“No,” I answer without thinking. “The Vault has never been opened. And the Goodson would never—”
The archbishop slams the bell down on the table. “Translation!”
“Ask him where the Mother is!” cries the Kantari.
“Gelya, don’t—” Zofia says, but my voice, shrill with bewilderment, cuts through the ambassadors’ uproar as inevitably as an avalanche.
“He asks Brother Miklos where Elath the Great Demon is!”
It’s not until the translation exits my mouth that I fully comprehend what the Kantari has said. The restless doubt that has plagued me for weeks must have gotten the better of me at last, because I am inexplicably certain of one thing: He’s telling the truth.
All eyes turn to Brother Miklos, who has, until this moment, stood quietly at the prisoner’s side. He answers with action rather than words, reaching inside his sleeve with a hand nearly as pale as the white wool of his tunic to pull out a dagger. Only a couple of ambassadors have time to gasp before the Goodson’s old friend throws the blade across the room.
Right into Zofia’s heart.
Seven
Dark blood snakes from the wound as Zofia clutches the table, gasping for air.
He killed her. I stand there, frozen, the words repeating themselves in my head over and over until they morph into a blur of meaningless gibberish. Hekilledherhekilledherhekilledher. . . .
And then I move, rushing to catch her under her arms before she falls out of the chair. “Fetch the convent physicians!” I shout at the ambassadors, but they all continue to gape in shock at Zofia dying in my arms.
“What the hell is this, Brother Miklos?” demands the Rosvanian ambassador with false bravado. The knight ignores him and heads straight for Zofia and me. My heart pounds with fear, but I hold tight to Zofia. When he reaches for the chain around her neck, I try to shove his hand away, crying, “No! What are you doing? Stop!”
“Brother Miklos!” the archbishop protests, ringing that ridiculous bell as if the chime could stop the knight from pushing me aside so he can take the key. With no one to hold her up, Zofia slumps to the unforgiving marble floor, and Brother Miklos saunters to the double doors at the back of the room as dispassionately as you might carry a chamber pot to dump it.
“Do something!” I scream at the knights, who shuffle uncomfortably, glancing doubtfully at each other. One of them finally works up the courage to say, “Uh, Brother?”
Brother Miklos unlocks the doors and opens one of them. I beg the Father to send the Goodson to come rescue us. Instead, masked men enter the parlertorium, each bearing a sword, and terror turns me bloodless. Brother Miklos exits the room, and the sound of the tumblers rolling into place, locking us in once more, echoes off the vaulted ceiling.
I am going to die.
We are all going to die.
A numbness takes over my brain, as if I were seeing the world through gauze as the masked men attack the ambassadors. One of them slices into Prince Horaccio’s neck as the room explodes like a henhouse when the fox gets in.
A wave of childhood memories slams into me, forcing me to relive the horrors of the Dead Forest with vivid clarity. I see the monsters floating between dark tree trunks, their black cloaks hanging from strange, skeletal bodies, their gray skin pulled taut over faceless heads, their long, unnatural hands swiping and killing, tearing apart the Goodson’s companions as if they were made of rags.
A tug on the hem of my tunic makes me shriek in terror. I look down to find the Rosvanian ambassador frantically beckoning to me. “Get under here, stupid girl!”
I dive beneath the table just in time to see the Wesmari ambassador hit the floor across the room, blood spurting out of his slit throat like a fountain. The contents of my stomach surge up my throat and out my mouth, drizzling from my nostrils in burning streams. The Rosvanian ambassador grips my arm too tightly and shakes me. “Is there a way out of here?”
“The Goodson,” I cough, my throat stinging with bile. “Where is the Goodson?”
But in the question lies the answer. There can only be one explanation as to why the Goodson hasn’t stopped this attack. He must be dead.
And Zofia is dead.
And I am going to die.
I cover my head with shaking hands, wishing I could give in to despair, but the Rosvanian won’t stop shaking me. “Dammit, girl, is there another way out of this death trap?”
My mind clings to the memory of Zofia showing me the escape route. The world of men is dangerous for women. Do you understand? But I hadn’t understood. I hadn’t understood a thing.
An inhuman gurgling comes from somewhere nearby, and there is Zofia, struggling on the floor, the knife still jutting from her body. My heart swells and breaks all at once. “Zofia!” I reach for her like a lost child for its mother, but the ambassador yanks back my hand.
“No! You’ll give us away!”
I try to shake him loose, and when that doesn’t work, I sink my teeth into his veiny hand until the coppery taste of his blood fills my mouth. He releases me, cursing in pain.
I don’t look at the carnage around me as I crawl to Zofia—hearing it is horrible enough. I grasp her by the shoulders of her tunic and tug. At first, her limp weight holds her in place like iron to lodestone, but once I work up the momentum, I’m able to drag her under the table.
“Gelya.” An unnatural pink bubble forms between her lips.
“You’re going to be all right,” I tell her, as if I could will it to be true.
Two men plow into the table as they grapple with one another, locked in a battle to the death. The whole table shudders and slides back a foot, nearly uncovering Zofia and me. The Rosvanian squeals like a piglet. I push him away and bend over Zofia.
“Gelya,” she gurgles.
“Shh. Help is coming.” Dear Father, please, let help be on the way.
“My pocket,” Zofia insists, trying to move a hand that is no longer cooperating to her side. I reach into her pocket for her and pull out a folded piece of parchment.
“Hide it,” Zofia wheezes, and it takes me a minute to realize she’s speaking in Hedenski.
“I will,” I tell her, dredging up Hedenski words I thought long gone from my mind. I’ll say just about anything if it keeps her still and calm. She groans with effort as she puts her hand over mine. Already, her fingers grow cold.
“Don’t let the Goodson get it.” She coughs, shooting a spray of blood-dappled foam against the bottom of the table.
“Yes, of course,” I agree, desperate for her to save her strength while trying to push away the thought that the Goodson is almost certainly dead.
She grips my hand with what little strength she has left. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. “Promise me,” she rasps.
I would hand my heart in a gift-wrapped package to Elath the Great Demon if it would keep Zofia alive. “I promise,” I say in Hedenski, the words light and strange in my mouth.
“Blessed be the Mother,” she sighs in her native Aurian. Blood ceases to pulse from her mouth, and her gray eyes go blank, death robbing them of the brilliance that lit them in life. Disbelieving, I collapse over her and press my forehead to hers. An unbearable grief hovers nearby, waiting to crush me as soon as I comprehend my loss.