Page 22

Her eyes narrowed. “Confirm what?”

He blinked once. “That you are, indeed, Idonea.”

“I see,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the cell bars. “I could lie.”

A ghost of a smile brushed his lips, but it never reached his eye. That single, stormy-hued eye drifted to her hands.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Give me your left arm.”

She pulled back. “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

He flexed his gloved left hand. “I will not harm you.”

His look was heavy, lids drooped, making his face unreadable. The steadiness in his voice was deliberate, making it hard to resist.

Against her better judgement, she extended her arm. Shivers tingled down her spine as his warm fingers smoothed over her inner wrist. With his left hand, he pulled out a vial of salt, and she tensed a little under his grip. Salt scraped across her wrist. The tattoo bloomed instantly beneath her skin. Idonea jerked hard enough that the bars rattled.

He let her arm go. “You’ve got the mark.”

Only one person alive knew she'd that tattoo.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Idonea shook her head. “I’m not divulging that.”

He didn’t seem surprised at her refusal.

“Answer me this,” Idonea said. “This metal, the bars. Do you know what it is?”

“Of course.” If he suspected her of anything, he gave no hint. “Lodestone alloyed with adamant and Eitr. We call it Lodamante.”

She exhaled. Eitr. That’s what’s cutting me off. The venom of ancient roots tempered into metal.

“Thank you.” Safira was right that the Temple was using it.

That warranted her a flash of a smile. “You must be her.”

Idonea's stomach tightened. “Who?”

But Lysander had already turned, his long coat flaring as he walked away, golden heelplates clinking against the stone.

No farewell, or glance back. She lingered near the cell bars, hoping he’d return soon.

But only another Templar came. This one younger, less elegant, with a bowl of greasy stew and a crust of stale rye bread. She devoured it anyway.

Kicking aside the straw until she'd a mostly straw-free area to curl upon, Idonea laid down. Face down near the concrete, the mustiness amplified itself, and the concrete was cold against her skin. At the other end of the dungeon, a cell door creaked open, but her eyes were too heavy to open.

The clang of metal on metal shattered the silence. Idonea’s eyes flew open, cold stone pressed against her back. Outside the iron bars, the same Templar who’d thrown her into the cell stood, mace in hand.

He’d rapped the weapon against the gate with deliberate force.

“Up you get, witch,” he said, voice thick as gravel.

Her limbs protested as she sat, slow and groggy. Her nails snagged in matted curls, and strands clung together with sweat and blood.

“No point in making yourself pretty.”

Idonea’s gaze cut to him. “It isn’t for your benefit.”