He curses and herds the prisoners deeper into the garden. The five remaining men circle me. I swallow my fear and hold up my blade. The whirring of a slingshot slices through the night. A round shape hurtles past me and crashes into the stomach of one of the men. He grunts as the force of the hit lifts Sajra’s spy off his feet and flings him backward.
I lunge toward the robed fighter directly in front of me and thrust my blade into his thigh. Steel rips through muscle. Blood gushes from the wound. He drops to one knee, gasping.
Now there are three.
My arm muscles burn. I back away as they advance. The spy in the middle attacks first. Our blades clash, and we’re nose to nose. His hood covers his head—but the cold smile that bends his mouth is in plain view.
I blink in surprise. A low chuckle comes from behind me. The sound sends a chill down the length of my spine, and my throat constricts. My sword clatters onto the cobbled pathway. I drop to my knees and look around for the priest. This is his blood magic.
The attacker at my side flips his blade around. The hilt comes toward my head. For the second time that night, I slump forward.
And then I see nothing at all.
I wake up in a foul-smelling room. All the windows are shut, preventing the cool night air from ridding the stench of metal. My cheek presses against a scratchy wool rug. Pain throbs from a spot just above my right ear. Gingerly, I push myself into a seated position.
Open bottles of blood line wooden shelves. Diagrams of human body parts hang on the walls, along with detailed paintings of various wild plants and herbs, squat toadstools, and a flower with shimmery silver petals labeledKillasisa.
And sitting in a plush velvet chair in the corner of the room is the priest. He coldly regards me. “Interesting wardrobe,Condesa.”
My hand flies to my face. He took off my mask. Panic roars to life inside me, all senses on high alert. How could I have been so stupid? So careless? I look for my sword, but it must still be in the garden and I’m completely out of moondust. I have no defense against the murderous priest.
“Imagine my delight,” he says with a brittle smile, “to find His Radiance’s bride is in league with El Lobo. King Atoc will be very pleased.”
Terror claws at my edges. I’m having a hard time seeing straight, which doesn’t stop the swirl of panicked thoughts in my head. Once Atoc learns of what I’ve done, I’m as good as dead.
“Since you haven’t brought me to the king, I imagine you want something. What is it?”
He produces that acid smile again. “You’re not as dumb as you look. I want the name of El Lobo.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Don’t you.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t.”
I rise, my knees wobbling. The room spins, and I grimace at the blurry outline of the priest. He stands before me. I try to move around him, but he latches onto me with his bony fingers. A simple twist, and I break free. But he bends his head toward mine; his words, uttered low in a soft anaconda’s hiss, turn me to stone: “Just who do you think His Radiance will believe, Condesa? If he even suspects you’re working against him, what do you think he’ll do? Engagement or not, he’ll torture the information out of you. He’ll launch a campaign against the Illustrian keep and burn it to the ground. Whatever respect my king believes he feels for you will be gone. Whatever you’re planning will be over before it has begun. Is that what you want?”
I swallow, my throat thick and dry like paper. “Idon’tknow his name,” I whisper.
His nails dig into my arm, but I force myself to remain still. The priest must be playing a game of his own. Why else wouldn’t he have turned me in already? I have to ensure it remains this way. I can’t go back to a cell.
“Do you want the throne?” I ask.
He bares his teeth at me. “Do you know El Lobo’s name? Tell me, or we go to His Radiance.”
I hesitate. Perhaps I could give a fake name—
“Condesa.” He eyes me shrewdly. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “We’re not in league—I was trying to free the Illustrian prisoners, but he ended up saving all of them. When your men showed up, I didn’t think. I acted. That’s what happened and it’s all I know about the vigilante.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says. “And you’re wasting my time. There are ways I can rip the truth from you.”
Sajra lifts his hands and I back away, horrified, the image of the Llacsans’ shriveled, chopped hands haunting my dreams. I sweep both of my own hands behind my back.
“No. No. Wait. I—”
