“Find Lord York,” Killian called, waving to send his men forward. The legionnaires swept past the emperor, crossing the grounds and dashing into the grand structures.
Entering the manse, Killian ran his eyes over the opulent property. Beautiful statues dotted the grounds, spaced around spilling fountains lit up from underneath with the glow of multihued nightlamps. He had no doubt that the manse’s grounds would be stark compared with the decadence of the interior, but Killian had no desire to continue inside.
He was angry enough as it was.
As Killian waited, glancing at his companion and pacing the area, he wondered what to do with Lord Osker. His mother, Alise, had unearthed Osker, though she hadn’t explained to Killian how she’d found out that the lord belonged to the Melin Tortho, the most powerful of the streetclans. Killian had promised Osker that he would spare his life in return for information leading to the architect of the plot to abandon Altura and assassinate the emperor. And here they were.
Anxious to avoid punishment, Osker had told them everything he knew, yet he had abused a position of trust in the Imperial Palace and certainly wasn’t without guilt. Killian thought about his mother’s discovery and mused. Perhaps it was time for a new convict to arrive on the island that Alise had once been exiled to. Perhaps there was a place for the Isle of Ana after all.
Killian looked up at a commotion and saw six of his legionnaires leading a thin man in purple velvet out of the manse’s main entrance.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord York demanded as Killian’s men dragged him forward.
Killian waited until the hook-nosed noble was directly in front of him before speaking. “Lord York, you are under arrest for treason. You will be given a fair trial, but let me be clear; we will uncover all of those involved in the plot against my life and the plot to abandon Altura.”
“This is preposterous,” Lord York spluttered, his eyes seeming to pop out of his head.
“We shall see, Lord York. Or should I say, Tortho.”
The winds of change moved on.
In the city of Sarostar, a young boy helped a hobbling middle-aged man leave the infirmary and walk along the wide stone road leading toward the river.
“You don’t need to help me, lad,” Fergus grumbled. “My wife’ll be here soon.”
“She knows I’m here,” Tapel said. “She’s waiting at the river.”
Fergus leaned on Tapel as he felt the stitches on his wounds tighten. Even so, he felt better, whole again. He looked forward to resuming work.
When they reached the foot of the Tenbridge, Fergus held up a hand. “Hold on a moment. Just let me see my city.”
Fergus drank in the sight of Sarostar, seeing the Crystal Palace cycling through its evening colors, the famous nine bridges cascading down the bubbling Sarsen one after the other. But most of all, he saw the people.
A couple of old men fished from the apex of Victory Bridge, each of them holding a steaming mug that could only be cherl as they chatted, their attention more on each other than their rods. A pair of lovers walked hand in hand on the Tenbridge. Fergus knew the boy; he was training to be a stonemason.
There were faces he knew and faces he didn’t, but with time, he would come to know many of them, their hopes and dreams, trials and tribulations. Fergus had taken a terrible wound, but he was alive. The Lord of the Sky had blessed him and given him many more years with his nagging wife and unruly children. He longed to be home with them, but he took a moment to sweep his gaze across his beloved Sarostar.
He thought about the one who had saved him and taken his broken body from the barricades to be healed. Fergus the ferryman planned to one day find her and thank her, even if it took his whole life.
They said she was a determined young woman, with green eyes and pale yellow hair.
An enchantress.
72
Ella stayed in Evrin’s house for weeks, only surfacing to venture to the nearby bakeries and markets for the barest sustenance, just enough to get her through another day of study.
She found still more rooms filled with books: they filled Evrin’s bedchamber and even his wardrobe. Ella snuggled deep in the armchair and read, clearing all other thoughts from her mind. There were lifetimes of knowledge here. Ella planned to accumulate as much as she could.
Ella lost track of time. Sometimes she woke before dawn; other times she slept until late in the afternoon.
Soon she planned to enter Evrin’s workroom. It was time to test out some of the things she’d learned.
Frowning as she tried to understand a particularly difficult treatise on the various forms of light—apparently some light could even be invisible, Ella looked up in annoyance as she heard a loud curse from somewhere outside the house.
She moved to the door and waved her hand in front of the wood, muttering a swift series of activations. The door became transparent and Ella could look out, though she knew whoever it was couldn’t look in.
She put her hand to her mouth as she saw who it was.
Her heart began to beat rapidly.