Bartholomeus commands the other two figures, muttering something about bringing refreshments for his guests, and they scurry off, disappearing into the shadows through a door opposite the banquet hall.
Almost immediately, a young boy materializes from nowhere, offering to take mine and Henk’s cloaks. I ease the fabric off my shoulders, muttering a low thanks.
“Got manners now, have you?” Henk snorts. He surrenders his cloak and puffs a cloud of black voidroot smoke into the boy’s face, laughing to himself when the boy erupts into a coughing fit.
Bartholomeus pulls out a chair at the grand table. It’s a harsh sound, the wood scraping across uneven stone. He gestures for Madame Vera to take a seat.
“Ever the gentleman,” she says, though her smile thins as she looks around the dusty room. “But I thought we were only briefly meeting here before retiring to that grand ship of yours?”
“Oh, we have much to discuss first,” Bartholomeus insists.
Madame Vera looks over her shoulder at me.
Attend me, she tells me with her mind.
It’s not as strong as one of her whispered commands, but I give into it and take my place against the wall across from her, forced to stare at the bald patch on Bartholomeus’s head as he claims his seat.
A flickering solar lantern in the centre of the table casts a shadow across the wall behind Madame Vera. It’s sharp and jagged, bending and twisting around the stone column.
I imagine it’s what a Soul Wraith would look like to Talia. The thought of her is painful.
“Tell me,” Bartholomeus asks, leaning across the table at Madame Vera. “Did you succeed in your plan? Have you found the burial place of your ancestor?”
Madame Vera raps her nails on the wood, clearly annoyed at being held up in this place. Still, she doesn’t take her gaze off the merchant – yet another of her tactics. “I did,” she says. “It was as we suspected.”
“In Solara,” Bartholomeus breathes. “But where?”
“Beneath the Temple of Emberforge,” is all she has to say.
The temple is a sacred place – most have heard of it, but not everyone believes it’s real. Some say it’s home to an order of incredibly powerful monks, devoted to protecting artefacts and knowledge that the High Council would prefer to remain hidden.
The temple is in a village, nestled at the base of a dormant volcano, Mount Ignivor, in the southern reaches of Solara.Ashenhold, it’s called, after the layer of ash that covers its cobblestone streets and stone buildings.
I suppose it makes sense for Valerius to have been buried there. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of the public’s reach.
Bartholomeus is on his feet, pacing around the table. His smile widens, revealing a mouthful of gold and silverteeth. “At last, we have our destination.” He rubs his hands together. “Tonight, we will celebrate. Raise a toast to your victory, and your escape. I trust myPeonytreated you well on the Sea of Storms? She might be the smallest in my fleet, but she’s always been fast.”
“Your vessel sufficed, yes,” Madame Vera says.
“Sufficed? My dear Vera, she carried you to freedom! The entire Principal Guard is up in arms over what transpired on the island. What happened there?”
He gestures to a newspaper lying carelessly on the table. I lean forward to read the headline, but I don’t even take in the words. The front-page image has me pinned. It’s a photo of a young girl with wide eyes and tousled hair. Talia. She looks fragile, barely staying upright within the grasp of a soldier.
The photo must’ve been taken the day she got arrested, because she’s still wearing her uniform from the Reckoning.
Even though the newspaper is printed in black and white, the photo shows a dark bruise spreading around her left cheekbone; a thin trickle of blood carving a path across her lips. The sight eats at me from the inside.I did that to her.
“That girl,” Bartholomeus says, tapping the paper, “the Emo you left on the island to take the fall has somehow escaped from the palace dungeons.” His voice drips with disdain, but his words are the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all day.Talia escaped?
Madame Vera’s face contorts with surprise, but sheswiftly smooths it into an expression of disinterest. “Surprising, but not overly worrisome.”
Just then, the other two figures appear from the shadows, carrying trays laden with wine goblets.
Madame Vera downs a glass and inhales before standing. “Taron, dear,” she says, “it would seem the two of us need to talk.”
“How so?” I ask, mimicking her calm.
She studies me. “What did you tell the girl while you were in the tournament? How much does she know about our plan?”
