We reached the main hall with the stairway, and my eyes raced up the crimson carpet runner, going directly to where Leland looked out on the lower floor, his arm thrown casually over the balustrade. I glanced away.
“No,” Jaxan declared, cocking a long fingernail at Leland. “Arissa Sivelyn,” he said, his voice so low, no one else could hear, “requested Ember Stray.”
I nearly choked.Stray? As inLelandStray?
“Ember Rose Blackburn Stray,” said Jaxan, “the gold-eyed Dark Witch Arissa Sivelyn saw in a Vision.”
Leland reached my side then, and unaided by his presence, his aloof proximity, the too-heavy air, and that whisper of his Goddess-damned, pine-scented cologne, I went lightheaded.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
EMBER
One of life’s great tragedies is that a Familiar cannot survive without her Allwitch; but an Allwitch can survive without her Familiar, tragically.
— Charley Starvos, Echelon to the
School of Creation Magic
The prison was separate from the palace, on the other side of the paved courtyard Jaxan and Leland were conducting me across. Only a few small, grated windows were cut into the gray stone blocks of the building, lending the structure a stark, bleak appearance.
“Your Echelon!” A messenger from the main palace rushed after us. “Your Echelon!” They panted, struggling to catch up to Jaxan’s long and determined strides. “There’s a new prophecy from the Oracle!”
“A prophecy?” Jaxan said, as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have I not told you I have no interest in meaningless speculations? Go inform Helen, if you must. She does amuse herself with these things.”
But the messenger was insistent, his eyes darting frantically back and forth from Jaxan to me.
Jaxan’s attention occupied, Leland stole a glance at my arms, noticing the deep, bloodied tracks I’d dug into them. At his look of disgust, I folded my arms to cover what I could, then pinched my biceps to distract myself from the pain of my blood trying to claw its way out of my skin.
When the messenger scurried off, Leland returned to being distant. His eyes went flat, his posture reserved. As concerning as it was to see him so vacant, it was also a relief. Because when Leland was animated —fightingwith me — nothing could stave off my intense physical need for him, which had started after my Blessing.
As we approached the oaken door of the prison, the pain in my blood had me considering whether it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to curl up in a cold, dark cell. In sensory deprivation. Away from Leland.
Jaxan knocked on the door, and my shoulders jumped back from the ferocity of the three vicious blows he landed before a glassy-eyed jailer let us in. Spiked, iron torches cast ominous shadows on the dark-gray walls. We wound through a series of corridors, in silence, and I occupied myself by tracking the slow movements of several listlessly roaming jailers. There was something off about them, a mechanical aspect not too different from the way Leland was acting. I had the impression that —mentally— they weren’t fully there and wondered if work here was a punishment. Why else would a witch take a job like this, in a place they couldn’t spellcast?
We passed an occupied cell, and when I looked at the witch held prisoner there, I noticed the letterLhad been burned into their forehead. The L-shaped scar was bulbous, and a shiny, clear substance oozed out of an inflamed radius of infected, red skin. Unable to stop looking at it, I forgot where I was walking. Leland roughly yanked the back of my top, hauling me backward before I could stumble into Jaxan.
He held me there, not releasing his grip until Jaxan was out of earshot. “Libel,” he whispered. “They branded him for it.”
The grating sound of shovels scraping over hard stone made me rub my ears. Jailers were mucking out the slop and straw from the empty cells, and it stirred up a stench so strong I caught up to Jaxan just to get away from it, then hurried up a narrow stairway of fifteen steps. I counted them as I climbed. It was that or pull out clumps of my hair.
At the end of the upstairs corridor, we finally stopped in front of a cell with a thick, iron-grated door, the cell where they held Arissa Sivelyn. The second I stepped forward, Leland’s arm shot out, halting me. His chin jerked roughly from me to Jaxan, his way of telling me I needed permission. Only Jaxan was on his transmitter, and everything about his body language was saying I should not interrupt him, so I waited.
The delay was agony. I bit down on a scream so hard that my forehead broke out in sweat. I ground my teeth as I tried to grab Leland’s attention, hoping he’d understand what was happening. The burn in my blood was becoming unmanageable.
“Permission to step forward?” Leland asked finally, his voice deep and obedient like a toneless henchman’s.
“Yes,” drawled Jaxan, “let’s get on with it. Have her see what the Allwitch wants. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Leland didn’t answer but withdrew his arm and allowed me to proceed.
Arissa stood half in shadow, her frail hands clutching the bars weakly. At the top of the back wall of her cell was a small, barred window, but it was too high to see out of and too small to escape through. Though she wouldn’t have had any chance of reaching it in her starved condition. Her clothes were in thin tatters, and she could barely stand.
“Ember?” she asked softly. She was sickly pale, and her skin was damp.
I glanced at Jaxan, who gave an agitated nod.
