creating my curse. It’d be like searching the sea for a single shell.
“I’ll give you a name, and I’ll even show you how to use the artifact once you have it. But first I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
I clench my fists, knowing the threat of my daggers won’t be enough this time. Even with the skin beneath my fingernails stained black from the blood and innards of the prisoners I killed, Blarthe knows he won’t suffer the same fate tonight. Gods know I wouldn’t let him touch the artifact. But if I’m to search for it, I’ll need him around until I’m certain of how to use it. I’ll need him alive.
It takes nearly everything out of me, but I grit my teeth together and growl between them, “Name your price.”
“I need a promise,” he says. “A guarantee that you’ll not only let me go, but that you’ll pardon whatever past indiscretions might linger to convict me. Once we’re on the other side, I don’t want you looking for me.”
“Indiscretions?” I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek. The first one that comes to mind is Vataea, then Kerost, and guilt buries itself within me thinking of them. Pardoning Blarthe and pretending he’s not out there taking advantage of others by time trading would not only mean soiling my kingdom, but also betraying my friend. It’d mean letting her abuser go free.
But how do I say no to this?
Visidia could be whole, again. I could be whole, again.
No more lies. No more curse.
Though I wish with everything in me that it didn’t have to be this way, there’s one belief I’ve spent my entire life practicing: one life is not more important than the entirety of Visidia.
And besides, Blarthe is giving me too much credit. I may be extending his life, but in accepting his offer I am in no way sparing it. I will keep his presence here a secret for now, but the moment I have what I need from him, his life will end.
I’m not just Visidia’s queen, after all. I am its protector. Its monster.
Vataea and Kerost can wait, because this goes beyond them. This is how I fix everything.
Squaring my shoulders, I look Blarthe dead in the eye. “Give me a name, and you have yourself a deal.”
His voice is sweet as sap. “Ornell Rosenblathe.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It takes hours to get the blood off my skin. Even after I’ve bathed, I can still feel the remains of those I killed only hours ago. Though I’ve scrubbed myself clean, it’s as if the blood’s part of me, now. Always and forever there.
I do everything in my power to distract myself as I lounge on the chaise in my sitting room, skimming through leather-bound tomes gathered from the library, while trying not to pick at the skin beneath my nails.
Though much of the library was destroyed in the fires last summer, I managed to find three salvaged books on seafaring legends. I’ve been poring over them for hours, reading stories of sailors who’ve watched friends be dragged into the sea by mermaids, only to claim they saw that friend’s face again years later, ghostly beneath the surface of the water. Myths of a giant serpent that’s said to live in the Valukan volcanos, and stories of water horses that carry people into the depths to steal their bodies for one full year before that body deteriorates and they’re forced to find another vessel or crawl back into the sea.
The goose bumps on my skin double with every picture and story, knowing full well that there’s truth to at least some of these legends. But as for whatever this item is that’s rumored to have been left by the gods, I cannot find a single word on it. There are pages that’ve been torn away by greedy sailors, or doused in ink and made illegible, likely by those whose prayers have made them paranoid. Perhaps I could find more stories if I looked hard enough, but it’s as Blarthe said—while I’m out searching, he’ll be withering away in the prisons. He’s clinging to the chance to live; there’s nothing in this for him, especially if I fail. So perhaps there’s at least some truth to his tale, after all.
“Amora?”
My hands still upon the pages at the sound of Mother’s voice. I kick the extra tomes behind the chaise before opening the one on my lap to the least offensive page—something fantastical and