“What? Oh, nothing …” Amilia’s expression switched to one of annoyance. “This is very dangerous. Asking all these questions and nosing about. It’s risky enough ordering extra food with each meal. Someone will notice. Saldur is not a fool.”

“But what were you thinking just now, Amilia?” Thrace repeated.

“Nothing.”

“Amilia?”

The secretary frowned. “I just—Well, a few weeks ago you talked about a dark hole …”

“You think I was there—in this dungeon?”

“Don’t, Modina. Don’t think about it,” Amilia begged. “You’re too fragile.”

“I have to try. If I can remember—”

“You don’t have to do anything. This woman—she comes here—she doesn’t care about you—or what might happen. All she cares about is herself. You’ve done more than enough. If you won’t turn her in, at least let me get her out of here and away from you. Nimbus and I—”

“No,” Thrace said softly. “She needs us … and I need her.”

“Dirt,” Thrace said, and shivered.

Arista looked over. She was in the midst of trying to determine how to finish her latest letter to Hilfred when she heard the word. The empress had knelt before the open window since Amilia and Nimbus had left, but this was the first she had spoken.

“Damp, cold—terrible cold, and voices, I remember them—cries and weeping, men and women, screams and prayers. Everything was dark.” Thrace wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Splashing, I remember splashing, a hollow sound, creaking, a whirl, and the splash. Sometimes there were distant, echoing voices coming from above, falling out of a tunnel. The walls were stone, the door wood. A bowl—yes, every day a bowl—soup that smelled bad. There was so little to eat.”

Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.

“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my brother, his wife, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”

Thrace began to cry.

Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.

Fragile? Arista thought. Thrace had taken a blow that would have killed most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite would crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.

“Are you all right?” Arista asked.

“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It’s so familiar and yet …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”

“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”

The empress frowned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”

CHAPTER 16

THE VILLAGE