Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“This is it?” Solange sneers.
“Yes, Second. Unless there is another stone wall of scripture that I am unaware of?” the young scribe stammers, her furtive eyes darting from Solange’s blood-covered face.
“No, this is what I was looking for.” It looks like the ones in Ulysede. “You’ve honestly never seen this?”
“I had better things to do than lurk under the guild towers, staring at walls.” Solange grimaces at the low stone ceiling as if it might close in on us at any moment, trapping us here. “As I do now.” A not-so-subtle hint to get a move on.
Taking a deep breath, I trace my fingertip over the curved lines as I’ve done so many times before. And sigh with relief as the familiar and welcome laughter rings in my ears.
“It is as you expected?” Solange asks.
“Yes.” At least I hope so. There’s only one way to know for sure and, once I pass through, I can’t come back.
How often did Gesine stand in this very place, tracing these curves?
Wondering about the past.
Hoping for the future.
When this is all said and done, someone will write a book to immortalize her. I will make sure of it. “I need every scribe here to hold another’s hand,” I say. “They cannot let go or they’ll be left behind.”
“I will see that it is done, and you are through, and then I will meet you in Argon,” Solange promises.
“Are you sure?” The guild seems stunned after the deaths of their Prime and Second and in no rush to revolt, but as Solange once warned, there are plenty of casters and motives still within these walls.
“I am the highest-ranking guild leader in Mordain at the moment. I cannot abandon Nyos in this state. Besides, someone must meet His Highness at the dock to tell him you are safe, and it cannot be Fatima.”
She’s right. He’ll believe the worst—that the guild sent a young Shadow out there while they tie me to a pyre. Besides, she’s not asking my permission. “Tell Zander I’ll see him as soon as the scribes are in Ulysede, safe.”
“I would hurry. Argon may have received word about Ybaris’s new queen, but if the guards discover who is under those Shadow uniforms, they will not hesitate to attack.”
“Right. Thank you, Solange, for all your help. And your faith in me.”
She hesitates. “As you said to the council, Your Highness, I hope you never give me reason to regret it.”
25
Atticus
It is well into the night when my ears catch soft whispers in the hallway outside my dungeon cell. I stiffen in my cot—a welcome but unexpected addition when I returned from my palace visit—and listen intently for steel sliding against scabbard.
Is this how King Cheral delivers my death?
While I sleep soundly in a bed for the last time?
A slight, feminine figure rounds the corner, the lantern in her grasp reflecting off her white nightgown as she fumbles with the key to my cell. Satoria. The king’s wife.
Where are the guards and why would they allow this?
I watch with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension as she slips in and sets the lantern down in the corner.
“If you’re here to kill me, I feel I should warn you that the element of surprise is gone,” I drawl, my voice laden with sleep.
“I am not an assassin, Atticus.” My name hangs off her whisper as she reaches up to her shoulders and unfastens the clasps there. Her gown tumbles to the floor.
“And yet you will surely get me killed for this.” I admire her naked curves as she crosses the cell, tendrils of flaxen hair loose around her shoulders. How many of those thirty-two offspring has this delightful body carried for the king? I look for hints of childbirth—silver stretch marks, wider hips—but can’t find any.
“What if I told you His Highness sent me?” She climbs onto the cot, straddling my hips with her muscular thighs.
“I would say that the wife of a Kierish king once told my father the exact same thing, and it turned out to be a terrible lie.” Well played, Cheral. An effective reminder of past betrayals.
She rolls her hips in answer. The swell of her breasts and pert nipples are highlighted in the lantern light, begging to be touched.
I groan. Thank the fates they allowed me to keep these clothes. If I were still in those scraps, I would be in grave trouble. Still, if she keeps this up, the ache in my shoulder and thoughts of Gracen might not serve as effective wards.
I grimace from pain as I pull myself up to a sitting position, bringing us to eye level with each other. That delicious mixture of jasmine and lemongrass is faint now, and it does nothing to mask a muskier scent. Even if King Cheral sent his wife here to seduce me, she is a willing participant.