quarry cracked with a thunderous bellow, separating as a perfect sheet. She watched as a group of convicts worked to tether it, the marble gleaming like bone. It was incredible to watch such a heavy load be borne up into the sky on pulleys.
“Back to work.”
Halcyon jumped. A guard was an arm’s length away from her, prodding her with his club. She had not seen him approach, and she nodded and resumed her task, Thales already pressing onward ahead of her.
The back of her tunic felt wet. She prayed it wasn’t blood.
Eventually, Thales slowed, so they could work side by side again.
And he whispered to her, between the blows of his hammer, “I do not know why you are here, Halcyon of Isaura. What your past holds. But do not trade your hope for despair. Yes, you and I are prisoners. But we are alive, aren’t we?”
Yes, she was alive.
Although she daily wondered why.
Why Straton had refused to let her die.
XVI
Halcyon
There was a gift waiting for her in the cell that evening. A basket of fresh linen bandages, a jar of healing salve. Halcyon sat on her cot, locked within her cell, and marveled at it. Who would send this? Could her parents have managed it? Evadne, perhaps?
She waited until the sentry had passed by her door to remove her tunic, to redress her wounds. She struggled to spread the salve on her back, but the wounds she could reach became cool and numb beneath the tincture. Halcyon stifled a groan, rushing to wrap fresh linen bandages around her before slipping into her tunic. She collapsed on her cot, angled on her belly, drained.
She was woken some time later, the door of her cell clanging.
It was a guard, bearing a torch. “The lord of the quarry wishes to see you.”
Halcyon wanted to melt into a shadow, to evaporate. But she made herself leave her cell, an escort of guards surrounding her. They guided her to the ground level of the outpost. She was brought to Macarius’s workroom, seated in the lone chair, and chained to the floor by her wrists and her ankles.
This time, the mage was waiting for her. And with him was a politician, his saffron sash displayed proudly across his body. And a woman was also present. She was dressed gloriously, little diamond stars wound in her hair. She sat on the edge of Macarius’s desk, staring at Halcyon as if she could see though her. Her hand was draped across her lap, stained with ink, and Halcyon knew exactly what she was: Macarius’s scribe.
Macarius waited until the guards shut the door, and it was just the four of them: mage and scribe and politician and hoplite-turned-convict.
“Ah, one day in the quarry, and you still cling to your high spirits, 8651,” Macarius said. “It is admirable, but I do wonder how long you will last here.”
Halcyon did not respond.
“Beryl,” Macarius said to his scribe, but his eyes remained on Halcyon. “Ready yourself.”
Beryl slid off the edge of the desk, taking the seat he had vacated. Halcyon watched as she opened a scroll, her elegant fingers taking up a quill, opening her pot of ink.
The politician yawned and scratched his sandy-brown hair, completely disinterested. Why was he even here? When had lazy men like him been inducted into the senate? Halcyon wondered with disdain.
Macarius moved closer to Halcyon, standing directly before her. His clothes were still clean and rich—not a speck of quarry dust marred him—and Halcyon could not resist speaking.
“I see that you hide yourself during the day, Macarius. Are you afraid to be seen here?”
“Careful, 8651,” he said, his voice sharp. “This is the only warning I will grant you. I will resort to . . . other methods should your tongue forget its place.”
Halcyon was quiet.
“Very good. Now, let us begin, shall we?” Macarius smiled. It was apparent that he expected this conversation to be effortless.
How little he knew her, Halcyon thought, preparing herself.
“I am going to ask you a question, 8651,” he began. “It is not a hard one. You know the answer. And if you answer it truthfully, I will set you free from this quarry. Your sentence will be overturned. As will Evadne’s. Both you and your sister can return home to Isaura and to your family and forget all of this ever happened to you.” He paused only to watch the hope and yearning stir in her eyes. “Which relic did Lord Straton appoint you to find, Kingfisher?”
She was silent, her