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Lothar keeps the carriage curtains drawn. I know when we’ve reached the city of Regica because he stops to step out briefly and speak to the guard at the gate.
We’re crammed tightly onto the cushioned benches within, my sorcerer puppet master sitting close enough that our elbows knock together when the wheels hit a bump. But I’m not sure I’d rather have her shrouded sacrificial accomplice or the riven-hating, lopsided magic advisor pressed up against me instead.
It’s bad enough feeling Lothar’s haughty gaze evaluating me from the opposite bench as the carriage rattles onward.
Zaneta may be able to keep my magic locked down, but she can’t control every automatic bodily reaction. My heart has been hammering since Lothar revealed his instructions for me, and my stomach churns harder with every passing minute.
I guess she can stop me from outright vomiting. Although I wouldn’t mind puking my guts all over the man in charge right now.
Maybe then he wouldn’t be able to waltz right into Regica’s royal residence and arrange his murderous audience with the king.
The Order of the Wild member steering the carriage guides us through the city streets with occasional turns. It feels like a long time before the vehicle halts again.
My pulse stutters, but Lothar turns to the sacrificial accomplice rather than me. “You’ll be staying safely out of sight as you continue to help. Our friends will look after you while you offer your talent to Zaneta.”
“It’s my pleasure to serve the All-Giver,” the accomplice mumbles.
After they’ve stepped out of the carriage, I attempt to flex my muscles. Searching for any weak point in Zaneta’s hold over my body.
How well can she draw on the accomplice’s magic from a distance, even a short one? It’s got to be harder, and she already looked as if the effort was wearing on her.
For now, it still isn’t straining her enough for me to resist her magic. The only difference I can feel is a sharper jitter of my own power within my chest, as if it senses some tiny loosening of our invisible prison that I can’t exploit yet.
I have to keep trying. I have to stop myself from giving in to her demands before we reach the royal family.
I’ve spent months putting my life and my sanity on the line to protect King Konram and his family’s reign over Silana. Fighting to ensure that the scourge sorcerers don’t gain the upper hand and impose their brutal brand of leadership over the entire country.
He was just about to pardon me. He finally believed I wasn’t a monster.
Gods smite me, I don’t want to be one. I don’t want to see the world we’ll be left with if the royal family falls to these villains.
Although by the time Lothar’s done with me, my mind might not be sound enough for me to even care. My grip on reality was already starting to fracture every time I called on more of my magic.
All too soon, Lothar climbs back into the carriage. He doesn’t say anything as the horse tugs us forward, but we’ve got to be near the palace already. He’d want the accomplice as close by as possible.
My assumption is confirmed when the wheels rasp to another stop no more than a minute later. Lothar nods to Zaneta. “Let us see our purpose through.”
My skin crawls at the import of those words.
My limbs shift, pushing me to my feet. I climb out of the carriage in contradiction to every personal intention.
But as I wrench at my body, willing it to refuse, a faint quiver runs down my arm. When the sorcerer directs my hand to drop to my side, my fingers twitch toward my thigh in a soft tap.
Hope jolts through my veins. That was my act—I’m almost sure about it.
I try to wiggle my fingers again, but now that my arm is still, they won’t budge. I can’t turn my head, can barely adjust my gaze beyond staring straight in front of me.
There was a tiny opening. I have to find another one.
We’re standing in front of a high wall of polished stone. A gilded but heavy wooden door fills the gate.
Lothar walks up to the Melchiorek crest carved into the doorframe. Flanking him, Zaneta directs me to tug my hood farther forward to shadow my face.
As I lift my hand, I manage to flex my fingers again. But as soon as they reach my hood, they close around the fabric, ignoring any command I’m giving them.
I can’t stop myself from lowering my arm, so I put all my will into propelling it a little faster. Would I be able to make a jab with my elbow?
The joint bends slightly with a brief twitch. Hmm.
