Danashti barks something at him and points to the water chariot. He scowls but stomps in that direction like a pouting child, though he must be as old as I am. The empress follows. Kartok kicks my backside and forces me to crawl after them on my hands and knees.
The Zemyan throng crows with delight. Every time I attempt to stand, Kartok knocks me down again. I drag myself through the rough sand and broken shells, leaving a trail of blood.
He shoves me into the belly of the water chariot and steps in behind me, purposely grinding his boots on my fingers as we skim toward the coral palace.
The ride is short, and no one says a word.
The moment we dock on the opposite side of the palace, away from the crowd, Kartok grabs my manacles, hefts me onto the landing, and drags me toward a door hidden in the protrusions of coral.
The prince is right on our heels, shouting and gesticulating. He’s speaking too quickly for me to pick out many words, but again, only a few are necessary. “Enemy. Suspicion. Plans.”
They’re arguing over who gets the pleasure of torturing me. How nice.
Kartok growls something over his shoulder. The prince tosses his hands and turns to his mother. Empress Danashti looks between the men for a silent minute before nodding at Kartok.
With a smug grin, the Zemyan general propels me through the hidden door. I can still hear the prince shouting after it bangs shut. Muttering under his breath, Kartok yanks me down a narrow staircase, though I don’t understand how we’re descending. As far as I could see, there’s nothing below the palace but water, which is bad news for me.
I can’t swim.
No Ashkarian can. There’s no need and nowhere to learn; the Amereti is the only river, and it barely reaches my hips.
My heart drums and my breaths rasp when the stairs empty into a room surrounded entirely by water. Nothing but flimsy walls of glass to hold back the crashing, crushing blue. Water doesn’t appear to be seeping in through the walls, but I still hunch inward and step carefully, listening for a crack. A drip.
“Afraid of the water,Commander?” Kartok asks with a chuckle. “I’ll remember that.” An invisible door slides open and he motions me down an even smaller, more suffocating tunnel. I trip through it as fast as my bonds allow and gasp when I emerge on the other end.
It’s worse than a prison cell or even another room of glass.
I am standing in the center of the throne room at the Sky Palace.
I gape down the long, vaulted hall. Shake my head at the gradient blue walls and hand-painted clouds. Run a finger along the empty golden throne, and shudder beneath the face molds of our country’s greatest warriors, dangling from the ceiling on invisible strings. I always used to think the masks looked down on me with pride. Kinship. Inviting me to one day join their ranks.
Now their eyes are slitted with condemnation. Snarling with hatred.
You failed the Sky King.
I lean over and vomit.
“You don’t like it?” Kartok pouts. “But I made it especially for you. I want you to be comfortable.”
“Get your poisonous magic out of my head!” I roar. “Where am I really? What is this place?”
There are no cells. No bars of any kind. No hot pokers or instruments of torture. The lack of anything expected makes my skin prickle with unease.
None of this is possible. None of this isright.
I whirl around and dive behind a cluster of chairs where the Council of Elders usually sits. I know furniture won’t shield me from Kartok’s illusions, since the chairs themselves are an illusion, but I don’t know what else to do, so I let my instincts and training take over. Find cover, make a plan, counterattack.
The manacles make it difficult, but I twist my hands around the side of my body and curl my fingers into a fist. Under normal circumstances, my ice would chisel a saber into existence as soon as I imagined it. But the glacier that usually resides in my chest is still the size of a pebble. Sweat slathers my skin as I extract drop after pitiful drop of cold.
I shouldn’t have bothered.
The dagger that eventually crystalizes in my hand is the size of a paring knife. And so dull it could barely slice through butter. I throw it at Kartok’s head anyway, screaming with frustration.
It flies true—my aim, at least, unaffected by my depleted power—but instead of slamming into his chest, the dagger passes through him. Or maybe it disappeared altogether. I can’t tell. All I know is, it’s gone. Without a sound or trace of blood.
Kartok should be screaming in agony, but the only cry in this eerie replica of the throne room comes from me.
And it sounds like a whimper.
