Soon, soldiers brought in their daily captures: Tribunal members, Blood Guard soldiers, anyone who’d worked for the Good Commander or one of his ministries. Each one was forced to their knees before Cressida’s table, awaiting their sentence.
Some witches put their forks down to watch; others continued their conversations. They’d barely been here a week, and many were already bored of the nightly entertainment.
It reminded Rune of private purgings, rare events when witches were brought out at dinner parties and killed while the guests enjoyed their after-dinner coffees.
We’re still in hell,she thought.It just has different trappings.
As prisoners begged for their lives, or the lives of spouses and children, witches sipped their wine and ate their desserts. Unbothered.
Or at least, that’s how it appeared.
Like Seraphine, Rune suspected some, maybe even most,werebothered—but too scared to show it.
Their theory was substantiated when the next prisoner was dragged in.
The Commander’s spymaster.
As they dragged her before Cressida’s table, Juniper’s hands clenched the tablecloth. Rune looked from Juniper’s tight-knuckled grip to her face, which had gone whiter than bone, her gaze fixed on the girl who’d been forced to her knees.
She seemed to recognize the prisoner—whose dark hair was up in a topknot, her left ear missing. Juniper’s chair scraped the floor as she shoved it back.
“Excuse me,” she said, stumbling away from the table and rushing from the room.
Rune stared after her until a soft snore drew her gaze to the guards seated across the table. Both were asleep. One with her head on her arms, the other with her chin resting on her hand.
Seraphine cleared her throat. “Juniper seems upset, Rune. Perhaps you should go check on her.”
Rune glanced at the witch beside her.
Leave your guards to me,Seraphine had told her earlier.
Had she enchanted their drinks?
Was Juniper in on this scheme, too?
Her heart skipped.
Folding her napkin with a calmness she didn’t feel, Rune glanced across the room to where Cressida sat at a table with her inner circle of witches. The queen wore a navy blue gownthat shone like midnight, and her white hair was braided tightly back. Her attention was fixed on the spymaster kneeling before her. The girl glared at the witch queen, refusing to grovel or beg.
There was something familiar about her.
Rune shook it off, rose from the table, and slipped into the hall.
Without her casting knife, she needed something to draw blood so she could castGhost Walker. She planned to escape through the kitchens, grab a sharp knife, and then steal a horse from the stable. From there, she would take a train to the northwest side of the island, where she was less likely to be recognized and no one would be on the lookout for witches. Sparsely populated due to its high winds and barren landscape, that part of the island consisted mainly of small fishing towns. She’d find someone to sail her away—or steal a boat and sail herself. And all the while, she’d be hidden by Seraphine’s spell, unable to be Seen by any sibyl.
Her plan was cut short by Juniper.
The girl had one hand pressed to the wall and the other pressed to her stomach. From the way her chest heaved, she looked like she was about to throw up.
“Juniper?”
The witch jumped, spinning to face her. Her black hair was braided into a tight crown atop her head, and her dark brown eyes were wide.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
“Are you all right?” asked Rune.
“I… I know that girl. The one they’re calling the spymaster.”
