Thank you, Emry replied in her head, somehow not at all startled by this strange turn of events. After all, she’d already conversed with a boat.

“Perhaps,” continued the Lady, “you would like to see our famous soap?”

Emry barely caught herself before laughing aloud.

CHAPTER 18

As Emry followed a young priestess through the cloister, she tried not to worry about Arthur, whom she’d left with the Lady of the Lake. Instead, she forced herself to concentrate on what the girl was saying.

“. . . which is why our waters here are sacred. Any injured traveler that the lake allows across may bathe their wounds and take their cure.”

The priestess threw a lingering glance over her shoulder at Emry.

Really? Emry repressed a sigh. The girl couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

At least it meant her disguise was holding, despite the mysterious magic of the isle. With nearly every turn through the vaulted corridor, Emry caught clusters of young girls peering at her curiously, whispering and giggling behind their hands. So she acted as her brother would have, and adopted a cocky grin as though enjoying the attention.

“So the magic water heals them,” Emry summarized, with that maddening confidence boys always seemed to have toward subjects they knew nothing about.

The girl hesitated. “Not exactly,” she said, her hand on an elaborately carved knob to a wooden door. “The waters do little to ease their suffering, as they only heal physical wounds.”

The room was arched and made entirely of stone, like an ancient treasure vault, and the air was thick with steam. In its center sat a dark, thick oblong pool of water. The pool smelled faintly of minerals, but also of deep, pungent spices and ancient magic. Ribbons of mist curled from its surface, beckoning her nearer.

Emry stared down at the smooth surface, feeling a strong urge to walk closer, to look closer . . . no. That was the magic pulling her. She shook her head, clearing it, and took a step back, trying to remember what the priestess had just said. Something about suffering.

“What—um—what wounds can’t the water heal?” Emry asked.

“To brush so close to death, to undertake such a desperate quest to live, many never recover,” the girl went on. “They find themselves . . . haunted . . . by their own minds.”

Emry followed the girl to an enormous wooden cabinet, which was carved with stags and flowers. The girl solemnly opened the doors, revealing stacks of translucent soap. The bars were rectangular in shape, and they gave off the unmistakably spicy scent of magic.

“Wow,” Emry said politely. “Lots of soap.”

“We ask the travelers to bathe with it, as it eases suffering of the mind.”

“Oh, so it’s magic soap,” Emry said, thinking of the healing potions Master Ambrosius had promised she’d start learning next week.