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One
Ivy
The room where I’m being held prisoner smells like stale perfume and blood. The latter I assume comes from the crusted red-brown smears that streak across the gilded wallpaper.
This mansion must be the residence of some noble—or used to be before my captors took it over. A couple of the men in soldier uniforms are digging through a wardrobe carved from fine marlwood, matching the elaborate frame of the four-poster bed. Shards of crystal that might have once been fancy perfume bottles litter the thick rug.
Along with the smeared blood and the broken crystal, someone has slashed into the cushions on the chairs so the stuffing spills out like fluffy guts. There’s a darker ruddy splotch in the middle of the bedsheets that I don’t want to look at too closely.
Beyond the broad picture window, all I can see is the nearby stone wall and a sprawl of empty fields beyond it. The house’s shadow stretches long in the late-afternoon sunlight.
I’m guessing this is one of the country estates I’ve heard and read about, a summer home where some exalted family could retreat when they tired of city politics.
It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been having a relaxing time here recently.
The men toss several dresses that they retrieved from the wardrobe onto the floor. Their leader peers down at them.
Lothar, the king’s secondary magical advisor and apparent head of the conspiracy to murder that king, shifts his tall, lopsided frame with a thoughtful air. I still haven’t gotten used to the asymmetry of his body, one arm missing all the way to the shoulder in one of the most extreme dedication sacrifices I’ve ever seen.
That is, one of the most extreme outside of the poor accomplices he and his supporters have had carved up to the barest edge of survival. Great God help us all, how much power can this man wield when he combines his gift with those of his victims?
I have no idea what his gift even is. So far I haven’t seen it in action, haven’t felt the tingle of magic coursing off him.
He points at a confection of sleek pewter-gray silk. “That one. Fine but not too eye-catching. Have our ‘guest’ put it on.”
His thick baritone takes on a sneering edge with the word “guest.” We both know he’s not offering any hospitality to me.
But my arms move all the same. My hands lift to yank off the plain woolen dress I was wearing when he stole me away from my companions this morning.
The wound on my side where one of Lothar’s underlings stabbed me last night aches beneath its bandage. With all my might, I scream silently at my muscles to resist.
I can’t so much as clench my jaw, let alone hold my body back.
The woman standing next to Lothar has me in the iron grip of her gift, partly fueled by the sacrificial accomplice slumped against the nearby wall beneath a shroud. Sweat gleams on Zaneta’s forehead beneath her parted dun-brown bangs and her slim fingers twist at her sides, but her control has shown no sign of ebbing.
At her silent demand, I shuck off the trousers I was using as an underskirt as well. Apparently the scourge sorcerers don’t care about my humble underclothes, because she has me pick up the silk dress without adjusting those.
I don’t have to get fully naked in front of a bunch of hostile strangers. One tiny blessing in a heap of shit.
Lothar holds up his hand, and Zaneta follows his unspoken command to stop me. He frowns at the grayed ribbon wrapped around my upper arm. “What’s that for?”
My puppet master propels an answer out of me. I don’t see any need to lie about this, but I stay brief. “A memento.”
The leader of the Order of the Wild lets out a scoffing chuckle. “I’m not indulging your sentimentality, fiend.”
He tugs off the scrap of fabric—my last remaining fragment of my little sister. A cry of protest snags in my throat, unable to burst out.
Watching me with a look of challenge as if daring me to flex my magic at him, Lothar holds the ribbon to a lantern lit on a side table. My objection crawls through my chest, digging claws into my innards, but I can’t move an inch. Can’t stir so much as a spurt of my power.
Normally in a situation as threatening as this, my chaotic magic would be wrenching at me to set it free, to let it blast apart all these villains. And in this particular case, I think I might let it, consequences be damned.
But Zaneta’s control over me is keeping my magic locked away inside me too. Actually, that’s probably what’s causing her the most strain. The restless energy wobbles around my heart like it’s set at a slow simmer, but I can’t whip it out of me.
Flames lick up the ribbon, blackening it in an instant. Lothar drops it into an empty wash basin just before the fire reaches his fingers. More smoke wisps up as the fabric crumbles away into ash.
My throat feels as if it’s clamped shut. I can barely breathe.
It’s all right. It was only a bit of cloth.
