Of course it was. It was everything she’d wanted. He didn’t need to read her face to know that. There were very few infallible prophecies involving individual people—most were natural disasters or wars of grand scale. Cassa had never believed that the prophecies that spoke of people’s personal choices could be infallible. People’s lives couldn’t be dictated by dreams. Her parents had taught her what it meant—what it really meant—to not be foretold. It meant the council couldn’t own you. It meant the shadows of a long-dead religion couldn’t touch you. It meant everything you did was yours.
But what if the prophecy was true? What if all those years ago, Solan had seen her absolute future in a dream? What if she was destined for this and always had been? Maybe she didn’t have a choice. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe the past hundred years of loss and pain could finally mean something.
Maybe it didn’t matter either way. Maybe she just wanted to kill Chancellor Dane.
With faltering steps, she closed the gap between them. Still she couldn’t bring herself to reach out and take the pistol. Her heart slammed an uneven rhythm against her chest.
“You were born of greatness,” Solan said, “but there’s not really anything great about you, is there?”
There was no malice in his tone. Only gentle certainty. Her entire past was laid bare before him. He knew everything about her. He knew the truth she’d spent so long trying to ignore. She tried to breathe but found no air.
“There can be, Cassandra,” he said, taking her hand and pressing the gun’s handle into her palm. “There will be.”
Finally, a breath. Then another. Her heart began to slow to a calmer pace. She wrapped her fingers around the cool grip and stared down at the weapon.
“He’s headed for the Blacksmith’s house as we speak,” Solan said. “If you leave now, you’ll reach him in time.”
It took a few seconds for the words to register. She looked up.
“What’s he doing at the Blacksmith’s house?”
Solan shook his head.
“I haven’t seen everything.” He gestured toward the gun. “Only this.”
“I’m not leaving until my friends wake up,” she said.
He shook his head again.
“There isn’t time, Cassandra.”
“I’m not leaving them here—” She cut herself short. With you.
Maybe Solan guessed what she meant, because he studied her face more closely now, his clear eyes ranging over her features. In the midst of his shifting visage, a frown took shape.
“Those memories . . .” He grabbed her chin as she tried to turn her face away, moving so close that she could hear his ragged breaths. “Those memories aren’t yours. How did you get them?”
“Can’t you see for yourself?” Cassa jerked out of his grip.
“How long have you had them?”
Cassa didn’t answer. She knew she didn’t have to.
“You let me have the bloodbond,” he said softly. “Even knowing what you know now?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Cassa said. A lie. It changed everything. How could it not? Vesper had given her those memories for this precise reason, but Cassa had given Solan his freedom anyway. A betrayal for a betrayal. At least she and Vesper were even now.
Solan was quiet for a few long moments.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” His voice was thin and brittle.
“Yes,” Cassa said. No hesitation. “But so is he.”
Her grip on the gun tightened. Four years ago, the chancellor had taken everything from her. He hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger or to burn the bodies, but he was to blame for her parents’ deaths—and for all the brave souls who had been cut down that brutal summer day. His order. His choice.
It didn’t matter that he claimed to be working against the council now, that he claimed Solan was a danger to the city. The memories Vesper had given her weren’t enough to absolve him. Nothing ever could be.
“Go,” said Solan. “Your friends will be safe here. You have to finish what they started.”
She didn’t know who he meant. Her parents and all the people who had died trying to take the citadel or the very first rebels to whisper treason by firelight a century ago? It didn’t matter. She was here now. Her future was foretold.
She cast one last glance over her friends’ sleeping forms, and then she left.
THIRTY-FIVE
VESPER
It was almost an hour before Vesper and Chancellor Dane rolled through the citadel gates and into the city. While she waited for the stablemen to prepare the carriage, her uncle went in search of one of his trustworthy diviners to learn what he could about their upcoming journey. Horses would have been faster, but they would have had to stop at every gate in the city to explain themselves. At the sight of the chancellor’s carriage, the gates would open at their approach, even at this hour. Vesper hadn’t seen any signs of citadel guards other than the usual watchmen, but they might have been leaving out the rear gates and circling through the valley to avoid frightening the citizens.
During the jostling ride, Vesper couldn’t help periodically pulling aside the curtain from the little back window to check for pursuers. Her uncle sat in perfect silence the entire trip, lost in his own thoughts. He’d told her the diviner hadn’t been able to give him much information, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was keeping something from her. Ansel Dane was never unprepared. It was how he’d become chancellor in the first place. Four years ago, on the day his predecessor died, he had been the only person on the council who knew what to do next. An advantage he’d gained from Solan Tavish. An advantage he’d paid dearly for in the end.
The history was well-recorded. The rebels had seized the then-chancellor as he returned from a hunt in Eldrin Wood. Ansel said that they probably hadn’t intended to hurt him, only to use him as a hostage for negotiations. But the citadel guards fought back, and the chancellor was killed in the melee. Accident or not, it didn’t stop the rebels from hanging his body outside the citadel gates as food for flies and scavenging birds, with a piece of paper nailed to his chest. We are not foretold.
The next day, they broke through the citadel’s outer gates to the inner keeps. It would have taken them only a couple of days more to overrun the Central Keep. They weren’t well-armed, but they were many, and they were fierce. Maybe history would have remembered it as a glorious battle won. The oppressed triumphing over their oppressors.
But it never came to that. Despite their battle cry, the rebels had been foretold several years earlier by a captive seer in the decaying sanctuary beneath the citadel.
Ansel had known from the moment the news came of the chancellor’s demise that the rebels had forced their own hand. They had been building their forces for a while, trying to muster support among the citizens within the citadel walls. But now they had to attack while the high council was in turmoil, while the people were questioning their own loyalties. They had to strike before a new chancellor could be named and order retaliation.
Her uncle had seen it all plainly, like a child’s game of chess, and he ordered half the citadel forces out of the city through the rear gates under cover of night. They circled the entire city and marched up the main highway in the predawn mist. Midmorning, only hours after breaking through the citadel’s outer gates, the rebels were attacked from behind by a thousand well-trained, well-armed soldiers. The doors to the five inner keeps swung open, and more soldiers poured out. Pressed on all sides and corralled as they were by the citadel’s outer walls, the rebels were broken in the noonday sun. It was a crushing, brutal defeat. No one knew the exact numbers, but Vesper had read estimates as high as three thousand dead. That was the same day that Cassa’s parents were killed, fighting alongside their fellow firebrands. There were certain things that didn’t bear thinking about too closely.
It wasn’t until after his terrible victory, after he was voted the new chancellor, that Ansel began to realize the mistake
he’d made in asking Solan Tavish for help. By the time he fully understood the danger Solan posed to Eldra, he also understood that the councilors were willing to sacrifice the city’s safety to secure their own power. As chancellor he had hoped to make a difference, to lead the council and serve the city; instead he was forced to work against the council, with only his niece as an ally, searching for a way to rid Eldra of their executioner for good.
By the time they reached the cottage, rain had begun to pelt the carriage seemingly from all angles. Her uncle conversed briefly with the driver, who was the picture of blank disinterest—which is what he was paid for. Ansel told him to take the carriage back up the road, around the bend where the trees grew close enough to form a tangled canopy that would provide the horses a little more shelter. The driver’s empty expression did leak some relief when Ansel suggested he wait inside the carriage, out of the rain. Vesper took down one of the carriage’s lanterns to carry with them, and the driver guided the horses in a wide circle around the muddy yard and back down the road.
Ansel knocked for a full minute at the front door of the cottage, but there was no reply. No smoke trailed from the chimney, but Vesper could see a thin rim of light around the curtains of the wooden addition to the house. She tapped at the window, shouting for Cassa or Mira or anyone to let them in because they were there to help. No reply.
Ansel called her name, and she looked over to see that he’d gotten one of the big doors at the other end of the house open. As she got closer, she could see that the doors, which swung outward, only had a simple sliding latch to keep them shut. Apparently the Blacksmith hadn’t been too worried about strangers accessing his workshop when he’d built it. She supposed he didn’t have a reason to be. The Blacksmith was under the council’s direct protection.
She held up the lantern and sucked in a short breath at the glistening ornaments all around her. The golden light was refracted by hundreds of pieces of glass, and she felt for a moment that they had stepped into another, lovelier world. Her uncle moved to one of the shelves, heedless of the water dripping from his hair and face, and took up a delicate glass flower.
“He always did love creating beautiful things,” he said, turning the flower over gently so that it caught the light.
“You met the Blacksmith?”
“Several times, when I was a councilor. I even met Mira a couple of times. She was a wild little thing back then. Treated the forest like it was her own kingdom.”
He sighed and returned the flower to the shelf.
“When she sent news of his death, I wanted to ensure a proper burial, but she refused to let anyone come near. She was devastated.”
Vesper watched him in silence, the sad resignation in his features, the wistfulness as he eyed the glass and metal treasures of the workshop. She’d never even laid eyes on the Blacksmith or his daughter, but her heart ached all the same. Ansel shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m wasting time.”
Before Vesper could decide on a reply, he’d moved to the door that led into the house. More knocking. Still no reply. He tried the handle, and the door swung open easily. The cottage was dark and quiet. Vesper circled the kitchen table with her lantern, searching for anything amiss. Other than some dishes left in the sink, everything was tidy.
She remembered the light she’d seen from outside and walked in the direction of that window. There was another door beside the hearth. She could see a rim of light spilling onto the floor at its base. Ansel saw it at the same time and went to it. He knocked softly, explaining in urgent tones who he was and why he’d come. Still no reply.
A sick, sinking feeling began to expand in the pit of Vesper’s stomach. She stepped closer to her uncle, clutching the lantern with both hands. He turned the knob, but it was locked. He shook it experimentally, but the door was solid oak and didn’t even rattle. Vesper eyed the keyhole, thinking it strange that it locked from the outside. Strange and unsettling.
She cast a glance around their immediate surroundings. There was no convenient key dangling from a hook on the wall, and the top edge of the doorframe wasn’t wide enough to hold even a small key. Her lantern light glinted off something on the mantel. She retrieved the brass key and handed it wordlessly to Ansel.
“The joys of young eyes and a sharp brain,” he remarked.
She couldn’t tell if he was trying to compliment her or just lighten the mood. She wasn’t feeling particularly proud or lighthearted at the moment, so she said nothing. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door slowly. A golden glow washed over them, and Vesper blinked at the brightness.
“Hello?” Ansel called. When there was no reply, he glanced over his shoulder at her. “Stay here.”
Part of Vesper wanted to argue, but the other part of her very much wanted to stay exactly where she was. Her heart thudded in her chest, and the lantern trembled in her grip. Her uncle stepped cautiously into the room. Vesper waited, holding a breath until her lungs burned and she had to release it.
“Vesper,” came Ansel’s voice finally, shot through with an acute distress she’d never heard from him before.
She wanted to stay where she was. She wanted to be back in that other, lovelier world. She wanted to leave and never come back. She went into the room.
At first, she couldn’t understand what had upset her uncle so much. The occupant of the room was a barrel-chested man with golden skin and amber eyes that were deep-set in his wrinkled face. His jet hair and beard were peppered gray. He was seated comfortably in an armchair near a neatly made bed. He was definitely alive. He was definitely whole.
It took her a few seconds to see it. The vacant stare in his eyes, the utterly blank expression of his face. He had yet to acknowledge either of them. He had yet to move at all except to blink.
Ansel stepped closer, hesitantly. Still no movement from the man. He knelt down slowly beside the chair, gripping the arm for support.
“Tor,” he said carefully. “Tor, do you recognize me? Ansel Dane. I was on the council the last time we spoke.”
The man did not reply.
“What’s wrong with him?” Vesper whispered, even though she had a haunting certainty that she already knew.
“His memories have been taken,” Ansel said. His tone was sharp and bitter as he made his way to his feet. “All of them.”
“How is that possible? We’re so far from the citadel!”
“From what I understand, he initially fell ill at the citadel. I was away at the time, so I never saw him. Mira must have convinced the council to let her take him home.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “The council told me he was dead. Maybe they suspected that I had misgivings about Solan, or maybe Mira lied to them.”
Ansel let out a sigh, the anger in his expression melting into sorrow. He placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. There was no reaction, not even a flicker in his empty eyes.
“This is what the other victims look like too,” Ansel said. “Once they wake up, this is all that’s left. Physicians have been able to teach them some simple tasks, like eating and drinking, but none have spoken again or shown any recognition of their loved ones.”
Vesper couldn’t pull her gaze away from Tor, the first Blacksmith, the legend that had permeated Eldra for nearly half a century.
“Do—do you think that his memories are what gave Solan the idea to try a bloodbond?” she asked. Her voice felt faint. She thought of Mira, alone here and caring for the shell of the man who had once been her father. Did she know it was the executioner who had done this to him? She couldn’t have—she never would have agreed to help him. The sick feeling in Vesper’s stomach had expanded to every part of her.
“If so, then that means he understands the process as well as Mira. The chance of it actually curing him is much higher than I thought.”
If Solan was free from the citadel, then no one was safe. And what would happen to her friends, once he had no more use for them?
&n
bsp; “We have to go below the citadel,” she said. “We have to stop him somehow.”
“I’m not sure that will be possible tonight.” Her uncle checked his pocket watch and nodded to himself. He took the lantern from her and went to the front door.
“Your diviners did tell you something, didn’t they,” Vesper said, as he opened the door and blustering rain howled into the quiet cottage.
“I’m afraid so.” He stood motionless in the doorway, heedless of the pelting rain against his face and coat.
Vesper stepped behind him to look over his shoulder and sucked in a sharp breath. Standing in the road in front of the cottage, her hair clinging wetly to her cheeks, the hatred in her eyes burning brightly in the darkness, was Cassa. And she was aiming a gun at Ansel’s heart.
THIRTY-SIX
ALYS
When Alys opened her eyes, she saw nothing but darkness. She felt nothing but the stone beneath her, pressed against her cheek, her palms, her stomach. She didn’t panic, but only because her head felt too heavy to even form a coherent thought. She felt like she was trapped in the terrible paralysis between waking and sleeping. Slowly, her eyes began to adjust, even though her mind did not. There was light coming from somewhere distant, and she could make out a shape beside her. With excruciating effort, she slid her hand across the rough ground until she touched Newt’s hand. His skin was warm. That seemed like a good sign.
Alys tried to lift her head, but her neck wouldn’t cooperate. She tried to speak, but she felt stuffed full of cotton, and all that came out was a scratchy moan. There was a stir of movement somewhere near her other shoulder. Then a voice, weak and jagged.
“Shit.” Evander.
Alys concentrated all her willpower into her arms and managed to push herself up a few inches. She fell back down, smacking her cheekbone painfully on the ground. The success gave her some strength though. She gathered herself and tried again. This time she made it to her hands and knees. She shook her head slowly, trying to clear the stupor.
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