“No, thank the gods.” Her smile dims. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look pale.”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” I say, my eyes drifting to Taliesin.
The rebels have eased him into a chair beside the fire. Arianell bustles forward, handing him a bowl of stew, while another presses a flask into his hands. When she passes me, she motions at the chair beside him.
“You should get some rest yourself,” she says heartily, though I can see the concern in her eyes.
“I will.” My voice echoes off the stones. “What is this place?”
“Brawychus Castle. Ever heard of it?” Arianell asks.
I shake my head.
“Figures.” Rhian grunts. “The Order will keep a tight lid on this one.”
I gaze around. Despite its creeping emptiness, I can’t see anything out of the ordinary about this place. If anything, its towering walls and curving, gold-painted ceilings give the sense that this would be a coveted piece of land. One kings would fight over, rather than avoid.
“There was a massacre here,” Arianell says. “This was once the home of the king’s brother. He invited the king himself, the High Swynwragedd, and other members of the Order for a celebration. They say a rebel attacked and killed everyone inside, even the servants. Only the king escaped, but he’s avoided it ever since. Pretends it doesn’t exist.”
A shiver goes down my spine. “Awful story.”
“Only thing is,” Arianell says, tapping her chin, “it never sat right with me. This secret, murderous rebel.”
“Ah, here she goes,” Rhian mutters.
“How could one of us pull that off by herself?” She shakes her head. “No, I think it was the king.”
Suddenly, the world goes dark at the edges. One moment I’m looking at Arianell. The next, I swear Osian’s familiar golden eyes are staring right back at me. I blink, and the vision is gone. Then I blink again, and it has returned.
“Angharad,” he says. “The talisman isn’t working. Tell me where you are.”
I shake my head, my mouth parting in shock.
“Tell me,” he says—this time more demanding.
I press a trembling hand to the back of my neck. Pain bursts through me like a poisonous bite. I try to dig it out, to tear it free, but there’s nothing to grab. My fingers merely slide across the metal and my sweat-slick skin.
I stumble sideways. My body folds like it’s made of leaves.
The ground opens beneath me and swallows me whole.
32
End the exile.
A voice whispers in my mind. I roll over and press my hands to my ears, hating the shape of those words.End the exile.They come again, louder this time. Then louder still, swelling into a shout that rattles my skull. I flinch so hard it jars my bones.
And wakes me up.
My eyes fly open. Gasping, I bolt upright, my hair a tangled, sweat-damp mess around my face. Deep breath in, long breath out. There’s a ringing in my ears, but it’s no worse than those words.
Those three terrible words.
But I am not in Caer Draen, not trapped in the High Swynwragedd’s study, not signing away my fate for an assignment I still don’t fully understand. I’m here instead, which is…a small, drafty room with a bed squashed beneath a window that looks out over the sea. Sunlight glimmers across the waves. The panes rattle in their frame, and a persistent chill seems to cover everything. Somewhere below, the steady murmur of voices drifts upward.
Everything comes rushing back.
Last night, Taliesin and I dragged ourselves into the rebels’ new camp before promptly collapsing—both of us. Someone must have carried me here afterward, tucking the thick woollen blanket around me to block out the worst of the chill.
