She leaned her walking stick against one wall and shrugged the pack off drooping shoulders. Exhaustion set in, and she squinted at Cededa with blurry eyes. Sleep, more than hunger, called to her now. "I have enough for two more days, thank you, but the wash water would be most welcome.”

He left her to get comfortable, promising to return with the water. Imogen used the brief solitude to explore the solar. She eyed the mural that ran from one corner of the room to the other. A great wedding. An elegant bride. A crowned king with long blond hair and a ruined face, his pride and hauteur evident in his erect carriage, even in the flat rendition of his likeness on the limed wall.

She drew closer to the mural. Her fingers traced light patterns over the scarred stone where the king’s face had once been painted. Like the statue on the bridge, this had been purposefully defaced and with such violence she shivered and pulled away. The chair by the hearth beckoned, and she sank into it, relieved the fragile wood held under her weight. Her feet throbbed, and her back hurt. Teased by the air drifting in from the window, she picked at her heavy clothing before shedding the cloak, hat and gloves. Her skirts and shift still stuck to her, but at least the draft cooled her hot skin.

She leaned her head back against the chair’s top rail and waited for Cededa. Exhaustion settled in. Days of travel and sleepless nights spent outside in the cold had taken their toll. The chair felt wondrous, as luxurious as a plump mattress. She settled deeper into the seat and closed her eyes. Just a moment or two. That’s all she needed; then she would explore the room more thoroughly. Just a moment...

CHAPTER NINE

Still reeling inwardly at his first taste of mortality in more than a hundred lifetimes, Cededa leaned against the door frame and watched his guest slumber. Darkness, thick as blood and headier than poison-laced mead had rushed through him in a black wave when he pressed his fingers to Imogen's smooth skin. The sensation had almost brought him to his knees.

He'd lost count of the times he prayed for death. But gods long vanished didn't hear his entreaties; the vengeful ghosts who kept company with him in the silent city did, and their spectral mockery held no mercy. Yet something heard—and answered. The proof sat slumped in a chair, snoring softly, unaware of his scrutiny.

Her curse offered him the hope of salvation, of a true and everlasting sleep, where Tineroth's constant voice would be forever silenced and the Living Waters finally ran dry in his veins. The prideful part of him wanted to assure her he could indeed rid her of her burden and the burden of his own immortality. He was, after all, the Undying King. A mage, a great warrior. Powerful. Eternal. Instead, he'd offered a sliver of hope—the "might" in his answer and a time frame of four months. If he couldn’t break the curse by then, he’d admit defeat and send her home before the city once again vanished between time and worlds, his debt to Niamh still outstanding.