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“So we have a thousand soldiers with Telor, two hundred Ybarisans coming, possibly to attack us, and we’re in a fortifiable city. Sounds like a fantastic time for you to head out there.” I can’t help my sarcastic tone.
His molars grind. “We will give the Ybarisans one more day.”
I sigh with relief. One day at a time is all I can ask for.
“In the meantime, perhaps I can help you loosen that sapling’s lips tonight.” He nods toward Abarrane.
She smiles. “I welcome your aid.”
I shudder at the thought of what Zander’s methods of persuasion might be. I’ve seen him use fire before, in the bowels of Cirilea’s castle, trying to pull information from Prince Tyree. At least they’ve kept the interrogations outside of our walls, so no one within Ulysede has to hear the sapling’s screams.
“Enough about this. What has the witch discovered?” Abarrane demands, changing the subject abruptly.
I shrug. “A lot of books on things she’s never seen in Mordain’s archives. I’m going to see her after we’re done here.”
Unsatisfied with my answer, she pivots to Jarek, arching an eyebrow.
“She seems to be searching for something specific. She will not leave the library.” Jarek’s first order as Ulysede’s commander was assigning Zorya to watch over Gesine’s every move. The official line is that it’s for her safety in this mysterious city, but I know Jarek. He doesn’t trust her.
“Searching for what, exactly?” Zander’s hard gaze is piercing.
He snorts. “You think she has explained herself?”
“She will need to explain herself if we are to believe where her true allegiances lie.” Jarek isn’t the only one who doesn’t trust Gesine. Zander hasn’t hidden his worry that Gesine will forever be loyal first to Mordain, the island of casters who hold no love for Islor and would execute me in a heartbeat if they knew I existed. It seems Zander’s suspicion has only grown since Ulysede’s gates opened.
“Can we please remember how invaluable Gesine has been?” I remind them all, anger flaring in my voice. “We escaped Cirilea because of her. We found this place because of her, and the blood curse is gone here. Some of us are alive because of her, and for no other reason.” That, I aim at Jarek. “She’s helped us and healed us all along the way while being threatened by all of you.” And she has become a friend to me in a sea of enemies.
“But does she help for our benefit or hers?” Zander presses. “Do not assume a priestess driven by prophecy does these things out of the goodness of her heart.”
“Maybe not.” I’m no fool. “But you guys keep acting like she’s some villain, conspiring against us.”
Zander inhales deeply.
“I swear to all that is holy, if you use that condescending tone to tell me how I don’t know Mordain,” I push out through gritted teeth. This is another argument we’ve had too many times, with no relenting on either side.
My unspoken threat stalls his tongue on whatever he was about to say. “Whatever she is searching for is not more important than training you on how to wield your affinities. Do you see anyone else in all of Islor who can do that?” He throws his hands toward the map. “The future is where her focus should be, not sifting through ancient books about the past.”
“You’re right. So if we’re done here …” I spin and march out, hoping my annoyance leaves a heady trail.
Jarek is a split second from stepping on my heels. “We are right to distrust her.”
“Oh yeah? By the way, how’s that scar on your chest? You know, from the dagger that basically killed you?” I throw back.
His lips purse. “Our paths will only align as long as they lead in the same direction as hers. She is Mordain.”
“That’s where she’s from, not who she is.”
“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.” His smile is grim. “You’ll soon learn there is no difference when it comes to their kind.”
I remember thinking that the library in Cirilea was vast when I first stepped inside, with its four stories and iron spiral staircases. But Ulysede’s library is in a realm of its own, sinking three stories within the castle, each one stretching beyond my line of sight. The rows of polished wooden shelves are endless and filled with books, most in the same language that marks the throne and the sanctum altar. The air smells of paper and ink and wood, but not musty, as one might expect of an ancient library. Densely filtered light peeks in from beyond stained glass windows high above, offering little in the way of illumination. Flaming lanterns compensate, igniting on their own—or by some unseen hand—as they sense a visitor’s approach.
We discovered the castle’s library shortly after arriving, and Gesine hasn’t stepped foot outside of it unless forced to since, parking herself at a desk with an oil lamp and an ever-changing stack of books.
