Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“Is that what I do, Annika? Truly? I disgust you?” He moves in closer, reaching up to toy with one of my curls. “It’s even softer than I imagined,” he whispers, winding it around his fingertips.
“You’ve imagined touching my hair?” I attempt a mocking tone, but instead it comes out shaky.
Long, dark eyelashes flutter as he peers down at me with a heated look that stirs my pulse. “I’ve imagined a lot of things where you are concerned.”
I swallow against this unwelcome reaction stirring inside me. I hate Tyree. He is a Ybarisan, a murderer, a kidnapper. I hate him with every stitch of my—
A rustle sounds in the trees, and Tyree’s attention whips away from me. A boy of maybe ten in soil-stained clothes stares wide-eyed at us from beneath a branch, like a doe caught in the crosshairs of an arrow and aware of it.
“Hello,” Tyree says calmly, stepping toward him. “Can you tell us where we are—”
The boy turns and bolts in a flurry, earning Tyree’s curse.
He starts running after him.
“Hey!” I yell.
“What?” He peers back and, as if remembering he has me bound to a tree, he curses again. The vines fall to the ground.
He takes off after the boy. “Hurry, or he’ll get away!”
We tear through the dense forest, flat leaves slapping at our faces no matter how often we duck from them. Eventually, Tyree grabs hold of my arm and stops. “He’s just a boy. How did he outrun us?”
“He’s short?” I scan the trees, looking for movement, my breaths ragged.
“He can’t have gone too—”
Branches snap to our left.
We take off in the direction of the sound, me at Tyree’s heels, until we emerge in a clearing where the dense foliage has been cut back. The boy stands in the middle of it, his chest heaving.
“He’s mortal,” I whisper. I can hear the telltale heartbeat from here.
“No wonder he’s running. He’s terrified of you.”
“As if he knows the difference between us,” I snap. Idiot.
Tyree holds up his hands in a sign of surrender. “We will not harm you. We just want to talk.”
The boy shouts something in a language I don’t recognize before taking off with a leap.
Tyree groans, and we give chase again.
I can’t say if it’s him or me who trips the wire, but suddenly we’re entangled in a net and dangling high in the air.
24
Romeria
It takes every ounce of my courage to not arm myself with my affinities as Solange leads me inside the walls of Nyos’s Casters’ Guild.
While the towers that loom ahead are imposing and unfriendly, at this level, the view is far more welcoming, with winding stone paths and manicured grounds of low hedges and glowing lanterns that give off a charming light.
Solange and Fatima are silent as they lead me down a main street, and I steal glances at the many buildings and alleys between them, making a mental map, should I need to rely upon it later.
The street opens into an expansive square. My eyes are drawn immediately to a bronze statue of a male that stands at least fifteen feet tall. “Who is that?” I ask.
Solange shoots me a warning look. “Is the Master Scribe’s memory lapsing? How do you not remember Caster Yason?”
That name rings a bell. “Ah, yes … the proud bull.” Wendeline once told me about the male elemental who studded hundreds of children in Nyos’s attempt to spawn a key caster, back when Mordain prized the rare power instead of culling it.
Fatima regards me. If she knew who I really was, would she be so loyal to her leader?
I’m quickly distracted from those thoughts by the display at the far end, where four scorched heaps of wood sit, the charred remains of a person tied to beams on each. Fresh pyres wait nearby for the next round.
“Who were they?” Solange demands.
Fatima lists names I don’t recognize. None are Zaleria or Allegra, at least. But it doesn’t ease the tightness in my chest. These scribes did not deserve this. “Where are the others being held?”
“In the dungeons, Master Scribe Agatha,” Fatima answers, and I sense a hint of familiarity in her voice. “Except for Caster Zaleria. She is being questioned in the Prime’s study, I believe.”
“And the Second?” Solange asks.
Fatima shrugs. “With the guild, I assume?”
“Assumptions will lead you astray more often than not.”
“Yes, Master Shadow.” She dips her head.
A soft huff sounds behind Solange’s mask as she peers first at the pyres and then at the towers looming above. “I think the Master Scribe would benefit from some time in the dungeon before meeting with the guild. Perhaps seeing the fear of her fellow scribes will help loosen her tongue. We will escort her there now.” She grips my elbow, leading me several steps toward a dark entrance. I know what Solange is doing—heeding Zander’s revised orders to get the scribes out rather than deal with the problem of the Prime.