“Alaric?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. There’s no whoosh of breath when I hold my hand over his lips.
“Forgive me,” I whimper. “I should have believed you, should have trustedyou. I can’t believe you saved me and retrieved Rowenna’s body, after everything I did.”
I curl forward and rest my head against Alaric’s bare chest, thinking of our first night together on the Tomb Flats. That girl would be appalled by the traitorous feelings I have now, by this scandalous brush of skin. But I’m not that girl anymore, and the girl I am now wishes I could go back and tell past Indira to spend less time doubting and distrusting, and more time embracing moments like this—burrowed in the heat of his body, listening to the soft beat of his heart against my cheek.
Thump-bump, thump-bump, thump-bump.
My eyes snap open.
I turn my head and place my other ear against his chest to be sure I’m not imagining it. And there it is: thethump-bumpof a heartbeat. Weak and fluttering but undeniable.
“He’s alive!” I say with disbelief.
Elodie lets out a happy shriek, and I shriek too, and for a second, we’re both laughing and crying for joy before the grim reality of our next hurdle sobers me.
“How are we supposed to get him down the mountain?” I ask.
Elodie looks down at Alaric, then up at me. “One step at a time.”
We leave Rowenna’s body on the mountaintop, for the time being, and each lift one of Alaric’s arms. Then we begin the slow and excruciating climb down the mountain, pulling his body behind us like a plow.
Our progress is slow. Alaric’s long legs catch on branches and boulders, and the weight of his limp body feels like a saw dragging across my back. There’s a good chance I’ll never stand completely straight again, but it’s worth it because he’s alive. Alaric isalive.And we’re almost there.
When the walls of the Fortress appear through the low-hangingclouds, I’m flooded with relief and the oddest sense of rightness at this reversal of roles. I’m carrying Alaric into the Fortress the same way he carried me the day I arrived in Vanzador.
Elodie and I collapse at the base of the city wall as the rising sun paints the outline of the mountains gold. We pound on the gate, shouting for help, crying for a healer, both of us too tired to think about the blood soaking Alaric’s clothes and smearing our hands, and how this might look.
In an instant, we’re surrounded by a swarm of guards, all of them shouting questions and accusations that I’m too exhausted to follow. The only word that matters, the only word I’m capable of saying, is “Healer!” and I shout it like a madwoman until they finally lift Alaric’s limp form and rush him through the gates.
The guards come for Elodie and me next, shouting questions and making threats as they haul us to our feet. Elodie whimpers painfully as they tie her arms behind her back. Her eyes roll with fear as they roughly yank her forward viciously. And I can’t let this happen. Can’t let her take an ounce of blame for any of it.
“She did nothing!” I shout. “Elodie Tomasko is innocent. She saved King Alaric!”
The guards eye me warily. “Does that meanyouare to blame? Is this your confession?”
I release a breath and bob my head, despite Elodie’s horrified expression, because it’s true.
I stabbed the king of Vanzador.
Forty-Nine
I follow obediently as the guards drag me into the Fortress and toss me into a prison cell deep below the castle. It’s cold, dark, and dripping, the walls hewn from solid stone.
It’s the Vanzador I expected to find—the place Rowenna invented in her letters.
Turns out it does exist, after all.
I lie down in the wet rushes and close my eyes, vaguely aware of the guards still shouting at me. One spits in my hair. But I’m too tired to respond. Too tired to explain or defend myself. I just want to sleep. I want to drift into a world of eternal sunlight and endless grass. A place without rocks, bagrava, memories, or Marauders.
A place that exists only in my dreams.
When I wake, hours or days later, it takes a moment to remember where I am. The freezing wind and cold rock make me think I’m still on the mountaintop—that the viscous puddle surrounding my head must be Alaric’s blood. But when I bolt upright, my forehead slams into the low rocky ceiling, and it all comes rushing back: the guards, gates, and shouted accusations.
I’m in prison.
For attempting to murder my husband.
