answer. With the damned luminite collar around her neck, she couldn’t even get a clear sense of their emotions.
The collar would normally be overkill for an Empath, but not her. Melay now knew that too. What if Melay assumed that Garran was also resistant? Surely she wouldn’t allow him to stay in a place where he could siphon.
The consequences of Larkin’s actions leached into her like acid as the guards hauled her up a spiral staircase at the tunnel’s end.
You just chose not to think, Garran had said.
But her hasty action in the cell had meant that Garran was alive, and that was all that mattered. She couldn’t get ahead of herself.
The stairs leveled to a platform. One guard opened a wooden door and pushed her into a hallway, and Larkin inhaled clean, thin air. They must have climbed all the way to the top of the peak.
Larkin was uncuffed and shoved into the nearest room with such force that she fell to the ground. The door slammed shut behind her.
The room was barren save for an excessively large tub and a wide, open window bordered with limestone. She stood, stunned by the sharp-sweet air and warm rays of afternoon sun. She’d been in the prison for over a day.
She didn’t notice the three women in servantry garb at the far edge of the room until her eyes adjusted. They ushered her forward and wasted no time, stripping her and pushing her into the hot water.
Larkin hissed as a servant scrubbed her skin and scalp raw with buttery soap. A bath was a luxury she’d never experienced before, but it wasn’t as enjoyable as she’d imagined.
“Do you know why I’m here?” she tried asking. The servants continued without response, as if they were washing a tub of dirty laundry.
Larkin calmed herself. Executions didn’t require cleanliness. If she were to be killed, someone would have stuck a sword in her already. The bath had to mean that she was staying alive. For now.
They toweled her off, one of the servants combing through her hair and shearing away the rough ends. Another took Larkin’s measurements, wrapping twine around her limbs and torso. She left the room and returned with an ensemble for Larkin to change into.
When the servants swept out of the room, Larkin clutched the towel to her body, too stunned to move.
It’s a trap, she thought.
But with no way to escape, Larkin coaxed herself to pick up the clothing, tugging on undergarments, a tunic, and trousers that were plainly woven but finer than anything she’d ever owned.
As soon as she finished tying the laces of her new boots, the door creaked open behind her.
Larkin shot to her feet when she saw a young soldier standing at the entrance. The woman stepped into the room, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Larkin’s mind leapt to a stealthy execution, imagining the soldier lunging forward to grab her hair, yanking her head back and slitting her throat. Larkin’s hand shot to her neck.