Page 91 of Hearts Lost

Somehow I find I’m not at all surprised that my parents’ spies told them about the night I’d spent taking shots with Rowan in the World’s End pub. Voids, you can’t get drunk anywhere in this underworld.

“This woman is no longer any concern of yours,” I say. “And neither am I. I want no part of the deals you made.”

“It’s not that simple,” my father begins.

“No, it really, really is,” I say, cutting him off.

I meet his eyes, then turn to my mother. There’s something wild and a little frightening about my mother’s wide-eyed expression, about the tears trembling in her eyes. Has she always looked so delicate, I wonder? Has my father always been so small?

“Goodbye,” I say, and my voice tightens around my words. “I love you both, but I won’t be seeing you again.”

I take one step toward the door, then another. No one moves to stop me, and I find once again that I’m not surprised. It’s only when I’m at the very threshold of the door that Nyana grabs my arm. Even then, there’s no real force behind her grip, just a sort of frenetic desperation.

“If that woman goes to King Galan—” she says.

I shake my head and pull Ithronel closer to my chest. Please understand, I think. Please understand what I have to say.

“If she goes to Galan,” I reply, with a sad little smile. “It would be her word against yours. And who would believe her? She’s the assassin who attacked the teleportation hub.”

Nyana’s eyes widen, and her hand pulls back. A tremble runs through Ithronel’s body; it’s soft and subtle, but it still twists in my gut like a dagger. Please, my mind whispers as if it makes any difference at all. Please understand. I had to say that. Deception is the only language my family speaks. It’s the only thing they would believe.

I turn away from my family, face the narrow hallway, and concentrate on taking the next step. Then the next. And then the one after that.

The glowsoft orbs are still out when I push open the doors to my parents’ estate and walk through their barrier garden. I don’t dare talk to Ithronel, not yet. Not as I carry her through the winding streets of the Crystal City, streets that loop past other grand estates, other vast homes of marble and stained glass. I can’t help but wonder how many of those hold new sets of dwarven china. How many have a basement?

I shiver. King Galan had said he wanted to build a new world down here. He’d wanted to make the Lands Below a place where everyone in his kingdom could thrive, where there would be no hunger or desperation. He’d worked with all the high-born elves, invited them to his palace, and held countless balls and celebrations. My eyes run over the shadowed gables of the many grand homes in the Crystal City’s nobles' quarters.

How many of them know, I wonder? How many of them are included in Rensivar’s little plan, his scheme to bring the worthy to another place? Did the trekkers all vanish in my parents’ basement, or does every basement here have a secret portal to the dragon who tried to destroy us? Just how many of the high-born ladies and gentlemen in the Lands Below are betraying us?

I shiver again, and the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain lancing through the small of my back. With a sigh, I turn away from the elegant neighborhood where I spent the last of my childhood and begin the long walk toward the city’s barrier gardens.

The teleportation hub is empty, thank the voids. The grass around the hub is still blackened and dead, crunching under my boots, and the stones themselves are smeared with soot, but at least they’re functional. Lythienne said it took five days to get them working again after the explosion that ended Galan’s attempt to bring down the barrier and sent Ithronel and me into the void. Five days when I’d been unconscious and Ithronel had managed to survive on her own in the shifting wilderness. Five days when she could have killed me but didn’t. That had to mean something, right?

I shake my head at my own idiocy and step into the ring of standing stones. Most people hate riding the teleportation hubs, but it’s never bothered me. Still, I hesitate before reaching for the stone.

“This might be uncomfortable,” I whisper.

Ithronel pulls in a breath, sharp and sudden, and I lean forward, touching the teleportation stone before she can speak. Magic rips us away from the Crystal City.

And cold slams into me as my boots hit the snow. Ithronel gasps in my arms, then wiggles against my chest. We’re surrounded by darkness so absolute I feel like it’s pressing against my eyeballs; the old, familiar burn of panic rises in my chest before I can wrestle it down.

“We’re okay,” I say.

Ithronel gasps again, softer this time. I let her down, helping her to find her footing. Her breathing is fast and frantic, with a ragged edge to it that makes me think she’s probably one of those people who hate riding the teleportation hubs.

“Hold on,” I say. “I have a lantern.”

I have to let her go to dig the little lantern and candle out of my satchel, and then to strike my flint and bring the flaming tinder to the candle’s wick. By the time I raise the lantern, Ithronel’s breathing has slowed, but her face is still an ashy gray in the weak yellow light. I raise my hand to her arm, then stop myself and let it drop heavily back to my side.

“Rowan?” she asks.

Her voice shakes, but her eyes are hard as iron.

“It was his idea,” I reply. “His brother and Arryn are meeting us here. Come on.”

I turn the lantern toward the neglected, icy path leading away from Fringe’s teleportation hub. Ithronel’s breath catches in her throat, and again I have to stop myself from reaching out for her. Then there’s the shuffle of boots on snow, and I know she’s following me.

The cabin Rowan picked for our rendezvous site is just off what used to be Fringe’s main square. The windows are blocked with heavy cloth to ensure the rotting, abandoned shack will look just like all the other rotting, abandoned shacks, should anyone stumble past Fringe when the glowsoft orbs are out, but when I kick open the door, embers still wink on the hearth and the room still holds a whisper of heat. Funny. It feels like it’s been an entire lifetime since Rowan led me here, kindled that fire, hung the cloth in the windows, and explained his plan, but it hasn’t even been long enough for the fire to die.