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“Hold on.” He rustles around. I unwrap the blade.
A flash of pinkish light blinds me. I blink up into the glow of an ikonlantern set on a slab of stone that comes to knee height, with other stones arrayed around it like stools.
“Take a seat.” His eyes linger on the blade.
The ikonlight shines on the carved rock walls of a small alcove that could fit no more than four people. But behind him is the eerie darkness of a pathway that goes somewhere else.
“What is this?”
“A secret passageway that goes between the fourth and the fifth. Now, please sit. If you want out, you just have to turn the dial on the wall to the right, until it clicks. Got it?”
I nod, settling myself onto a seat. “How do you know this place?”
He begins untying his scarf. “Prince Dalca showed it to me.”
I’m up on my feet as he pulls back his hood and reveals a pair of golden cat-slit eyes. The third Wardana who came to Amma’s. I hold the blade steady on him. “What’s going on here?”
He raises his hands up high. “Might not have been my best idea, giving you that.”
He makes no move to get up. I inch around him, until my back hits the door. “Explain. You were there with Dalca.I saw you. Who are you?” Is this a trick? Is Dalca going to jump out?
His eyes crinkle. “My ma named me Izamal Dazera. But you can call me Iz. And you’re Alcanar Vale’s daughter.”
“I know who I am.” I gesture with the blade. His eyes widen as it swishes past his nose. “What’s with the weapons? Is it some trick? I know you’re one of Dalca’s men.”
“I’m not—his man—for Storm’s sake. Can I get something out of my pocket?”
“What?”
“Just a scrap of paper, to show you why.” Izamal slowly brings out and unfolds a piece of paper. It’s the proclamation from the Regia. “You’ve seen this?”
I nod.
“Do you believe this nonsense, that the Regia has a plan?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“That’s right. They have no plan. They’ve already given up on the fifth. And worse, they won’t give us the means to defend ourselves. Do you know why?”
I open my mouth, but he doesn’t seem to need my response.
“They’re afraid of us. Afraid that if we even have a scrap if ikonomancy, just a smidgen of power, we’ll use it against them. We’ll rise up and take the third—the second, even—for ourselves. They’re more worried about that than how many of us the Storm takes. If they don’t give a cat’s ass, then someone has to.”
Izamal’s eyes blaze, and he grows more impassioned with every word. I lower my blade.
“I saw you,” I whisper. “I don’t understand. How could you burn Amma’s and then this—”
“Ididn’t. Iwouldn’t. Dalca and I flew your father to the Ven, but that’s as far as I was involved.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Dalca and Cas—and the rest—they don’t trust me, not really. I’m their token fifth-ringer; they bring me out when they need to, but they don’t let me in.”
I squint at him. “Are you really from the fifth?”
“I am. You might’ve heard of my sister—Nashira Dazera. First fifth-ringer Wardana in a decade, and stormborn to boot.”
Of course I’d heard of her. Everyone in the fifth had. I’d even thought of her when I first noted Izamal’s curse. But how could I know they were siblings? When people spoke of Nashira, they talked about her dimples and her cheekiness, not her golden eyes. “I saw her once. She waved as she flew past.”
