“Wait—the others in Juli acted just like the Summerian slaves becauseSimoncontrolled them?” I clarify. She nods.
I thought the reason was more the slaves’ own way of coping with their lives, but . . .
Simoncontrolsnon-Summerians.
Only one person has ever been able to influence people not of his own kingdom: Angra.
“No, Cerie. He just drugs them,” Lekan says, uncertain. “Doesn’t he?”
But Ceridwen dives between Lekan and me, sweeping out toward the road and, beyond it, the waiting caravan. Lekan grabs her arm and swings her to a stop, but she wrenches away, pointing a steady finger at him.
“I need you on the ground,” she says, and pivots to me. “And you—youoweme, Winter queen. Your chakram would be better on a roof. Your guard, though, should be with me.”
“I’m not here to fight for you,” Conall states. “I’m hereto protect my queen.”
Ceridwen’s lip twitches, her rage rekindled, but I grab Conall’s good arm, my body moving independently of my spinning, chaotic mind.
“I’ll take the roof,” I tell him. “You can stay on the ground below me. Fight down here.”
Angra. Simon controls people who are not his subjects? No, no, she has to be wrong . . .
Conall doesn’t seem at all appeased, but he hears the order in my voice and nods curtly.
Ceridwen grunts approval and takes another step backward.
Lekan moves after her. “Wait—”
The scowl she gives him could burn through a brick wall. “He’s been hurting our kingdom for too long, and if he’s using magic on non-Summerians . . .”
I want to scream at her, a wave of fear swelling in me. No, it can’t be the Decay—itcan’t bemagic. There’s been no sign of Angra or his darkness for months.
But the Decay needs a host, like any magic. It has to be coming from someone . . .
Lekan grinds his jaw, and the way he springs forward makes me think she pushed him too far. But he just hovers there, muscles hard, staring at her with eyes that say more than any words could. Finally he nods, one firm jerk of his head, and Ceridwen flashes a deadly smile before sprinting around the corner. Lekan moves after her, already holdinga pair of knives drawn from somewhere within his cloak.
I watch until I can’t see their shadows on the street anymore, the surrounding city quiet except for the distant murmurs of people moving about their day and, closer, the harsh voices of soldiers. I look at Conall, but he just waits. He didn’t read the threat in Ceridwen’s words. He didn’t come to the same conclusion that drains me.
Angra’s magic didn’t dissipate.
He might be alive.
I force a nod at Conall and he moves to the corner of the building, blending into the shadows that put him between this street and the one just over, the one Ceridwen and Lekan ran for.
I don’t give myself time to do anything else. No thinking, no chance to reflect on everything that threatens to destroy me from the inside out. For now, for this fleeting moment, I am just a girl helping to stop a terrible act. I am nothing more than the tightness in my arms as I pull myself up the side of a building, window to window, ledge to ledge. I am nothing more than the shiver that spreads across my arms as I stand on the roof in the unbroken wind.
Angra is alive.
He’s alive.
He’s—
Those words beat in my head alongside my pulse, and I take slow, careful steps up the inclined clay tiles of the roof, crouch down, and peer at the square, three stories below.
Just focus on this task. Help Ceridwen. Maybe I’ll see something that will explain what Simon is doing—maybe it’ll all make sense.
And that, honestly, terrifies me more than anything else.
Buildings form a cage around a small, open square of pale yellow cobblestones. Rintiero’s vibrant colors gleam in the bright light of the day, the magenta and peach buildings providing a riotous backdrop for the people standing in the square.
