“How?” His red-eyed gaze did not meet Merik’s. “Four years. How?”

Merik exhaled sharply. Four years. Four years. Surely the man had not been Esme’s prisoner for so long.

“Why … heal?” Merik asked. The man had come back from cleaving; Merik wanted—needed—to know how.

But the Northman only shook his head. “Stop,” he said simply. “Dark, then stop.”

Before Merik could try to interpret this, the witch herself returned.

Where are you, Prince?

Merik spun away from the Northman as fast as he could. If Esme could look through his eyes, he did not want her to see. There was still a chance that man could flee; Merik would not let her claim his life again.

“I am at the shrine,” he said, staggering toward the central stone.

Why? A flicker of lightning—a mere caress of pain through Merik’s veins. You should be back to Poznin by now.

“I fell asleep,” he said. “The food offerings made me sick.” Panic crept into Merik’s voice, his words spewing out with frantic urgency. And he let them come that way. With or without a healed Northman to hide, this was how he reacted to Esme.

Especially since the pain was notching higher now.

“Please,” he squeezed out, teeth clenched. “Please, I have gathered gemstones and will walk back now—stop, stop, stop!”

You will run back, Esme commanded, tone dismissive, bored. I will not be happy if you arrive here after midnight. And just like that, her claws retracted.

“I will run,” he agreed, slumping over. He had no idea how he could possibly run that far.

He would deal with that problem later.

For several long moments, Merik sucked in air. It vibrated in his lungs. No magic, only cold and the scent of rock and soil. He stayed this way until he was certain Esme was gone. He stayed this way until the Northman finally rasped, “Help.”

Merik twisted toward him, assuming the man needed help. But no. He was pointing at Merik, then patting at his neck.

“Help,” he repeated, and Merik realized he meant the collar.

“No.” Merik shook his head. “No help for me.” This man wore no collar—none of Esme’s Cleaved did, save Merik. And since it sounded as if this man had no idea how he had healed, then there was nothing at all Merik could do. If he tried to leave, Esme would just summon him right back.

Shuffling back to the man’s side, Merik pointed up the hill. “North.” He pointed again. “Go north. People. Help you. And here…” Merik scooped the knife off the dirt. Its red tassels laughed at him now.

The Northman did not take the knife, though. “You.” Again, he pointed at Merik. Then at his neck. “Use?”

Merik wanted to. He wanted the security of knowing he had protection, that he had some secret weapon Esme did not know of. But what would he even do with the blade? He could not attack her—she would simply attack him, destroy him first. And as gnarled as the logic might be, he was safe in Poznin. Right now, Esme had no desire to kill him. She needed him for the Fury. She needed him for her experiments.

Besides, if she ever turned her Cleaved army on him, a single knife would do nothing against thousands. This Northman, though—he could use it. He might even need it, trying to reach those people with the fires.

“You,” Merik said again, and this time, he took the man’s skeletal hand and wrapped the man’s fingers around the hilt. “You.”

The man’s papery brow pinched tight. “What … place?” He motioned to the shrine, to the hill he’d come from, and then to Merik’s collar. “What place?”

“A nightmare,” was all Merik replied, wondering why he remembered that word yet he couldn’t remember how to count. Either way, it was the right one to use here. So he said it again: “A nightmare. Run.”

THIRTY

Stix awoke to voices. Not voices inside her head, either, but real voices attached to human throats. They were arguing.

About her.

“We can’t just leave her, Ry.”

“We can’t wait for her to wake up either. We have a job to do, Cam. I promise, we’ll come back for her after that.”

“But what if she wakes up before? Or what if raiders get to her first? Please, Ry. My gut’s tellin’ me we ought to bring her with us.”

A frustrated huff. Then a muttered, “Who’s the Sightwitch here?” A heartbeat later, Stix heard footsteps approach, and when she hauled open her eyelids, light seared across her vision. She winced, arms—weak and sore—rising to block her face.

Where was she?

“You’re awake,” said a young woman with short black hair, warm skin slightly lighter than Stix’s, and eyes of moonlight silver. She held a lantern high, brow tight with worry. “Do you know how you got here?”

Stix shook her head, the faintest of movements. Her brain throbbed. Her body ached. She remembered voices … and water … and a doorway. Not much else.

“Do you know who you are?” the young woman pressed. “Can you remember your name?

“Stacia … Sotar.” Her voice sounded—and felt—like broken razors. Noden curse her, where was she? And why did everything hurt?

“Well,” the girl said, glancing behind, “she’s already doing better than Kullen. When I found him, he couldn’t remember his name or position or anything.”

“But First Mate Ikray had already cleaved, right?” The second speaker moved into view, coppery brown skin with paler patches over his right cheek. He held a bandaged hand to his chest. “First Mate Sotar doesn’t look like her magic has gone corrupt.”

“It’s … Captain Sotar.” Stix tried to sit up; her stomach muscles very much disapproved, pushing a grunt from her abdomen. “And I’m not … corrupted.”

The boy scooted closer, easing his good hand behind Stix’s back and helping her to sit up. “Be careful, Captain.” He offered a bright smile, so at odds with the dark and dank that surrounded them.

“How,” Stix asked roughly, “do you know who I am?”

“We were in the Royal Navy, sir. Stationed on the Jana before…”

“Before it blew up,” finished the girl. She strode closer and knelt on Stix’s other side, setting the lantern nearby. Then she unlooped a canteen from her belt and offered it. “I’m Ryber. He’s Cam.”

Stix accepted the canteen, which only made the boy beam wider. A comforting smile, she had to admit while she gulped cool water. She also had to admit that he and Ryber did look vaguely familiar.

“What is this place?” she asked, after sucking back a final gulp. “How did I get here?”

“This is the Past,” Ryber responded, as if this was a perfectly reasonable answer. She pushed to her feet and seized a bulging satchel off the ground nearby. “As for how you got here, I have a pretty good guess. But we don’t have time to linger, so either you get up and come with us, First Mate … I mean, Captain, or you stay here.”

“Don’t stay here,” Cam inserted. “There are raiders behind us. We don’t know when they’ll get here, but you don’t wanna be around when they do.”

Ryber and Cam might as well have been talking to Stix in another language for how little their words made sense. “Why are you two even here?” she asked. “What is this place and what raiders are you talking about?”

Ryber wagged her head. “I told you. There’s no time. I can try to explain while we walk, but we can’t wait another second.” Ryber extended a hand. “Are you coming?”

Stix didn’t see many other options before her, so she clasped Ryber’s hand and said, “I’m coming.” Then Ryber pulled while Cam braced an arm behind. Together, they helped her stand, and Noden curse Stix, but she needed every bit of their aid.

Before she could pull free from Cam’s support, her eyes caught on a low pedestal nearby. On it lay a broken sword and a broken looking glass. Death, death, the final end.

Gooseflesh slid down her neck, her arms. “What are those?” She took a step toward the pedestal. “I … know them.”

“Those,” Ryber said, moving in front of her, “are dangerous for people like you. Did you pick them up?”

“I … think so?” Stix blinked. Then rubbed her eyes. Death, death, the final end. “What do you mean by ‘people like you’?”

“I’ll explain”—Ryber laid a firm, but not unkind hand on Stix’s shoulder—“once we’re walking.” Together, she and Cam angled Stix away from the table and away from the calls for a final, final end.

The room was an endless streak of darkness beyond the lantern, no end in sight. No change in the rough flagstones beneath their feet or the shadows wavering in from all sides.

And still Stix remembered nothing.

The tunnel beyond the low door was too thin for Cam to keep supporting Stix, so after checking she could move on her own, he moved into step behind Ryber. They vanished into the maw.

Stix took up the rear, ready to follow. Except her feet didn’t quite move as they ought to.

Death, death, the final end.

She glanced back.