And then what? She ran through all she’d learned of Valorian. West was Duke’s Forest; north were the Wastelands; east, she thought, promised trading ports and military posts. But the south … yes. Emris had said the islands were wild and foreign; perhaps there she might have half a chance of leaving herself behind, of disappearing.

Is that what I want, to disappear? Lena shook her head. She was finally beginning to feel like herself. Would she really be forced to throw all that away?

EIGHTEEN

Truth

Constance woke in the evening, her hand resting in Xander’s. He was sleeping, his face ashen and pale. The light was dying, and it had started to rain, water trickling down the walls into her cell.

“You’re a physician,” she said to Dr. Thorn. “What’s the matter with Lord Irvine?”

“I can’t be sure without examining him. But I’d hazard a guess he’s bleeding internally. I’ve seen men beaten like that before.”

As she’d suspected. “And what does that mean?” she asked quietly.

“For his chances? I’d be surprised if he lasts the night.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped, running a hand through her hair, unbound and matted around her shoulders, her hairpins all fallen or twisted.

“Just because it’s painful doesn’t make it any less true,” he replied calmly. And he lay down on the straw, turning his face to the wall, cradling his gloved hand as if it was hurting.

Constance concentrated on eating the meal she’d been brought a few hours ago, disgusted at the dry, mealy bread and the brackish water—but forcing it down to keep up her strength. A puddle had formed beneath her cell window—a product of the rain running down the walls. She’d had an idea. If the girl had followed her instructions, she ought to have found Emris, and he would have taken her back to the City of Kings. If she could only send him word …

She gazed at the puddle. The light down here was fading, but it might be just enough.

It was worth a try. It was dangerous: without an enchanted mirror, the entire operation relied on her own magical resources. But what choice did she have?

She knelt over the dimly lit puddle and plucked a few strands of straw from its surface. Lowering her face, she glimpsed her pale reflection swimming unsteadily in the dirty water.

Her magic pulsed under her skin, thrumming through the metal of her left arm. She touched the puddle gently with her hand, feeling the wetness against her fingertips and releasing a glittering liquid magic onto the water. She imagined the temple, the mirror in Emris’s room—the familiar furnishings, the rugs, the bed. She pushed her vision into the magic.

“Emris Lochlade,” she whispered, breathing on the puddle’s surface.

And slowly an image emerged, dim and indistinct but undeniably there.

“Emris?”