She thrusts the light into my hands, the magical globe held in place by a large wooden base with a finger-hole, much like an oil lamp. Riza tugs on the door as I hold up the light, my arm trembling with exhaustion.

The door doesn’t budge, and she casts a look around. “Locked. The key has to be here somewhere. Wait here, Candra.”

“I won’t leave.” I’m not going anywhere without Nemeth. I stare in at the sight of my poor mate. How long has he been down here? How long has he been sick? My heart aches and aches, and I fight back a surge of panic. Even if we get Nemeth out, how do we cure the plague? If there was a cure, surely Darkfell wouldn’t be so empty?

I’m terrified that I might lose him after all.

Riza checks a guard station by the door, digging through a desk and then searching the rushes on the floor. She goes over the first few cells again, but all their doors are locked as well. Lips pressed together with frustration, she glances up at the stairs. “The key might be above.”

“Go,” I tell her. “I’m not leaving Nemeth.”

She hesitates, and then nods. “Be safe. I’ll return as swiftly as I can.”

I watch as she races up the winding, narrow staircase again. I’m alone in the dungeon with my sick mate, and I turn back to gaze at him, watching with helpless frustration as he quakes, his wings shivering, and then he claws and scratches at his neck.

“Hold on, Nemeth,” I tell him in a low voice. “I’m here. I’m going to save you. I promise.”

He stills at my words, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn and look at me. To speak. Something.

“When we get out of here, we’ll go wherever you like,” I promise him. I think he likes the sound of my voice. Perhaps it comforts him, even in fever dreams, so I keep talking. “I don’t care if we stay or if we go, just as long as we’re together. Everything works out better when we’re side by side. It’s the world that keeps pulling us apart. We won’t let that happen anymore. You and I will raise our child somewhere safe and quiet. I’ll even let you read war poetry to him or her, though you know I hate that drivel. You can teach our baby Fellian poems and magic, and I’ll teach them Liosian dances and our holidays. More than anything, we’ll just be happy because we’re together.”

“So sweet,” coos a hard-edged voice. “A baby, you say? You’ll have to tell me if I’m invited to witness the birth of the next Vestalin.”

And Meryliese steps from the last cell in the dungeon, a smirk playing on her hard, beautiful face.

Chapter

Eighty-Three

Why am I even surprised Meryliese is here? Of course she’s here. She keeps showing up like a pimple on the night before a dance. As I stare at her, Meryliese twirls a key on a chain, toying with it.

That bitch. She’s got Nemeth’s key. I lift my chin and give her a dismissive look, all the while trying to figure out how I’m going to get it away from her. I set my lamp on the sill of a nearby door so I can free my hands. “Hiding, dear sister?”

Her mouth twists in a smile. “Ajaxi’s idea. While he protects his throne, I’m hiding. Or so he thinks. More like I’m protecting my interests by keeping his brother alive.” She makes a face. “Or at least I thought I was until he started shaking with sickness. Now I’ve got to figure out who inherits if all of First House dies.” She sighs dramatically. “These Fellians are truly such a bother.”

I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate Meryliese in this moment. “Why are you so evil? Why are you doing this?”

“Me? Evil? For trying to take control of my own life for once?” She gives me an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.”

“You don’t think your actions are evil?” I slide my hand under my shawl, trying to reach for my knife without seeming like I’m reaching for a weapon. Keep Meryliese talking, I remind myself. Keep her focused on her anger.

My sister gives me a withering look. “I think I’m being selfish for once in my life and I’m enjoying it. How do you think it feels to grow up, knowing that your life isn’t your own? That your head is filled with prayers to a goddess that demands all of your time and people that insist upon training you on the right prayers to give and how to make your food stretch, all so you can be an obedient lump in a tower to a jealous goddess? So I can save everyone else in the world while sacrificing myself?” Meryliese shakes her head, her eyes blazing with righteous indignation. “It’s shite, sister. No one ever asked me if I wanted to do any of this. No one ever asked me if I cared about the fate of the rest of the world. I wanted to be a princess. I wanted to marry a king and have babies.” She sniffs haughtily. “And I don’t see why they didn’t make you take my spot.”

“Because I was sick⁠—”

She waves a hand, dismissing that. “Yes, but they figured out how to treat it. You could have been the sacrifice and I could have gone to court and everything would have been perfect. But no. Mother kept you instead of me, and then Erynne never suggested we switch. I was forgotten. No one wanted me…until Ivornath arrived.” Her eyes flare with intensity. “The Fellians wanted to work with me. And when I suggested we trigger the curse to destroy Lionel’s fleet, Ivornath thought it was an excellent idea. He was going to make me his queen, you know.”

Her cold expression flares with something like hurt, the first real emotion my sister has shown other than pure viciousness.

I can’t help but push just a little more. “But he didn’t.”

“He was going to!”

“When?” I press. “You’ve been here for over two years. When was he going to marry you? When was he going to give you his bite?” I show her my hand, the mark on my palm, just under my thumb. “I was with Nemeth for no time at all and he took me as his⁠—”

“Silence!” my sister cries. “You don’t know our situation! You don’t know anything!”

I give her a smug look, hoping it hides the hammering in my heart. Hoping it hides the fact that I’m reaching for the dagger tucked into the front of my dress, hidden by my shawl. “I know he would have mated you if he’d wanted to⁠—”

“Stop it!”

“I’m just saying that this could have been you.” I rub my stomach with one hand. “If he’d really wanted you, that is. It sounds to me like he was just using you, too⁠—”

Meryliese snarls and lunges for me.

I let her grab me, using this moment to pull my knife free from my dress. It falls into the folds of my gown, and panicked, I claw for it even as my sister pulls my hair and claws at my face.

“Bitch,” she cries. “You don’t get everything! You⁠—”

The moment my fingers close around my dagger I thrust upward, into Meryliese. She grunts, and then hot liquid splashes over my hands. Blood.

She stares down at me, her mouth tinged with red. Her eyes are still filled with hate, and she reaches for my neck, her nails scratching at my skin. I shove the knife in deeper, hating the wet resistance I feel against it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “But Nemeth is mine and I’m going to save him.”

Her hand rests against my throat, and for a long moment, I think she’s going to recover and choke me, and I’ve got no strength left, either. We stare at each other, and then Meryliese’s body slumps over mine, heavy and limp.

I tremble.

I just killed my own sister. I just stabbed a person. Meryliese, who should have been dead. Who never had her own life to begin with. I want to understand her—and some part of me does. After all, I left the tower, too. Does she deserve to die for that? Do I?

Doesn’t matter. She tried to come between me and Nemeth and I’d kill her a thousand times if it meant saving him.