Page 41 of Revealing Fate

Prestyn’s eyes darted about the room.

“No one saw, and I will not tell a soul, Lieutenant Gore,” she assured.

Imogen rose, hands clasped demurely before her. “Would you escort me back to the Stronghold, sir?”

Prestyn nodded once, curtly, clearly not trusting himself to speak. The poor man must have been horrified by his perceived lack of dedication to his post.

As they made their way through the darkened streets, Imogen mentally replayed her meeting with Mender Alcuin. She hoped whatever he’d gleaned from her revelations would help him locate Felíne. As much as she dreaded the Prima’s presentation to the Primordial Male, she wanted to know her friend was safe and unharmed. After all, it wasn’t Felíne’s fault Imogen had unknowingly fallen in love with her intended. Imogen’s friend held no responsibility for the way the crown and Vulgren had manipulated their lives, inevitably entwining a young Fate’s emotions with a male ultimately forbidden to her.

The night seemed to darken further as they rounded a corner, and the unmarked entrance to the Stronghold loomed before them. They passed another set of guards before Prestyn led Imogen in and down.

Always down.

Melancholy enveloped her.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Imogen whispered.

Lieutenant Gore’s next step faltered only slightly. They progressed several more paces before his near inaudible reply drifted to her. “You’re welcome.”

Imogen held fast to the quiet sincerity in those words. She had a feeling she would need Prestyn Gore again.

Chapter 17

TELL ME YOUR NAME

FELÍNE SLUMPED AGAINST THE REAR wall of her cell and picked at a length of straw. The floor was littered with remnants of the once-square bale that had long since devolved into a lumpy pile in the far corner. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than cold stone or packed dirt.

Not that she had any personal experience with imprisonment.

Felíne tossed the piece of straw into its brethren. Something shifted beneath the pile. Moments later, a pink nose poked through, twitching furiously. A set of beady black eyes and a plump gray body followed. Felíne shrieked, scrambling back, kicking hay across the enclosure.

The rodent scurried through the narrow slip between iron bars, squeaking in alarm, and disappeared down the corridor.

She pressed a palm to her chest and wedged herself into the far corner, breathing heavily. “Cursed rats. Why the gods chose to create such loathsome beasts…”

“Thank the gods they did.”

Felíne peered toward her stoic captor, his considerable bulk perched upon an overturned crate just outside her cell. “And why, pray tell, would you maintain such a contemptible sentiment?”

“Perspective shifts pretty quick when you’re trapped and starving. I owe my life to the presence of those loathsome beasts, as you call them.”

Felíne crossed her arms, eyeing the hay pile with dogged disdain. She didn’t want to think about having to eat disease-ridden rodents to survive. Gods, was that what her current interment would come to? Surely not. Yet now the question demanded posing. “How long do you plan to keep me here?”

Rusty gray eyes flicked her way. “As long as it takes for the Conclave to arrive.”

“And this Conclave, they make your laws? Function as Meress’s governing body?”

The guard nodded.

“How many members?”

“Five.”

Five. She had to convince five strangers of her innocence. Not just strangers. Cozened. How the hell was she going to do that? Felíne had been wracking her brain for a plausible excuse for why she was ignorant of the code to Stillwater Wood and thus far had come up empty-handed. She hadn’t expected to be apprehended. Penn made it sound so easy to reach Fahren’s Pass. But she hadn’t accounted for the damned bear, nor its pursuit pushing her heedlessly into the path of a sentry.

“May I ask your name?”

The guard turned toward her once more, grave as a plague. “Beaumont Stonehaugh.”