“But why do you care?” Elloven marveled at the man. He should elicit within her some sort of longing for warmth, some deeply hidden desire to be cared for and protected. But all she felt was annoyance and, even sadder, apathy. He was a stranger. The best she could muster was fatigue for what was yet another dazzling disappointment in her journey of self-discovery. “Three children you created with Shioven—and thought nothing of what their lives would be like. They say you wander the balustrades crying for her, but what of your sons and daughter? How many tears have you spared us? How much of yourself have you drained into the stones lamenting our fates?”
Laxius sat back, humbled. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly.”
“I feel nothing,” she snapped back. “Nothing for you. Nothing for Shioven.” The last part wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter. “You both knew the consequences, but you weren’t thinking of your children. So no, Laxius of the Twilight Sparrows or Eagles or... No, I don’t feel strongly about either of you. I save those feelings for the ones who bothered to love and raise us.”
A slow breath trickled from a gap in his lips. “Yes. All right. I do owe Esmeray and the Easterlands baron for their commitment to you. I suspect your fate would have been realized sooner without them.”
“His name was Wilder Hawthorne.”
He nodded, glancing down in reflection. “Illumina will not last forever.”
Elloven burst out laughing. “I hold up a mirror, and you slink away. At last, I know where my weakness comes from.”
Laxius wrapped his hands tight around the cushion and pushed himself to stand. “If you do see your mother, tell her?—”
“What did your brother and mine want with me? What would they have done if Ryquin hadn’t dealt with me first?”
His head shook at the ground. “It no longer matters. You’re here, and?—”
“I will not be your messenger in addition to your afterthought.” She leaped to her feet. “I wouldn’t trust your answer anyway. Call back your sentinels, Laxius. Illumina won’t last forever.”
Weak men were either useless or dangerous, and she’d known her share of both. She’d been wrong to assume he was the source of her weakness though; she’d received nothing from him. There was no sadness in the revelation. They’d arrived with a measure of peace. Now she knew who he was and who he could never be. Seeing things and people as they were was far better than waiting for them to be what she needed.
He raised a weary hand. A door formed in the curved wall, and two sentinels appeared on either side. “See that she is escorted safely to the gates. If our fickle overlord cuts short the daylight, see her to her havre.”
They retreated to the side.
“I wish it all could have been different,” Laxius said meekly. He wouldn’t even look at her.
“You can keep your wishes,” she answered as she passed him by. “They resolve nothing and mean less.”
His silence followed her out the door but no farther.
Jesstin didn’t think he’d been knocked out. He wasn’t sore. No hazy sluggishness of having been drugged. He was actually the most rested he’d felt in a while. But he had no memory at all of anything after his agreement with the Conductor until he’d woken up in a giant wheel enclosed in glass.
The “wheel” was as tall as a two-story structure, with no evident way to climb out or escape. She had called it a cell, as he’d signed his family away with his blood. But the wheel’s purpose was mystifying. What was the point of it? To distract him before his trials?
If he pushed hard enough on the curvature, would he roll? Where?
Jesstin estimated about ten feet of width where his bedroll was—enough to move around—and, standing, he could walk roughly the same distance left or right before the curve stopped him. Beyond the thick-paned windows was nothing but darkness. The only sound was his own breathing.
He traced and tapped his fingers along the wood grain of the inner wheel, searching for a soft spot, a hidden door... anything that might serve as an explanation for how he got in or how to get out.
The wheel groaned and began to move. Jesstin tried to brace, but his arms didn’t stretch long enough to reach both sides, so he crouched and moved with the wheel’s turn as it traveled, arduously, into the dark, making him feel an awful lot like the rat Gennady had rescued as a pup. They’d built it a little wheel for it to run on, endless entertainment for both the rat and the boys watching.
How many were watching him, entertained?
The wheel came to a screeching halt. Jesstin was thrown forward, then backward as it settled, finally landing on his bedroll in an inelegant back tuck. The wood in front of him creaked, and a door formed that had not been there before. Lines appeared around the perimeter, backed by a bright light, and a chunk of wood popped outward with a hollow thud.
He palmed the sides of the freshly hewn exit, peeked out, and found the same opaque view. But once his boots hit soft ground—dirt—the world came to life piece by piece, materializing with his steps like candles flickering on, revealing a lush, verdant forest. The cheerful morning birdsong was disorienting, like he’d dreamed up the netherworld and was back in his own life.
A sign materialized on his left, dangling from a leafy arbor with gilded blossoms. Follow the path to the river and be cleansed in the waters.
Jesstin required no cleansing from any waters, but like everything else, this existed for his benefit.
Or detriment.
He was in it now though, and the only way out was through.
