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“You will not fit through the windows.” If nothing else, I have logic on my side. A trollis, even of Perg’s size, can leave only by the bridge, the farms, or the docks. The first two will be crowded, and the last is too far from the dungeon. We’ll be seen. And Perg ... I don’t know if he’s strong enough to climb the entire city from the bottom, especially without someone to spot him. Even if I were to escape, I would have to do it alone.
I think I hear footsteps. Perg curses again.
“Good luck, Lark.”
I hear no more voices, no more scratching at the lock. I am alone.
It’s Ottius Thellele. My father. It has to be.
Only he could muster an army large enough to assault the trollis. Only he would have the power, the persuasion, to do so. He must be the human behind this.
I sit on the stone bench in my cell, my elbows pressing sore spots into my knees, my head in my hands. I don’t have the strength to pace anymore. I’ve fasted for ... I don’t know. I should have asked Perg how long it’s been. But then, I can’t tell how much time has passed since he left. It can’t be more than three days. I would be dead if it were more than three days.
A tender thought whispers,Why did Perg come, and not Azmar? Why did Azmar not risk himself with the guards and promise to run away with me?
I want to spit out the foul thought, but I’m growing so delirious with thirst and hunger I don’t have the strength. It’s a worm that eats through my heart, feasting on my fears and my worries.
How many trollis could I take down if I chose to run?
But how far could I possibly get, weak as I am?
When the door slides open, hinges creaking, I think it’s a dream. That sort of half dream one has early in the morning, when she’s not quite asleep anymore. But torchlight burns my eyes. I blink but have no tears to wet them. My stomach churns like I’m going to vomit, despite its emptiness.
Something hits my ankle. I try to see, but my vision blurs.
“Drink it. Now.” The guard speaks with the lowest voice I’ve ever heard.
Drink?Fumbling, I reach down to find soft, bulging leather. It takes me too long to recognize it as a waterskin. My fingers tremble as I search for the mouth and uncork it. Warm water trickles onto my dry tongue. I choke with the relief of it. I feel each drop line the shrunken walls of my stomach. Mourn each drop that slides down my chin.
“Get up.”
I squeeze the bag, sucking out every last swallow. My belly hurts. I find my feet. My legs feel brittle, but they hold me. Shielding my vision from the torchlight, I step into the narrow corridor outside my cell. The council must have ruled.
The guard isn’t as cruel as his voice makes him out to be. He lets me walk on my own, instead of grabbing me like the others did. I try to find my courage. My body aches with the water, but it’s slowly waking me up, granting me a little energy with every step. So much of this reminds me of my first day in Cagmar, begging the council to let me stay.
The light of the corridor slowly increases. We take a turn, then stairs. Another corridor. I feel cold, despite having had days to acclimate to the chill of a cell. Hugging myself, I blink as another guard opens a door to the council chamber, its even brighter light spilling over me.
The first thing I notice, after the light, is the silence. Eerie silence, like the calm before a dust storm, when even the birds and bugs fear to make themselves known. My vision clearing, I look to the council chairs; all five are full. No additional trollis stand guard along the walls. There’s no—
My feet freeze midstep. Chills run through me as though the stone itself has opened and swallowed me whole.
Azmar.
Azmar is here.
He stands across the room from me, back rigid, hair coiled at the nape of his neck, arms folded. But when I meet his eyes, his arms drop, and the rigid expression on his face slackens. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
I wonder what I must look like. If it matches how I feel, it must be horrendous. For a split second, my heart leaps at the sight of him, but it crashes down again so quickly I stumble. If Perg knew of my arrest, surely Azmar and Unach knew as well. But Unach isn’t here. As a Montra, her word carries more weight—
“Lark.” Agga speaks, her voice sharp as a slayer’s sword. “Are you or are you not in possession of thistrollis’sbloodstone?”
My lungs forget how to breathe.
No. No, no, no.How could she know? We’d been so careful. Did they root through my things while I was imprisoned, to find more evidence against me? Did Grodd? Did Unach’s suspicions return?
My mouth works, but my voice stalls. My tongue tries to form the wordno—
“Lark.” The acoustics of the room carry Azmar’s soft voice. “It’s all right. They know.”
