Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(84)

“My grandmother gave it to my parents. She said it belonged to my mother.”

“What’s your mother’s name? Where is she now?”

“I don’t know her name, and she’s dead. Both my parents are dead.”

“Really,” Karn said skeptically. “Let me fill you in. This weapon of yours is from the Northern Islands. It is carried by Empress Celestine’s bloodsworn warriors.”

Jenna stared at it, then looked up at Karn. “But . . . you acted like you didn’t know anything about it before, when the healer—when Freeman was trying to treat me.”

“What I’ve been told is that nobody survives a cut from a bloodsworn blade. Sharing that would have served no good purpose.”

Jenna swallowed hard. “Oh.” That explained why Karn was so desperate to get her to Ardenscourt—because he thought she was going to die.

“So. It seems that Freeman is very good at what he does. Now,” he said, as if he’d backed her into a blind alley, “would you like to change your story?”

“Not unless you want me to make something up.” It was like she was in class at the temple, and she hadn’t done her work.

“Celestine tends to seek out the powerful. So what makes you powerful, Jenna? What does she want from you?”

Karen’s rapid-fire questions about things she knew nothing about were getting on her nerves. “Think about it, Lieutenant,” she said. “If I were powerful, do you think I’d be locked up in somebody’s dungeon?”

“You are resistant to magery,” he said.

“I didn’t know that until you tried to spell me.”

“Do you have other gifts as well?”

“Nothing that an empress would cross the ocean for.”

“Such as . . .”

Jenna sighed. “I see things that other people can’t. Like, you know, visions. Sometimes I see hints of the future. Sometimes I see a person as they really are. Or I see the truth when you tell me a lie.”

Karn shifted on his stool, as if he found that last bit unsettling. “What else?” he persisted. “Even if it seems trivial.”

“I have good hearing and a sensitive nose. I can see farther than anyone I know, even in the dark.” She hesitated. “I heal up quick, whether it’s a cut or whatever. And—and I don’t burn.”

“What?”

“Just what I said. My skin turns heat and flame. Even when I was little, I could snuff out a lantern with my fingers or pull a pan out of the oven bare-handed.”

Karn didn’t seem impressed. “How is that helpful?”

“It’s helpful to a blaster,” Jenna said, “or a baker.”

Karn gripped the chain that bound Jenna’s wrists and jerked her in close, so they were eye to eye. “Do you think this is some kind of joke? I don’t think you understand just how precarious your situation is,” he hissed. “The empress is hunting you, and we need to know why before she finds you.”

As it sometimes did, the truth tapped Jenna on the shoulder. “Who’s ‘we’?” she said. “The king doesn’t even know you’re down here, does he?”

Karn stared at her for a long moment, his face gone stony as the Fellsian escarpment. He pushed to his feet, reached high, and pulled down one of the torches. “You’re resistant to flame, are you?” He thrust the torch into her face and she flinched back, startled. “Prove it.”

Jenna raised her manacled hands to shield her face. “I don’t know what you’re trying to—”

“I said prove it!” He jabbed at her again, and this time she closed both hands around the flaming head of the torch and held on until she smothered it out. By then, the end of her sleeve had caught fire, and she had to bat it out against her side.

“Look what you did,” she said, examining the charred cuff. “I only have the one shirt, and you—”

“Blood of the martyrs,” Karn whispered. “I never meant you to—let me see your hands.” Karn gripped both her wrists and examined the palms of her hands. He sucked in a breath and looked up at her, eyes wide with relief or surprise or both. “They’re not blistered—they’re not even red.” He tapped her hand with his fingertip. “It feels like they’re armored.”

“That comes and goes,” Jenna said, pulling free. “I don’t know why you keep asking me questions when you don’t believe any of my answers.”

At that moment, the door banged open and they both turned, startled. It was the healer, Adam Wolf, his arms full of packages. He froze in the doorway, staring at the two of them, apparently clasping hands.

“What the hell is going on?” He spoke quietly, but his voice was laced with steel and there was a darkness at his center that she’d not seen before.

“Freeman,” Karn said. “This is a surprise.”

“Obviously,” Adam said. He set his packages down at the head of Jenna’s bed and turned to face Karn, his body balanced and ready for action. He did resemble a wolf in a way—one who had chosen his prey and was considering the kill. “Well? What are you doing here?” He took a step toward Karn. “I told you that she needed rest. You couldn’t let this wait for even a day?”