Chapter Eight
My heartbeat is a relentless anvil against its cavity wall. This is all playing out like some terrible nightmare, and yet my every grain is warning me that if I don’t get out of this tiny cell before sunrise, there is no waking up from what will happen to me.
Sofie talked of mythical creatures as gods and making flames dance on her fingertips. She alluded to there being other, far more superior beings. Such as what? All I’ve seen are more humans. Angry humans who think I’ve risen from the dead after murdering their king and queen, and inciting an insurrection in their city.
But where is this Cirilea? Where on earth could there be a medieval city like this, with war in the streets and a king who hasn’t heard of New York, who executes people and talks of these casters and power like it’s a magical force?
Could there be magic in the world?
Centuries ago, they burned women by the thousands for witchcraft, on account of superstition, not fact. Or so history books say. But what if there is truth to the magic? And what if Sofie somehow sent me back to that time, to a place that no longer exists on a map? It’s either that, or …
You are about to enter a world unlike that which you know.
There are two moons in the sky.
No, it’s not possible.
None of this can be happening. This is a delusion. Just like my father has delusions. My worst nightmare—that his sickness is hereditary—is coming to fruition.
And yet, my palm stings from Zander’s blade, and my knee aches from where it smashed against the stone floor, and the sound of the cell door slamming shut still chimes in my ear.
And tomorrow morning, when I’m chained to one of those posts and the wood is lit, I know in my gut everyone will hear my screams.
Wherever I am, this is all too real.
I’ve been in desperate situations before—hell, the last decade of my life has been one big desperate situation—and yet this time feels different.
I pace around my cell, feeling the walls move closer as the minutes pass. I pause long enough to check the sky. I can see only one moon from this angle—the lower, bigger one—and it is still shining bright, but dawn can’t be too many hours from arriving.
I fidget with the ring encasing my finger, twirling it around and around, its white stone smooth against my thumb. “Sofie, if you can somehow hear this … get me out of here,” I mutter, my voice a whine of despair. The ring helped me when I needed light in the deep, dark waters. Maybe it can somehow pick the lock or …
Pick the lock.
With frantic fingers, I search the damp mess on my head. My hair must have been styled at some point, secured with gold pins like the one the king held in his palm. If only …
My fingertips graze metal. Relief blossoms as I fish it out, pulling strands of hair with it. I’m nearly laughing as I find three more in this rat’s nest. Racing to kneel in front of the cell door, I silently thank Tarryn for yet another skill she passed on to me. Though I haven’t picked a lock in years, I remember the basics.
It’s difficult to see from this angle, but the lock on the cell door looks like a common padlock, though old and cumbersome and made of iron.
It’s an awkward reach but my arms are thin, and the pins are long. And softer than I expected. The first one snaps immediately.
I curse and set it aside. With the second one, I approach with more caution, sliding it into the keyhole. It takes gentle finagling, poking this way and that, my arms aching from the strain of the angle. Finally, a click sounds. Overwhelming relief hits me as my cell door swings open, even though I know it’s only the first of many flaming hoops I’ll have to jump through to escape my predicament.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I rush back to the window to take a more calculated stock of the situation. Still only one guard patrols the square at this late hour. The workers have left, their jobs complete. I spend a few moments searching the shadows for movement, but there is none from what I can see. Either Boaz is feeling confident about his claim that no one will attempt to free me, or he can’t spare more soldiers here when they’re needed elsewhere in the city on a night of unrest.
Maybe he should have been more worried about his precious king inadvertently showing me the way out.
I settle in to count the lone guard’s steps as I’ve done so many times before—it’s the mark of tired staff trying to survive a long shift. Twenty steps to the hay-filled wagon before he retraces his path to the tower, then heads in the opposite direction for thirty steps to the first pyre. Back and forth he marches, and each time, he takes twenty steps to the wagon and thirty to the pyre.
If I can slip out while his back is to me, I might have a chance.
I head for the winding stairs, my blood rushing in my ears as I descend. My knee throbs, but still I struggle to take the uneven steps slowly. I’m forced to pause several times and brace myself against the wall to quell the dizziness. The whole time, I’m counting and hoping I don’t misjudge the guard’s pace. Twenty steps to the left, twenty steps back. Thirty steps to the right, thirty steps back.
By the time I see the wooden door, my bare feet ache and I’m on the verge of vomiting from nerves. But it’s now or never, and I’d rather be shot with an arrow trying to flee tonight than roasted in the square for a crowd tomorrow.
Six steps hang between me and either death or escape, if I don’t balk.
I take a deep breath and …