Page 65 of Hearts Lost

She stops on a little landing before an ornate wooden door and gives me another one of those strange smiles, almost like she’s trying to tell me she’s sorry. But what in the stars would she have to be sorry about? Questions batter the inside of my brain like angry hornets, but only one rises to my lips.

“H—How long?” I stammer.

Elanerill shrugs.

“Ten days,” she replies.

Ten. Days. My heart thuds against my ribs and my breath drags at the inside of my throat. Aloserin carried me? For ten days? I think of the way he’d looked at me on the top of the waterfall, the cold, hard set to his eyes, the tight line of his lips. The way he’d reached for me, just before his magic pulled me under. He hadn’t looked like he’d wanted to touch me at all. He’d stared at me as though I were a stranger, some odd, bedraggled woman who’d just surfaced from the void.

But then he carried me. For ten days. My chest feels tight, like it can’t possibly expand enough to allow me to breathe.

“Ready?” Elanerill asks.

I nod, because I don’t think I can find enough air to speak, and Elanerill pushes open the door. There’s a clamor of raised voices, then silence. Elanerill steps through, into a wash of blue-green light. I hesitate for a heartbeat, my head swimming, my heart throbbing desperately in the back of my throat, and then I force myself to follow Elanerill through the open door.

What choice do I have?

It’s a room, of course, and I realize we must be at the very top of the tower. Windows circle the round space, bathing tables, desks, and shelves in that strange blue-green light that almost makes me feel like I’m underwater.

The room is filled with people. For a horrible, sickening moment I’m back at the top of the waterfall, watching my life shatter before me. There’s Lady Arryn Damoira and the man with white hair and tattered ears, there’s Prince Orryen standing by a long, low table, and the magician Lythienne with her hands knotted together. There’s a portly man from the kitchens, a tall, older woman with a severe expression, and several others I’d last seen as they’d carried their instruments into the teleportation hub to bring down the barrier.

It’s everyone I betrayed. Everyone who’d stood inside the teleportation hub as I’d tried to destroy it.

And they are all staring at me.

“I—” I begin, although my voice sounds like I’m being strangled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did, and I— I want to make it up to you. I want to help.”

As the words fall from my lips, some strange part of me realizes they’re true. I never wanted to serve King Grathgore. I never wanted to hurt anyone and, stars, now that I’m here, I really do want to help. I spread my arms wide in front of me, the sign of mercy, of surrender, and I face the people I’d betrayed.

“Great,” says the man with the white hair and tattered ears. “Glad to have you. You can start by helping me talk these lunatics out of their fucking idiotic plan.”

He waves a hand toward Lythienne and Orryen.

“Now, Rowan,” Lythienne begins. “There’s no need for such language.”

“If you didn’t want my language, lady, you never should have invited me to your party,” Rowan replies, with a wide grin. “And, begging your pardon, but bringing down the barrier all at once is a shit plan. It was a shit plan to begin with, and it’s even worse now that we’ve seen what kind of a target it makes us for those assholes in the Kingdom of the Summer.”

Rowan turns to me with that same smile. There’s something predatory in that grin, something that reminds me of the stories about the way a fox smiles at a mouse.

“Ithronel, was it?” Rowan says, like now we’re friends. “You’re from the Kingdom of the Summer. You tell me what would happen if the barrier suddenly collapsed. If all the people in the Lands Below just started walking out into the streets of the Worlds Above.”

“Rowan—” Orryen begins.

“No, no, let the lady speak,” Rowan says. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes me feel like taking a step back. “You’re part of the Royal Guard, right? Or you were. So, tell me. How would the Kingdom of the Summer greet us?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try to swallow. Every wicked story I’ve ever heard about the Kingdom of the Fall ripples through my mind. They stole our children, the legends go. Murdered old men in the streets. Ripped the throats out of young women and then drank their blood.

Every year, on the summer solstice, we gather on the summit of Mount Victory to recite the same stories about the Kingdom of the Fall’s wickedness. We gather our hatred and our fear to strengthen the barrier, to assure the monsters in the Lands Below are locked safely away.

“What if some of us carried pitchforks?” Rowan asks, and his voice is almost a whisper. “What if we had swords?”

“That’s…not a good idea,” I say, finally choking out the words. “The Kingdom of the Summer is terrified of you. The stories about you are just, uh, awful. If you showed up carrying anything, even a pitchfork, it would probably be—”

My voice cuts off. It would be seen as justification for an attack, of course. It would be the start of another war. Rowan raises his hands in the air like he’s declaring victory and then turns back to the rest of the room.

“She’s got a point,” Elanerill says. “The armies of the Kingdom of the Summer won’t need much provocation to attack whoever comes through the barrier, and I don’t think it will make much difference what they’re carrying.”

“So, you’re proposing what?” Orryen asks, turning toward Rowan. “We just stay here, then?”