It’s brighter in the room the next time I open my eyes. I dragmyself out from beneath the blankets and frown around me. This doesn't look much like a prison.
The splashing noiseisa waterfall, kind of. Water pours from a spout on the wall and splatters into a shallow stone basin on the floor. There’s a drain somewhere in there because I’ve heard the sound all night, but the liquid in the basin is still only an inch deep.
My sword isgone. I check everywhere, even beneath the bed, but Roiven must have taken it from me when he carried me here last night. I grit my jaw. I offered to remove the enchantments, and he decided to leave me defenseless in whatever witch hideout he’s brought me to? I get it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.
The floor is smooth black stone beneath my feet, the furniture pale wood and canvas, simply but carefully made. There’s a low bookshelf against the far wall with a couple tattered, stitched volumes. Golden light filters through a curtain. When I peel it aside, all I find is bubbled, warped golden glass, so thick I can’t see anything through it. Roiven’s room must be nearby if he heard me scream last night. Either that, or he was waiting outside to guard me. That idea sends a chill down my spine.
The nightmare is still fresh in my mind, even though I slept again after. Last night, all I wanted was to confront the War-Father and hear the truth from his own mouth. But now I’m not sure that’s enough.
Roiven said so long as you’re breathing, you can keep fighting. Have I really given up on freeing the Enchanted, and stopping the war? Am I really content to die if the War-Father says that's what he wants?
And can I live with myself if I let Harfor and the others get away with Malkin’s murder?
On the chair next to the bed, I find a sleeveless, pale pink floor-length dress. Beneath it are fresh underthings. It’s that or the dirty, salt-crusted clothes I’ve been wearing for the past few days, which Roiven thankfully did not try to take off me.
I stare at the dress, then slide my eyes over to the fountain against the wall. Back to the dress, then the fountain. There’s dark soot and grime beneath my fingertips. Dust and streaks of salt on my arms. I am crusty. Disgusting, even. There’s grit between my teeth.
We don’t bathe in indoor fountains in the Empire, but there are soaps and a towel beside it that make the intended purpose obvious. I check the door and thankfully find a lock on it, then swiftly strip. In the process I realize I’ve still got on the leather necklace pendant with the War-Father’s letter. I take it off and let it fall to the ground, my heart heavy.
I still can’t believe Harfor sank the Governor’s ship. It feels impossible, like as much of a nightmare as the one that brought Roiven to my room, but I trust my memories. It was real.
The water is warm and clear as it splatters and sloshes to the floor. No matter how much filth washes from my skin, the fountain keeps flowing, always clean and only an inch deep in the basin. I wipe the water from my eyes and savor the feel of it coating my salt-chapped lips. It tastes sweet and fresh, saltless.
I wash quickly and thoroughly, scrubbing every inch of myself before toweling dry. My remaining hair goes into a wet braid down the left side, and I drag the pink dress on, relieved it fits over my metal arm. The low bodice clings to the dampness of my skin, hugging my breasts and baring the skin above them. The skirt swirls around my thighs.
Could I somehow get the truth out, about Malkin and the others? Get back to Barivum and tell the council that the witches weren’t the ones to kill everyone at the Bluff?
I need to find food, figure out where I am, and tell Roiven I want my sword back. Maybe not in that order. I throw the door open.
My room opens to a small courtyard. The stone walls have a few other doors in them, and there’s an open arch across the way into another courtyard.
Goosebumps raise on my arms as I stare in disbelief. There aregreenthings growing here. My heart pounds faster and I take a half step back without meaning to.
Plant life. Out here. On an island in the Wild Seas? The War-Father taught me the witches killed everything in these lands, but it seems like they’ve been keeping some of it for themselves.
Bright pink and yellow flowers, growing straight out of the ground, surround a circular stone table with curved benches. Small trees flourish in ceramic pots. A wall of vines grows up the right-hand side of the wall.
I can’t remember the last time I saw something so pretty. My face breaks into a smile for the first time in ages as I step through the doorway. And then a woman peels herself off the wall beside my door and levels a sword at my throat.
I should have known this place wasn’t as friendly as it looked.
20
The woman is shorter than I am by at least a foot. Her black hair is shorn close to her scalp, and freckles scatter across her high, deep brown cheeks. She scowls at me wordlessly.
By her glowing eyes, she's a witch. They burn red-black, like her natural eye color is a darker, deeper brown than Roiven’s. And she looks familiar. Is she the one I saw coming down the stairs, as Roiven dragged me towards the Bluff’s window? I wonder if the second dragon was hers.
Her silver blade glints in the sun, the point so close to me that my vision blurs if I try to focus on it. Shadows writhe slowly down the blade, moving like smoke. With a sigh, I lift both hands up high, flesh and metal. Her gaze flicks to my armored limb, then back to my face.
“Didn’t know your kind was so lazy, knight. You slept the whole day.”
“I’d be more inclined to thank your hospitality, if not for the sword at my throat,” I answer. Somehow, I let Roiven’s unexpected softness lull me into a foolish sense of safety. No matter howpleasant the room I slept in, I’m unarmed, and on an unknown island with our world’s greatest evil.
I shouldn't have let myself be so vulnerable around him.
The woman’s eyes narrow. The sword doesn’t waver in her grip. Her muscles must be rock-hard.
“Those marks on him. Explain.”
