Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(3)

The prince’s smile was malevolent in his triumph. “Did you really think I’d face you again without taking precautions against your magics?”

“What have you done to yourself, Castian?” Celeste managed before rough hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her to the small wooden table in front of the hearth. The soldier slammed her into a chair and held her in place.

“I am what you made me,” he said, low and just for her. She breathed in his rage. “I dreamed of finding you for so long.”

“You will not find us all. The kingdom of Memoria will rise once more.”

“Enough of your tricks and your lies!” He spoke each word like his own personal truth. “I know everything you did.”

“Surely you can’t know everything I’ve ever done, princeling.” She wanted to toy with him. To let him know that she did not fear him or death.

“What does a prince want with a lowly runaway? Or are the king’s armies so depleted he’d send out his only living child in the dead of the night? I thought you loved an audience for your executions.”

“I love nothing,” the prince shouted, his temper burning like a lit fuse. “Where is he?”

“Dead,” Celeste spat. “Rodrigue is dead.”

Castian growled his frustration and lowered his face to hers. “Not the spy. Dez. I want Dez.”

Celeste ground her teeth. Her magics could not help her anymore. She’d survived the rebellion eight years ago, prison, and decades of hiding and gathering information across Puerto Leones. But she knew she would not survive Prince Castian. So long as the alman stone was safe she could make peace with herself. “If you know everything I’ve ever done, my prince, you should know that I would never tell you.”

There was no room for regret in her heart. There was only the cause—and every terrible thing she’d ever done for the good of her people, she would do again and again.

Prince Castian crossed his arms, a bemused smile playing on his lips as the side door opened. “Perhaps you’ll tell her.”

Celeste’s blood ran cold as another soldier entered through the kitchen door, escorting a young woman. The spymaster’s mind struggled to place the green pallor of the girl’s olive skin. Gaunt in a way that made her look like she’d been drained by leeches. When recognition sparked, tears she thought had long since run dry pooled in her eyes. Celeste knew this girl.

Lucia Zambrano, a mind reader for the Whispers, known for her bright brown eyes and sweet laughter that made it easy to fall in love with her, just as Rodrigue had. Rodrigue, whose grave dirt was still under Celeste’s fingernails. Lucia’s quick wit was only matched by the speed of her footwork, both of which were useful when she spied for Celeste in Citadela Crescenti. Celeste had heard of Lucia’s capture during a raid, and after Rodrigue’s tales of what was happening in the dungeons, she’d feared the worst.

That was when she’d believed the worst that could happen to the Moria was a slow, torturous death.

The king has discovered a fate worse than death, Celeste thought now, unable to look away from Lucia. Her eyes were vacant, a house where the lights have been snuffed out. Her lips were cracked and had a white film at the corners. Lucia’s bones and veins were hugged by too-tight skin.

“Come closer, Lucia,” Castian said.

The girl’s movements appeared to be commanded by the prince’s voice. She took slow steps, her dead eyes focused on the fire in the hearth behind Celeste.

“What have you done to her?” Celeste asked, her voice small.

“What will be done to all Moria unless you tell me what I want to know.”

The realization thundered through every part of her body: Rodrigue was right. Rodrigue was right. Rodrigue was right. How would she protect the alman stone now? Castian was somehow immune to her magics, but she could try her best with the guards. And then what? She wouldn’t make it past the bridge checkpoints without travel documents. She had to be there for the Whispers to find—even if she wasn’t alive.

“This will be your future unless you tell me where Dez is,” Castian said, louder, impatient.

For a moment, Celeste’s eyes flicked to the closed door where the Sirianos slept. No, no one could sleep through this disturbance. They were dead. Or they had abandoned her.

Celeste’s stomach churned because it didn’t matter now. She was out of options, and the knowledge of what she had to do overcame her. She barely had time to turn away before she vomited. The soldier cursed and shook the sickness from his hand, but one look at the Príncipe Dorado and he kept his other hand firmly on Celeste’s shoulder.

“I won’t ask again,” the prince said, his face a vicious mask inches from hers. “I will burn this village to the ground with you in it.”

Celeste knew that she had a single moment to get things right. All she needed was to hide the alman stone for another Moria to find. Illan’s spies were clever, and if they weren’t, then she’d pray to Our Lady of Shadows for a guiding hand. After that, she’d fight until she couldn’t fight anymore—but she wouldn’t be taken alive.

Despite the pain—despite the bile that pooled across her tongue and threatened to choke her windpipe—Celeste, finally, began to laugh.

One moment, one life.

She wished she had more to give the Whispers.