Tom stared. “My king?”
“Perhaps your daughter’s penchant for magic came from you.” Elazar’s eyes went back to Lu. “If your daughter fails to comply further, the Pious God may bless you in her stead.”
Tom’s mouth popped open. Milo rose upright, his face purple-red with anger.
A month ago, Lu would have laughed at the possibility that Tom could figure out permanent magic. But as she watched him now, the way he bowed again, thanking Elazar—she didn’t know this man. She didn’t know what he was capable of.
Elazar waved to someone at the door. “Put Adeluna with my son. Let them consider repentance together.”
Defensors moved around the clutter and made for her. Terror scoured through Lu.
“My king,” Milo tried again, “allow me to reason with her. I am certain I can extract—”
“Enough of your desperation,” Elazar snapped. “The Pious God is not yet ready for you to regain his love. Should I banish you back to Argrid entirely? I left our country in a state of constant vigil until this war is complete, and the priests in Deza would happily guide you in prayer. Is that what you wish, Lieutenant Ibarra? To be removed from this war until it is won?”
The way Milo recoiled revealed his thoughts. To leave Grace Loray, no chance for glory? “No, Eminence. I will strive for . . . for patience until the Pious God sees use for me.”
Milo’s words were a snarl as defensors unlocked Lu’s ankle manacle. Lieutenant Ibarra. Elazar had demoted Milo. Because of her? Which meant the glare Milo sent her way held more than just hatred for how she had resisted him in the past. It held the desire for revenge.
“I am sorry, so sorry, for what must be done,” Tom had said.
“No.” The plea came out of Lu on its own, and she dropped her heels into the stone floor, struggling with the defensors. Tom couldn’t lock her away— “No, Papa!”
The name burned her throat, but it had its intended effect: Tom flinched and looked at Elazar. Would he help her? Would he try?
But Elazar was focused on Lu, every wrinkle of disgust intentional and deadly. “The whole of this island is as you are, Adeluna Andreu: unaware of the fact that you are drowning. Grace Loray’s evil has plagued the world for too long, and Argrid has suffered because we have not stopped you. But I will cleanse this island from the mountains to the sea, and I will bring Argrid back to a state of prosperity in Grace Loray’s ashes.”
Lu went slack against the defensors, overwhelmed by the certainty in Elazar’s eyes. He was a madman—but he was infectious, an unavoidable storm. “We will fight you,” she managed. “We won’t stop.”
Elazar smiled. Even that looked malicious. “I am well aware of what the Devil’s corruption will compel you to do. You can resist, you can wail, you can sabotage my efforts, but I have planned for every action you might take.”
He stepped away, facing the unconscious Mecht raiders—no, one was awake now, sitting upright, staring vacantly at the blanket across his lap.
The man didn’t move. Didn’t fight. Didn’t react to the Argridians around him.
Elazar placed a hand on the raider’s head and nodded at the defensors. They pushed Lu toward the door, Elazar’s voice carrying as she went, helpless.
“This war will be different, Adeluna. It will not be a war at all, in fact—it will be a lesson on the blessings that come with obedience.”
3
A MONXE SLID the day’s supplies through the bars and retreated with tapping footsteps. Ben assumed it was breakfast—time had trickled through his fingers since Elazar had moved him, Gunnar, and Lu off the Astuto two weeks ago. Maybe longer.
Ben waited, arm bent under his head, eyes closed. Distantly, a door thudded, the footsteps swallowed behind it. Silence.
Then, “Thaid fuilor mauth? All is well?”
Ben smiled weakly.
Gunnar had been the only other captive with Ben on the Astuto while Lu writhed between life and death. When Elazar moved them to this prison, keeping Lu in that makeshift laboratory, Ben had a feeling of solidarity in seeing Gunnar across the hall. Not that they could talk much, with defensors and monxes around. But Gunnar had begun asking a question, first in his language, then in Argridian:
“Thaid fuilor mauth? All is well?”
At night, in the morning, after monxes came and demanded Ben repent. Ben had responded, even when he wasn’t sure. He needed it to be true.
Ben rolled to his feet. The bed shrieked under him and he gripped the thin edge, bearing down on it to stay grounded. Floor-to-ceiling bars kept him in this cell, but across the hall, another set of bars marked a different cell for Gunnar, who hung from the rafters on chains.
Within hours of getting here, Gunnar had been deemed “in need of restraint.” Two defensors still had bandages where Gunnar had singed them with his Eye of the Sun powers.
Gunnar fixed his furious blue eyes on the empty hall, his lips moving in a silent whisper. He swayed, shirt billowing and boots dragging against the stones. Once, they had been Argridian servants’ clothes, ivory with navy and gold stripes—imprisonment had ripped and stained them beyond repair.
“Thaid fuilor mauth,” Ben repeated. “All is—” His voice caught. “The monxe didn’t feed you.” He hadn’t heard Gunnar’s cell unlock.
Gunnar gave a sad imitation of a shrug. “A new punishment?”
Ben stood and crossed to the supplies that had been left for him. A bowl of porridge, a piece of bread; a fresh waste bucket; and a pitcher with water that glistened in the light of the torches between the hall’s empty cells. Ben’s gut twisted.
The defensors made him drink the whole pitcher. Every drop. Something about this prison was . . . wrong. The moment Ben and Gunnar had set foot in it, the walls themselves had seemed to move. What other prisoners they had passed, in wings close to this one, acted drugged, screaming nonsense, some with lolling tongues or wide, unseeing eyes.
Day by day, that delirium had crept over Gunnar, making him whisper to himself or cry out in his dreams. But it hadn’t affected Ben. Magic, though he didn’t know what or how. Likely Narcotium Creeper, the hallucinogen. Or Croxy, the plant that caused bouts of rage. The defensors were drugging the prisoners but gave Ben the antidote so he would work for his father and continue experiments to make permanent magic.
The door up the hall slammed open. Booted feet thudded in a sprint. Ben pushed back a step, eyes on Gunnar in an unspoken agreement of preparation.
Preparation for what? To do what? Hopelessness smelled of ash and smoke.
Ignoring Gunnar, Jakes jerked to a stop outside Ben’s cell and ripped off his defensor hat. Sweat sheened his face, panic paling his bronze skin and making him look almost human. But Ben knew to see through the facade—beneath the emotion lay a man who had manipulated Ben’s thoughts, his belief, his heart, to help advance Elazar’s mad plans.
“Ben,” Jakes panted. “You have to repent. We both know you will—do it now.”
Ben rolled his eyes and tugged on the already unbuttoned collar of his filthy shirt. Weeks ago, it had looked like the blend of silk it was. His breeches, some supple velour; his boots, knee-high and crisp leather. All of it was now no better than the moldy, moth-eaten blanket on his cot.