It was just as crowded as before, but Thia found herself less overwhelmed now that Oskaren wasn’t actively dying. They followed the slope of the streets up toward the Lightning Tower, its own smaller arched gate standing like a maw poised to devour them as they climbed.
“Do you think the Silver Sorceress will meet us there?” Dess asked.
“That would be nice,” Thia said, though she doubted it.Good luckfelt very akin toyou’re on your own.
They crested the hill, pausing at the tower gate. It was hewn from the same black obsidian as the tower itself, sleek and glinting in the bright sun. The street was quieter here, those few that passed shuffling nervously, eyes on the cobbles.
“What do you want?” the guard barked at their approach.
Thia swallowed. “Um,” she cleared her throat. “Thia Sanbrooke to see the Mage King,” she said after a long moment.
She braced herself for rejection, but to her immense surprise, his brow lifted. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not think you would be so young.” He moved aside, bowing to let her through.
She exchanged an uneasy glance with Dess, then nodded politely to the guard as if she had expected such a reaction.
The gate passed over them like a midnight sky. Inside, there was a small but steep pathway up to the tower itself. If not for the circumstances, Thia might have admired the architecture. It was a delicate spire, thin like a needle, ringed with arches that reached skyward with gravity-defying grace.
Instead, her throat tightened with anxiety as they approached the iron doors. She wiped sweaty palms down her jerkin.
When they were several feet away, wondering whether to knock, the doors slid open. A black-robed woman greeted them, speaking words Thia didn’t understand before a scroll appeared out of nowhere. A magician, Thia guessed.
“Thia Sanbrooke?”
She nodded.
“And who are you?” the woman demanded, surveying Dess and Thran.
“Her attendants,” said Thran, when Thia waited a beat too long in her uncertainty.
The woman nodded, and Thia shot him a grateful look. “Follow me.”
The woman led them down a hall of shiny black marble. It was like walking through outer space, a sensation that only grew as they passed strange, floating orbs that provided light to the dim interior. Then came the stairs, narrow and twisting, so many that Thia’s legs protested.
Finally, they emerged onto a landing, and the woman paused outside a pair of glossy black doors. “Wait here.” She slipped within.
Thia’s heart pounded. She was sweating, and her companions seemed just as terrified. Why the hell had she thought this was a good idea? If she died, Grandma Winnie would be left alone. If Dess died, so would Sorscha. The last time he had been here, he’d been in the dungeons.
It suddenly occurred to her that she and Dess were the same, and she felt a surge of affection toward the boy. This man they were about to meet had likely killed both of their parents. And now they had to grovel.
And Thran…he was only here because of her. She was surprised he was standing upright at all, and even more surprised when he gave her an encouraging smile, despite the paleness of his cheeks.
The woman reappeared. “King Caradoc awaits,” she said.
“Ready?” Thia whispered.
Dess nodded. “Together.”
“Aye,” Thran agreed.
They walked through the doors to greet the Mage King.
TWENTY-TWO
THEMAGEKING WAS NOTHING LIKETHIA IMAGINED AND YET SOMEHOWexactly as he should have been. He was tall and slender, but well-muscled enough to be intimidating beneath his high-collared black tunic and midnight cape, which was draped under him as he sat on an enormous obsidian throne. He appeared somewhere in his late thirties, though based on his sixty-nine-year reign, he had to be far older than that. His wavy black hair was tied in a low ponytail, his face beardless. He had strikingly white skin, a haunting contrast to the black that dominated the space. His eyes, also, were strange: completely blanched except for the pupil and a thin onyx ring around his irises. There was a dangerous smile on his lips as she approached, and an aura of crackling power that made his outline blurry, like he was giving off waves of heat.
But when he spoke, it was a voice she recognized. “Thia Sanbrooke.” Deep and rich, yet cold and slithering. Despite the yards between them, it seeped into her skin, coating her bones in ice and chilling her from the inside out.
She forced herself to keep moving, chin raised with a confidence she didn’t feel. When she was nearly at the throne, she bowed, reminding herself that she was not supposed to crumble to the floor at the mere sound of a voice. “Your Majesty,” she said, trembling only slightly.
