Page 58 of Hearts Lost

I try to swallow the bitterness rising in the back of my throat. I’m not particularly looking forward to it either.

Galan steps into the room, and another man follows him. It’s Orryen, Elanerill’s betrothed, and suddenly I’m remembering Orryen standing at the top of the waterfall and glaring down at me almost as though he were disappointed. As though he’d expected more out of the spy and assassin who’d been sent to his world to accompany his bride like some sort of poisonous wedding present from King Grathgore. I can’t stop myself from looking over his shoulder to see if there’s another man present, someone with tangled dark hair and fathomless eyes, but no. The hallway behind Orryen is empty.

My heart sinks as Orryen steps into the room and pulls the door closed behind him. Both of the men nod at me politely, and I find myself responding with a Royal Guard salute, the Kingdom of the Summer’s rules of etiquette and protocol so deeply embedded in my psyche that I can’t find the strength to disobey. Not even as my mind trembles with all the whispers I’ve heard serving in King Grathgore’s Royal Guard, all the horror stories about how Grathgore liked to punish those who went against his dictates. Or those who posed a threat to his kingdom.

“Ithronel,” King Galan begins, making my name sound like a sigh of resignation.

Galan pulls something from inside his cloak, a small leather bag, and then unfastens the laces. I know what I’ll see even before the laces come undone, before the leather falls away, and before the soft blue-green light of the glowsoft orbs brushes the oily silver spheres of King Grathgore’s weapons.

“You recognize these?” Galan asks.

I blink, then take another step back. The carved and polished wood of the bedpost hits me behind the shoulder blades as my mind spins, trying desperately to find a way out of this. Is it better to admit it? To deny it? My gaze shifts, taking in the wide windows that overlook some sort of formal walled garden far, far below.

Is it better to jump?

Galan makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, then takes a few steps toward the sideboard. He nestles the leather bag with its silver spheres between the empty plates and teacup, then turns back to me.

“Look, Ithronel,” he begins, and his tone is soft, confiding. “There’s only one thing I really need to know.”

Every instinct in my body screams that this is a trap. I tighten my grip around the bedpost; my heart beats against my ribcage as though it’s trying to tug me toward the window. King Galan and Orryen exchange a glance, and then the king turns back to me.

“How long has Aloserin been working for King Grathgore?” Galan asks.

“What?” I reply, the word coming out like an explosion.

Galan shakes his head like he’s disappointed.

“I assume Grathgore turned Aloserin when he was in your world,” King Galan says. He raises a hand and waves at the silver spheres on the table. “I’m sure you didn’t do this alone.”

A sob rises from some horrible place deep inside me and then rips at the inside of my throat.

“No,” I whimper.

I was prepared for torture. I thought Galan and Orryen were coming in here to kill me, eventually. Painfully. But I didn’t think I’d drag Aloserin into this. I didn’t think he would become a suspect.

“Aloserin wasn’t—” I stammer, my entire body shaking against the bedpost. “He didn’t—”

Galan and Orryen exchange another look, and then Orryen steps forward, extending his hand. Aloserin flashes through my memory, his dark eyes and pale skin, the way he’d reached for me at the top of the waterfall. I won’t let them hurt you, he’d said.

Desperate, dangerous hope howls inside my chest. No one had hurt me. Not yet. Hells, they hadn’t even taken off my filthy dress. Was it too much to hope Aloserin might somehow keep his word?

“Ithronel,” Orryen says, speaking slowly like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

He reaches for me, and I take his hand in my trembling fingers. Orryen leads me delicately toward the other side of the room, where a collection of comfortable chairs sit in a semicircle around a cheerful fire dancing on the grate. I sink into a low, green settee, and I feel like something is slowly bleeding out of my body as Orryen and Galan take their own seats. My fear, perhaps. Or my will to survive.

“Aloserin had no part in this,” I say. “I did all of this myself. He— He had no idea what I did. Or what I had.”

My voice trembles, then cracks. King Galan clears his throat. When he starts to speak, he’s looking at the fire and not at me.

“I know King Grathgore,” Galan begins. “I know his methods. I assume he’s holding someone of yours?”

I nod. “My sister,” I say.

Galan glances up at me. Stars, he looks sad.

“And she’s in some sort of trouble?” Galan asks.

I turn to stare at my own fingers knotted in my lap. Promise me, my sister had said that night in the gardens. Promise me you won’t tell a soul.