I reach out with shaking fingers and touch the toe of Kartok’s slipper. His stubbled cheeks redden as a beautiful lacy crusting of frost overtakes the beadwork. I want to gloat, but only a rasp of breath escapes my scalded throat. Finally I manage to wheeze, “Do you still haveperfect faithin Zemya?”
“Do not speak ill of the goddess!” Kartok flings his arms to the sides and the sky-blue walls of the throne room splinter like broken glass. I close my eyes and take a final, gasping breath, waiting for seawater to rush in and pummel me. But the deluge doesn’t come. Not a single drop of blue-black water seeps through the cracks. Instead I see moving shadows and refracted light. I hear low murmurs and dragging chains. IknewI couldn’t be the only prisoner, but the replica of the throne room is so convincing, I had almost started to believe the sorcerer’s lies.
Now I see the truth: I am surrounded by dozens of identical glass cells, most of which are occupied by Ashkarian warriors. Though, I do spy a few gray-clad Shoniin and even some Zemyans. They are always pale, sickly looking people, but these Zemyans’ veins glow blue beneath their translucent skin—like the jellyfish that glide through the water beyond—as if they haven’t seen the sun in half a lifetime.
Most shocking of all, however, is the sound of far-off singing. The melody is distorted by the water and the glass, but it’s a song I know by heart: the music of my childhood. Every night, Papá would croon the soothing lullaby at my bedside until I drifted off to sleep. The words are different, of course—strange Zemyan lyrics that are too smooth and menacing—but the tune wraps around me like a sheath around a sword. Snug and protective.
The singer is a Zemyan woman, kneeling with her hands pressed against the glass. On the other side, an imperial warrior, who looks as small as our youngest recruits, kneels in the same manner, palms held up to the woman’s. The child’s slim shoulders shake in their unmistakable blue and gold, and the louder they cry, the louder the woman sings. Her voice rings out, strong and clear, and pops of color burst from her fingers and spread through the glass between them like a watercolor painting.
The colors form the fuzzy image of a dove and a lion, the characters from the song, and they twist in a dizzying whirl that’s both haunting and mesmerizing.
Beautiful.It’s the only word to describe it. But itcan’tbe beautiful because Zemyan magic is vile.Wrong.
With a loud clap from Kartok, the cracks in the throne room knit back together, blotting out the other prisoners.
“You can’t leave me here to rot like them,” I say, my voice gaining conviction. “My powerwillrebuild—there’s nothing you can do to stop it—and when it does, I’ll obliterate this prison.”
“Impossible,” Kartok says, but his reply is a second too slow. A note too high. “Even if you managed to break the barriers, you’ll never survive the sea.”
I flash a vicious grin. “That’s fine, because neither will you.”
Kartok’s nostrils flare. He makes his way over to the wall, fiddling with the knobs I can’t for the life of me find. “This can be as simple or as difficult as you choose,” he says as he pulls a lever. Instead of opening the glass passageway, a panel in the floor slides and an unremarkable tub rises into the room. Water sloshes over the edges and the bitter stench of Zemyan magic is overwhelming. It reminds me of wet horses and moldy tents. “You can cooperate and avoid further pain. Or you can suffer.” He points to the tub. “Either way, I’ll extract the information I need.”
“Is this the only method of torture in Zemya? Or are you that unimaginative? The hot-spring water doesn’t even suppress my ice.”
“But it does affect your body. And a weakened body cannot wield volatile power.”
“To what end? Why not kill me and be done with it?” I don’t actually want to die, nor do I plan to, but if I can’t worm my way out of here, I’d rather a quick death than weeks of suffering as the hot-spring water slowly melts me from the inside out.
“I need your help. And if the hot spring is not effective, we must explore other options.”
“I won’t help you with anything,” I retort.
“You don’t have a choice,” Kartok says. “Where will the Kalima warriors go now that Sagaan has fallen?”
I shake my head and smirk at him. “Hunting them is a waste of time. Your hot spring won’t strip their powers either. They may not be as strong as I am, but they’re not as weak as you—or your goddess.”
I brace for a livid slap, but after a tense moment, Kartok settles back on his haunches and appraises me with unnerving amusement. “I never pegged you as the noble and forgiving type….”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have no reason to protect the Kalima. In fact, you should want to punish them for abandoning you. This could be your revenge. Show them what happens when they cross you.”
“They did what needed to be done for the well-being of Ashkar,” I grind out, even though abandoning me wasnotin the country’s best interest, and I’d love nothing more than to see every one of them thrown into this Zemyan prison pit. But unlike those double-crossing cowards, I am actually thinking about the empire. And, like it or not, Ashkar needs their powers. If the Kalima are captured and killed, we won’t have a prayer of ousting the Zemyans.
“Give me the rendezvous point,” Kartok insists.
“Clearly,the Kalima don’t want me to join them.” I hold out my arms for emphasis. “Do you honestly think they’d meet anywhere I’d know about?”
Kartok’s scruffy jaw tightens. He scowls down at me as if I’m a cockroach in the rice bin. “How pitiful—to be so thoroughly despised by your own soldiers.”
“Every commander is despised. You’re delusional if you think you’re any different. No one likes being told what to do. And no one will follow a lenient, indecisive leader. We must be brutal. Exacting. Your soldiers wouldn’t hesitate to leave you on the steps of the Sky Palace, wrapped in ribbons for King Tyberion, if that’s what suited them best.”
“You forget your Sky King isdead.”
The word zings through me like a bolt of Eshwar’s lightning.
“Wasn’t it your duty to protect him, Commander?” Kartok prods. “You should have seen his body … mutilated on the frosty cobblestones.”
