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Seemingly giving up on trying to convince me, she pushes out of the chair and turns for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob to look back over her shoulder.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” She gestures to the tray. “Something from the kitchens you might actually eat?”
“All I want is my freedom.”
“I’m working on that.” She says it with such conviction I have a hard time believing it’s a lie. “Anything else?”
“A book or two would be nice.” Surprise lights her face, and I gesture around the room. “Not much else to do in here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She nods once, closing the door behind her. There’s a pause before the locks snick back into place and the power shimmers over the wood. Like I have every day for three days, I cross the room and grip the handle, wriggling it until the power warms my palm and travels up my arm to my shoulder.
I have the faint sense that if I tried hard enough, I could push through the power shimmering over the door and locking me in this tower, but I banish the absurd notion. I might be stuck in the land of the dead, but that doesn’t mean I actually want to die.
Turning, I resume pacing the perimeter of the room, stopping short next to the tray. I lift the cover on the plate, and the smell of sausage and potatoes floats into the air, making my stomach rumble in protest.
It’s still hot even though it’s been sitting here for hours, steam curling into the air. I reach for the spoon before stopping myself. I’m torn between wanting to sate this gnawing hunger in my belly and the worry of ingesting whatever they may have put in the food.
They’re keeping me prisoner. They hardly deserve my complacency too. Slamming the lid down on the tray, I stalk across the room and bury my face in my pillow to rid my nose of the scents still making my mouth water.
It worked when I was a child. After my parents died and I was sent to live with my father’s brother, who delighted in sending me to bed without food, knowing the smell of it would carry to my sleeping loft.
My life might have turned out differently if my parents hadn’t been killed on our way back from trading. I might have grown up a well-loved farmer’s daughter with a doting mother and father. I might have married a man who looked at me the way I always remembered my father looking at my mother. Like she hung the moon and the stars.
I like to think my parents loved me just as much as they loved each other, but my memories of them are few and far between. It’s my uncle who dominates my childhood. The man who raised me with his leather strap, resentful of being tasked with my care, until he finally decided to get rid of me.
These memories of my past and where I come from were laid to rest a long time ago. Resurrecting them is more painful than I would have anticipated. I want nothing more than to put it all in a box and forget it ever existed. But that seems unlikely.
Instead I’m stuck here at the mercy of a god who, at worst, seems to think I’m capable of something I’m not, and at best, doesn’t care if I languish here for an eternity. I would give anything to escape the Shadow Realm unscathed and get back to my life.
But even assuming Kaia really is trying to talk Thieran into letting me out of here, making sure it’s safe for me to leave this place and never look back, I’m under no illusions he’ll actually listen. The God of Death isn’t exactly known for his mercy toward the living.
Which is why I might need to take a different approach. If I can stumble into the Shadow Realm, surely I can stumble out again.
The key is getting out of this fucking room so I can figure out how to do just that. Even if that means playing nice with the God of Death.
Chapter Eleven
I trail my fingertip over the spines of the leather-bound books lining this particular shelf until I find the one I want. Plucking it from the stack, I carry it back to a table already laden with books and flip to the page on wards and cloaking rituals.
A quick scan tells me this text does not have the information I’m after, but I settle in to read it anyway in case there’s a clue to where I could look next. My research on how a mortal might have crossed the veil would go much faster if I could access the library in Fontoss. It’s the most comprehensive library in Acaria, with perfectly preserved books dating back as far as the written word.
Better yet, I could use access to the Fates who maintain it. It’s said the Fates are older than the gods. Created from the darkness and the light. The past, the present, and the future in human form. They know the destiny of every being in this land, mortal or immortal. They hold the entire history of our existence between them.
But the last thing I need is to run into my brother and have him ask too many questions. The only reason I enter Acaria’s capital city is to attend the high court functions where I’m required to make an appearance. And since the winter ball isn’t for another several weeks and the memorial banquet takes place in the spring, my presence there would draw notice.
I hardly want anyone to know I’m searching for answers on the power sustaining the realm and why the veil seems to be thinning enough for a mortal to cross without dying. Or, more to the point, for a mortal to stop the power from leaking out.
She’s been here nearly a week, and still, everything seems to be holding. There aren’t any new breaches, and the boundaries between each territory inside the realm are stronger than they’ve been in years.
But beyond that, I feel an unmistakable change. I can’t explain it, but it’s this feeling buzzing under my skin. Something I haven’t felt in so long that I forgot it ever existed.
Tossing the book on top of the map and pieces of parchment spread out over the long table, I grunt in frustration. This passage is as useless as all the rest.
According to everything I’ve been able to find, what has happened should not be possible. I should not have a living, breathing mortal woman barricaded in my tower.
The door creaks open and Kaia enters, her footsteps echoing into the soaring ceilings. She falters when she sees me, irritation and anger evident on her face. I expect her to veer off into the shelves to get whatever she came for, but she makes her way to me instead.
“Any progress?” She indicates the pile of books in front of me.
