I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to throw myself between them. Except that would be ridiculous. I owe Hadassah nothing.
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t catch you? Or see through this pitiful disguise?” Kartok shakes Hadassah harder and skin sags from her arms like melting cream. Her cheeks slough off in a long, thin coil that resembles the skin of a snake. I watch in horror as piece after piece of her pools into a clump on the floor until a young man stands in Hadassah’s place. And not just any young man.
The Zemyan prince, Ivandar.
Nausea grips my throat. I gasp, then immediately hate myself for betraying how well the prince’s deception worked. How stupid and gullible I am.
Fury rages through me, hotter than an entire cask of hot-spring water.
It’s all so glaringly obvious now: why Hadassah smelled of expensive perfume and had the courage to speak so boldly. How she had the physical strength to drag me back from the tunnel, and why she was so obsessed with uncovering Kartok’s plans. A servant could never have a prayer of intervening, but aprincedoes.
And I helped him. I knew better than to let my guard down—I didn’t tell Hadassah much. But I wouldn’t have sharedanythingwith the Zemyan heir—not even to save my own life.
I appraise Ivandar again—his gauzy shirt the color of the sea and his fine linen pants, his harshly chiseled features and his towering height. He is the opposite of Hadassah in every way, except for those clear, icy blue eyes, which are currently fixed on Kartok with loathing.
The only thing he and I have in common.
Ivandar wriggles free from Kartok’s grip and whirls on him. “I know you’ve been experimenting on the commander with hot-spring water. I know you’re trying to stop the First Gods from bestowing power on the Kalima warriors. Why?”
Kartok’s eyes cut to me for an instant. A flash of annoyance. But his voice remains even. He folds his arms and leans against the wall. “Why do you think? It will be much easier to win the war if we don’t have to contend with a snow squall or ice storm every time we face the Ashkarians in battle.”
“If that’s the case, why experiment down here in secret? Why not flaunt your ingenious plans before my mother and the people? The only logical answer is ambition. My throne will be easier to seize if you’re the hero who vanquished the Kalima. But it can’t look intentional.”
Kartok quietly clucks his tongue. “Oh, Your Highness, you’re so ignorant and oblivious. I couldn’t care less about sitting on any throne. My only goal is to serve and honor Zemya. It’s sad, really, that your insecurity has driven you to consort with prisoners. What would your mother say?”
“What would my mother say about all ofthis?” The prince gestures wildly around the replicated throne room.
They’re so caught up in their argument, they’ve completely forgotten me, huddled in my chair. I rise with excruciating slowness and creep toward the wall.
“The empress would say I’m doing my duty,” Kartok replies. “You are the only one with unfounded—”
“Why do you havethat?” Ivandar points at the tattered book tucked under Kartok’s arm. While both of them scowl at it, I slink closer. Closer. Focused on the long, curved blade hanging from Kartok’s hip. “The Psalms of Zemya are never to leave the sanctuary!” Ivandar exclaims. “Never to be touched by anyone other than the current ruler. This is an act of treason!”
Ivandar lunges for the book, but Kartok easily whisks it out of reach. “The empress gave me permission. We’re so close to achieving—”
“My mother would never do such a thing,” Ivandar argues. But his voice has lost its hard edge of certainty. It’s thick and warbling with hurt. “If you’re following my mother’s orders with exactness, why not tell me your plans? Let me help. Prove that I can trust you.”
I hold my breath and shuffle the final few steps—stopping just behind Kartok. My hands tremble with anticipation. If escape is out of the question, I’m going to bring this vile palace crashing into the sea and take both of these idiots with me. I even have the means: Kartok’s dagger is forged of Zemyan steel. Imbued with his magic. If anything is strong enough to break the enchantment on these prison walls, it’s this weapon, born of the same creator.
I know I won’t survive the aftermath—if the enchanted steel doesn’t impale me, I’ll be swept into the raging sea and drowned. But the Zemyan heir and the empress’s foremost advisor won’t survive either, not even if they can swim, because I intend to freeze the water and entomb them beneath the surface. Thanks to Kartok’s strange healing magic, ice is once again crackling through my fingertips. Not much, but hopefully enough to perform this one, final act.
To claim this one, final victory.
Even if the Zemyan army continues to advance and take the continent, the destruction of these prominent men will be irrefutable evidence that I was the strongest Kalima warrior. Proof that my comrades were wrong to turn their backs on me. Even if Ashkar falls, everyone will tell stories of the last commander of the Kalima warriors, who killed two-thirds of Zemya’s rulers from within the dungeon.
I picture my parents, hearing the news. Receiving condolences that are actually declarations of praise. Commissioning a concerto in my name that will play forever after.
I’ll die knowing I made them proud.
That thought gives me the courage to leap.
I dive into the back of Kartok’s knees and my fingers dart through the folds of his cloak like a snake, coiling around the hilt of the sword. He’s heavier than I anticipated, but I manage to bring him to the ground. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, giving me time to free the sword and roll away.
Kartok shouts something, but I can’t hear it over the roar of my pulse. It drums in my head. Faster every second. He reaches for me, his long, knobby fingers tangling in my hair. I swing the blade behind my head and sever my ponytail with a swish. Hoping Kartok’s fingers came off with it.
“What are you doing?” Ivandar cries. He looks completely bewildered. Like he honestly believed I’d perish without a fight.
With a roar that explodes from the depths of my gut—the place where I stored every hope and dream and ambition I had for my life—I drive Kartok’s blade into the wall.
