“I haven’t read it yet,” I say. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s Sophos giving me a time and place to meet.” I glance across the rooftops, back toward Grove Street. “Should you be leaving the den, when you only just got it back?”
Corrin waves his hand. “I’ve got Vasily and Warren guarding it with Lana. Besides, the clerics aren’t likely to try returning in a hurry if they think the gods are involved. It’ll be safe enough for me to leave it while we go to meet the bearer.”
“You still want to come?” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, hiding the stupid hope in it.
“I made a promise to Her Highness,” Corrin says. “And I might not have made a promise to you…” He holds out his hands, as if searching for the words—or perhaps the courage—needed to continue. “But I will if you want me to,” he finishes.
My breathing’s shallow as I look out across the city. The golden light of the setting sun warms my face. I don’t think I can give him the answer he wants yet, but if he’s really in this with us, then maybe there’s some hope on the horizon.
“Alright. Let’s go see a bearer,” I say, turning to meet his gaze. “Together.”
Chapter 22
Morgana
Seagulls circle over the Potamis River, their high-pitched cries rising above the noise around the city walls. People jostle us, giving us barely a second glance on our old mares and cheap ponies—just another set of weary travelers.
Yet as I gaze up at the large arch that houses the northern gate into Elmere, a prickle of horror runs through me as I make out the shapes hanging above the city gates. Bodies—three of them—in various states of decomposition, their gray faces bloated, limbs swollen and rotting. Now I understand what’s got the gulls so excited. I quickly avert my eyes as one of the birds swoops toward the corpses, but not before I read the placards hanging from each of their necks.
Heretic.
“They’re new,” Stratton comments dryly as we ride underneath the arch, stopping at the gates beside a royal guard.
“Name and purpose of your visit?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Leon. Even with his glamour and plain cloak, he looks like trouble.
Leon’s about to answer when the soldier straightens, glaring past us toward a group of young men lining up behind our horses.
“You there, what did you just say?” the guard jabs a finger at one of the confused youths.
“Excuse me,” Phaia starts to speak, but the guard just waves us through, too focused on reprimanding the young man to pay attention to us.
“What did you make him hear?” Tira murmurs to Hyllus out the corner of her mouth.
“He thinks that man said something very unpleasant about his mother,” Hyllus says mildly. “I’d better not repeat it.”
Tira snorts, but she’s quickly distracted by the sights and sounds of Elmere. She’s never been here before, and I’m reminded of the day, all those months ago, when I rode in a carriage up the main avenues straight toward the palace. That day, I’d been overwhelmed by everything the city had to offer, but now I don’t dwell on the unique buildings and interesting people, too distracted by the signs of change in the capital.
“It seems my aunt’s been busy since she became queen,”I comment to Leon when we pass the third sanctuary in as many blocks. It’s clearly been converted from another building, a scythe hastily carved above the doorway.
Elmere used to be relatively free of the Temple’s influence, but now it’s everywhere, from the bodies on the gates to the flash of red robes I keep spotting in the crowds. Oclanna has made sure the city has welcomed Caledon’s cult with open arms.
It doesn’t do much to lift my spirits. After Siga, we made contact with the Hand’s network, which got us back north without the Temple finding us, though it was slow going. Even with our safety secured, we traveled under a black cloud of defeat. Siga was a disaster—a great victory snatched from our grasp, literally, and all I have to show for it is a freshly healed scar on my back and the memory of those dead clerics on the riverbank.
I still don’t feel guilty about killing them, not when it was necessary to protect myself and my friends, yet I think about them often. I find myself wondering exactly how deep I’ll have to dig into the darkness inside me for this war. I unleashed my new power that day, letting it run free and unfettered, but it still didn’t keep the seal in our hands. Will I ever be able to do enough—push myself far enough—to win this fight?
I know Leon’s experiencing a lot of my uncertainty secondhand across the mooring. Of course, he takes a much more pragmatic approach, but that’s where his life experience and mine separates us. He knows who he is, but I was only just figuring that out before the world started forcing identities on me: princess, heretic, rebel, death bringer.
Now we’re in Elmere for me to claim another title: Queen of Trova.
I’m aware of the palace up on the hill, watching over us as we slip through the streets. I’m glad when we finally reach our destination, hitching our horses at a cheap livery yard down the road first, then proceeding to the address the Hand’s network gave us.
Like most of the Hand’s safehouses, you’d never look at it twice. The small house is made of rough gray stone with brown shutters on the windows. Stratton knocks, and the door is quickto open. A human woman with short hair and a round face surveys us for an instant, then leaves the door ajar so we can follow her inside. There, in a small upstairs sitting room, sit my brother and Alastor.
I hug Harman extra tight, wanting to prolong this happy moment before I have to tell him what’s happened. But he senses something’s wrong right away, drawing back to study my face.
“You didn’t find the seal?” he asks.
“Worse,” I say.
