Stop saying my name, you slimy prick—
“Your power, your blood, will lead us right to it.”
Without another word, and with his henchmen following a mere step behind him, Kaazhim set off down the pale road towards the heart of the city.
“We could run,” I whispered to Kamaal.
“Not without the journal,” he replied, and followed the gentry into Riverren.
Ignoring every instinct, and reminding myself I stood to gain as much as I risked, I followed the men into the fae city. And like I had each time I’d ventured into Morysen, I felt eyes following me.
CHAPTER 24
AMEIRAH
Iwanted to tell Kaazhim he was full of shit, but the deeper we got into the river city, the more I felt somethingtugat me. I didn’t know how I was linked to this journal, and the gentry volunteered no more information. But I couldn’t deny that something in my chest guided me over a broad, shop-lined bridge, down a paved road the same colour as the delicate white flowers that grew in every available green space, and past merchants hawking food I’d never smelled the likes of, books bound in unfamiliar styles, glassware that resembled trees so accurately I ached to take one home, and fabrics so unlike the clothes in Ithanys—light, airy, with thread that glittered like jewels bound into the weave itself.
If the architecture, the lightness of the air, and the cool temperature hadn’t told me we were on a new continent, the flowing, gossamer clothing we saw all around us would have—and so would the pointed ears and thewingson every person we passed. We earned a few strange looks for our leathers, ourstained appearances, and our lack of wings. Not membranous, tough, and clawed like the wings of wyverns. Fragile and pretty like paintings on vellum.
“Which way now?” Kamaal asked when we reached a crossroads where street vendors had set up carts, his expression hard as he scanned the perfectly straight white buildings, the milling groups of families, and the man who cooked what looked to be rice balls on the street corner. Whatever they were filled with smelled so good that my stomach groaned. Or maybe anything would smell good when I’d been locked up for a night and provided no food.
I took a moment to breathe, to feel the tug in my middle, and I startled when a warm brown hand appeared in my peripheral vision, holding out a cup of those rice balls. I eyed the cup—and Kaazhim—suspiciously.
“No, thank you,” I said even as my stomach growled.
“You’re starving.”
“Whose fault is that?” I hissed, ignoring Kamaal’s warning look. “You tortured me, ripped my magic out of me until I blacked out, and then I have no doubt you helped the king throw me in his dungeon.”
He took a rice ball and popped it in his mouth, making my hunger spike. He made a point of swallowing. “I petitioned for you to be given a different prison in my home, where you’d have freedom of movement under my keen eye.”
“I bet you did,” I spat, not missing the flash in the prince’s eye. So he didn’t know Kaazhim and his father tortured me. It didn’t surprise me; Bakshi seemed a veryneed to know basiskind of guy. “They’re not poisoned, as I just proved. Eat.”
I had no choice but to accept the cup when Kaazhim thrust it into my gloved hand. He ignored my flaring nostrils, my obvious hatred.
“This way,” I bit out, following the pull in my chest and leading us further into the city’s northern streets, where the trees became thicker, the street stalls giving way to broad rows of brick-and-mortar shops with colourful glass fronts.
When my gut cramped, the pang so painful I inhaled sharply through my nose, I took a tiny bite of a rice ball. I told myself it was the smart choice, that I didn’t know when my next meal would come, but it felt like a betrayal to myself to eat food given by the monster who tortured me. Yet when soft, sticky rice hit my tongue, along with a sweet, addictive filling, I devoured it and reached for another.
“You’re certain this is the way?” Kamaal asked, falling into step beside me on the pearl-white pavement, tension in every line of his body and eagle-sharp eyes scanning the pretty street.
“I’m sure.” The pull in my chest was unwavering. Stronger, actually, less like the whisper of a sensation and more like a distant shout, urging me closer, calling me home. I shook my head to clear the oddness of that feeling. “The journal is close. It’s—”
My voice dried up, a lump taking up all the space in my throat as the next shop we passed brought a window full of dragon opal jewellery and hanging works of art made of glass and the precious stone. Faceted gems lined the edges of a vibrant green butterfly that hung beside a rose made of purple opals far larger than I’d ever seen, cut with so many edges that they glittered brighter than stars.
“Ameirah?” Kamaal asked.
I’d halted in front of the shop, I realised, staring at those purple stones, struggling to breathe. I tried to swallow, tried to blink back the hot burning in my eyes.
“Why are we stopping?” Kaazhim demanded, his snake’s voice scraping my senses like a garotte. Snapping what was left of my temper.
I whirled around, my left hand gripping the paper cup so hard it crumpled, my right curled into a fist. I put so much power in the blow, so much rage and hurt, that Kaazhim was knocked back two steps. I knocked him off the pavement entirely, and his gentry lackeys were forced to catch him.
“Enough,” I breathed, but far from softly. “You cannot find the journal for the king unlessIlead you directly to it, which means you have no power here. Stop speaking, stop dripping your poison, stop with the remarks and barbs. I amtired,and I’m liable to kill all of you.”
My smile was as dangerous as a viper. I dared him to argue, to give me one single reason to end his life.
“Delightful,” Kaazhim commented after a moment of fraught silence. He seemed to truly mean it as a wide smile filled his face. “Lead the way, Ameirah, with whatever detours you see fit. The king shall have to be patient.”
