I bite into it but can’t keep my eyes off Caspian. That expression, the slightly furrowed brow, the tilt of his lips. He’s thinking. Actually, with that look, he’s most certainlyscheming.
A glint flashes in Caspian’s gaze. “We get the rose by very obviouslynotstealing it.”
I smile. The Prince of Thorns is back. The one who saved Castletree and made it look like a horror, who first whispered truths into my ear and made them sound like threats, who chained Farron to help break him free.
Shadows pool at his feet. He opens and closes his palms, darkness coiling around his fingertips. “Caspian may not have loved playing with shadows,” he purrs, “but the Prince of Thorns did, and he picked up a couple tricks from Sira.”
The living gloom swirls around Heidigog, caresses her arms, her head, then winds higher, turning solid, catching the light…until she turns into a perfect replica of me.
Heidi holds her hands up, staring at her now pale pink skin, then rushes to the mirror. She touches her face, my brown hair. “Oh my,” she squawks, still with her goblin voice. “I’m hideous!”
Part Three
legacy of a god
42
Rosalina
I’ve perfected the dull-eyed gaze and wandering amble of athrall. No one blinks an eye as I meander through the outskirts of Nether Reach. Though the citizens of the Below aren’t under a spell like I’m supposed to be, many share that same inward look.
It reminds me of working at the bookstore back in Orca Cove, where reality felt so gloomy, it was better to live inside my head. In lots of ways, these people—goblins, deserters of the surface realms, or fae born in the dark—are no more free than the animals in the menagerie.
I grit my teeth. If I don’t succeed, they’ll be worse off. If we don’t get the rose, Sira won’t just be stealing happy memories. If they’re one of her creations, she’ll steal their wills. And if they aren’t, they’ll be at the whim of what she orders her creations to do.
I took a grinjaw carriage from Cryptgarden most of the way to Nether Reach but am now making the final stretch on foot to be more inconspicuous. The Tower of Nether Reach looms ahead, a thin, jagged tower resembling a stalagmite made of black glass. Beautiful and deadly, like its queen. I imagine Sira,pacing her balcony, looking out over the horizon. She built it to be as high as possible, yet it can never reach the surface.
A great weight falls over my shoulders with each step closer. Memories of when the princes and I were imprisoned at the top of the tower. My magic felt so far away. Even now, at the bottom, it feels sluggish in my veins. Is there an enchantment on this place, or is Sira’s energy so strong here, it suffocates all other forms of magic? Regardless, I’m so much stronger than I was back then. My magicwillanswer me when I call upon it.
Sira’s revelry day party is planned for the courtyard outside the tower, so I’ve come to scope it out. The more information I have on the setup, the easier it will be to pull off our plan tonight.
I grunt, heaving my heavy bag higher on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what the security would be like, so I brought everything in case. Kel’s cloak and Farron’s book of maps may be useful if I need to do some actual sneaking.
But it doesn’t look like anything’s being set up yet. The courtyard is empty, and there’s only a pair of goblin guards—Truubo and Scrumpy—at the door of the tower. They give me a nod as I wander by, used to seeing me about these last few weeks. A party in a few hours and the preparations haven’t begun? Marigold would throw a fit.
Just as I’m certain I’ll have to come back later for my intel, my ear twitches. There’s a sound in the distance, so soft I’m now doubting I heard it at all.
Sniffling.
Giving Truubo and Scrumpy a friendly wave, I walk the curve of the round base of the tower. A black stream trickles behind, and I follow its bank.
A woman sits curled over the edge of the water, thin strands of long, green hair dusting the stream. Her sage-green cheeks are shiny with tears. One side of her face is badly scarred, half her head bald.
It’s Aquila, priestess of the underfae and Faustrius’s second-in-command.
Why is she all alone, crying? I suck in a breath. I should turn around, pretend I never heard her. What do I care anyway? She attacked us. Her people sided with Sira. Her misery is not my problem?—
Aquila lets out a pathetic wail, and my breath rushes out of me in a sigh. I creep over to her. She doesn’t look up until I’m right beside her, crouching down at her side.
“Aquila?”
She gives a few sniffles as she attempts to compose herself. “Rosalina.”
“Are you okay? I heard crying so I came over.”
She takes a breathy gasp that sounds somewhere between a baby bird’s call and a hiccup. “Imagine! Imagine! I never thought there’d be anywhere darker than the caverns we woke up in after we were frozen, but now we’re here, even deeper in the gloom. And that’s not enough to hide me!” She smacks the stream, causing ripples. “You catch a glimpse of yourself only to be reminded you’re something horrible.”
I follow her gaze down to the stream, to our reflections beginning to form as the glassy water slows. Who does she see?Something horrible.Is that whoIsee? Beyond her being one of Sira’s many puppets, I barely know this woman.
