“Who’s there?” I demand.
Again, that laugh. “Still feisty, I see.”
At the sound of his voice, the neighbouring prisoners erupt into a cacophony of protests, their voices a chorus of discontent. I recognize it then. That melodic, mocking tone.
Cyrus saunters up to the bars, his blond hair danglingfreely across his shoulders. He’s clad in a dark red cloak that billows behind him.
“What are you doing here? Have you come to revel in my misfortune?” I snap, even though the sight of his gleaming dark irises fills me with a strange comfort. It would seem he carries his own scars from the tournament, in the form of a long cut across his cheek that criss-crosses with another at his temple.
In the dim light filtering through the barred window, I can see the splattering of freckles across his nose, the dark circles around his eyes. His cheeks still hint at the emaciated state he was in after nearly dying at the hands of the Nightshade. He probably hates me. Maybe that’s why he’s here – to finish me off.
“I came for a little light conversation. Why, do you have something better to do?” He stares at me through the bars, and I keep my expression even, refusing to let him see the true extent of my suffering.
I’ve never been able to figure Cyrus out. He flirts and jokes. But he also threatens and acts quickly on his anger. He’s yet another guy who tried to kill me on the island – I sure know how to pick them.
When I don’t respond, Cyrus says, “It’s your turn to say something now. That’s how conversations work.”
When I say nothing, he continues, “Kara and Savannah were made victors. Those two with their fake-ass smiles.”
“What?” I bristle, rising to the bait, despite myself.
Cyrus hands me two curling pages through the bars.“Read for yourself. It’s the final instalment of the Games Master’s Post.”
I read it quickly in the dim light.Kara and Savannah, trapping the Nightshade and racing to claim victory. A selfless wish.
“A cure for the Blight?” I let the pages flutter to my feet. “How is the High Council going to make that happen? Or did the Astrals actually grant Kara and Savannah a wish?”
“No wish.” Cyrus studies his nails. “The cure’s been discovered for months.”
“The Council’s been hiding it from the public?”
“What can I say? It’s politics. They were waiting for the most opportune time to announce it. My father reckoned it’d be the next time they increase taxes, but I suppose masking a plot against the Accord works, too.”
Politics? Blatant manipulation is more like it.
At least Kara and Savannah still got their cure. It’s not the cure they told us about at the banquet, and I’ll never know the truth behind their intentions, but they’ll still have their names etched into the history books.
Cyrus is quiet. He looks tired, I realize.
“How’s Gideon?” I ask.
“Dead,” he says, without missing a beat.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, unconvincingly. “What about Wren? Or Taron? Whatever his name is…”
“Gone. With her.”
“Madame Vera, the Soulreaper,” he voices. I’m not sure how much he’s been told about who she is, but probablyenough to know why she conspired against the Astrals to claim the wish. He nods slowly, taking it in.
After another unbearable silence, I say, “What do you want, Cyrus? Last time we saw each other, you tried to slit my throat.”
“That’s no way to speak to your Young Prince,” he chides, back to his usual self. He leans in close to the bars and adds, in a low voice, “And certainly not to the person about to break you out of here.”
“What?” The air in the cell shifts. I come closer to the bars and whisper, “What are you talking about?”
Cyrus casts a furtive glance over his shoulder, and then, from inside his cloak, he produces a key. “Go on, take it,” he whispers, pushing it through the bars.
