Not bothering to hide my smirk, I went to my escorts, ignoring the way the captain’s fingers caught at the edge of my dress.
Pleased with just howgoodhelplessness looked good on my Elite.
Chapter 9
In contrast with my first visit, the infirmary was quiet with the early hour. The victims and villains of war lying side-by-side, either slumbering by necessity or pharmaceutical intervention. Among them, a skeleton crew of silver-blonde heads floated between the cots. Pressing cool palms to foreheads. Pulling starchy white sheets over exposed shoulders, they tended with soft words and softer hands.
Bile scorched the back of my throat.
Teeth grit, I turned my attention away from the pale ghosts of my past, heading straight for the High Priestess’ office—and was intercepted by a tall, statuesque woman whose silver-blonde hair had gone all but white.
“Ah, you must be the new Priestess,” she said, and continued without confirmation, “I wasn’t expecting you so early, dear, but there’s always plenty to be done. Tell me, have you much experience in a professional setting?”
I blinked, backpedaling. “I—”
“A good mornin’ to you, Matron,” Alicia said, tapping her temple with two fingers, offering a polite and respectful bow. “I believe the lass is to have words with General Tilcot and the High Priestess, but I’m here. Ready to”—green eyes flashed, finding mine—“play the part.”
So that was her game, was it? The traitor had come to act as my conscience, as if the height of the stakes wasn’t obvious enough?
Lip curled, I turned away, watching something painful glimmer in the Matron’s watery blue eyes. Watched as she returned Alicia’s gesture, and pressed two trembling fingers to her temple. “I… I see. Well,” the elder Priestess said, clearing her throat, then eyed the soldiers flanking me, her gaze narrowed. “Well, alright then.” She flicked a bony wrist. “Go on. I expect she’ll be waiting for you, though I’ve yet to see the general. He’s been delayed by some disturbances on the front lines, I believe.”
I picked at my wrist, prying the lid off a scab for no other reason than to let the painful nip kill my eager grin.
Delayed at the front lines, was he? Something to be said for the small mercies, at least.
“Good day, Priestess,” I murmured, and spun, leaving Alicia to her servant’s work. Not stopping until my hand was on the doorknob and my toy soldiers had entered the cramped, dingy office before me.
Commanding me to stay by the door as they searched the dim interior.
The very picture of lady-like patience, I waited for them to complete their inspection, teetering on the edge of demanding they leave at once. But it was the slender figure sitting in the dark office who hastened their retreat without so much as spoken word or threatening scowl.
Something to be said for subtlety as well, it would seem. I’d have to ask the High Priestess how she did it without her ki—for curiosity’s sake. Mustn’t forget the very real consequences of failing in this cursed mission.
“Go ahead,” the taller soldier said, forcing the words through clenched, ticking jaw. Aiden. His cheeks were pink. Brows drawn together over a thunderous glower that simply didn’t match the situation.
Eyes narrowed, I frowned at him. He was… angry? Of the two soldiers sent by Tilcot, Aiden given the impression of being the one with mild manners.
When I saw the High Priestess’ profile, I understood why.
“Thank you for the escort, gentlemen,” I murmured, one hand on the door. Knuckles white.
Reese made a sound, wedging his foot between door and frame. A denial perched on his lips.
For a moment, I did nothing but maintain eye contact with Aiden, who surrendered with a tight, jerky nod, and pulled his partner back. Allowing me to plunge the High Priestess’ meager office into darkness with a gentle snap.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, longer still for me to locate the crown of silver-blonde hair seated behind the cluttered desk.
I took a step, worrying the band of leather disguising poison. “Your Grace?” Sitting in the dark was ominous enough, but it wasn’t until I saw what had her attention that something cold and slimy slithered through my guts.
There, displayed in a garish trophy case just to the left of her desk, reflecting whatever minimal lighting the gloomy office could offer—or emitting some sort of otherworldly glow from within—was a set of the very same golden chains that were melded with my wrists and throat.
Chains that hadn’t been there the first time I’d entered this office.
I swallowed, hard, tugging at the leather band containing a shard of Eidolon, and tried again. “Your Grace?”
A deep, bone-weary sigh answered me, and she stood, flinging a black cloth over the case, as if disgusted by its presence. “Good morning, Mila,” she said at length, turning her back on the symbol of our fallen culture. Instead, she stroked the pages of the ancient dusty tome topping her desk.
“Are you…” I trailed off. No. She wasn’t alright. Even in this poor light, I could see the shadows. Bruises. The swelling. A dark line that bisected the bow of her lower lip. “I’m… sorry.”
