FIFTY-SIX

SOPHIE HAD REHEARSED what she’d say to Gethen at least a hundred times. And yet, when she stepped into his too-bright, freezing cell, the first words that came out of her mouth were, “Is that the sword in the stone?”

“Glad to hear we haven’t crushed that earnest curiosity—yet,” Gethen purred from the center of the floor. He sat with his head bowed and legs crossed, as if he’d been meditating—but his wrinkled gray clothes and greasy blond hair betrayed his peaceful composure. And while his bruise had healed, his nose looked permanently crooked from Sophie’s punch.

He seemed thinner, too.

Paler.

Wilder.

Behind him, a waist-high stone pillar provided the round room’s only ornamentation, with a gleaming silver sword jutting from the center.

“I’m not sure what you mean by the sword,” Oralie told Sophie, “but each cell has a blade trapped permanently in stone.”

“It’s my entertainment,” Gethen said, his piercing blue eyes studying them one by one. “Though I suspect it’s mostly for the guard’s enjoyment. I’m sure they’ve placed bets to see how long I’ll keep trying. I always thought I’d be able to resist, but . . .” He held out his right hand, revealing blisters in the same pattern as the diamonds on the sword’s hilt. “Sometimes I can’t resist a challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge,” Oralie told him. “It’s an ever-present reminder that any power you once had is now as useless as that blade.”

“So you say. But wouldn’t it be ironic if someday I used that blade to chop off your pretty head?”

He jumped to his feet and grabbed the sword, sending Sophie stumbling back.

Oralie didn’t blink. “The blade isn’t going anywhere.”

“Are you sure?” Sophie whispered. Humans had a legend about a sword in a stone, and the sword totally ended up killing people. She wondered if this was where the story came from. Lumenaria did have a Camelot-esque feel.

Gethen gave the hilt a halfhearted tug before brushing one finger down the inch of exposed blade, slicing a thin line of red into his pale skin. “Better hope I never find a way to crack this stone.”

“I won’t be losing any sleep over it,” Oralie told him.

“No, you Councillors never do. Tell me—how’d that work out for Kenric?”

Oralie’s grip tightened on Sophie’s hand, stopping her from lunging for Gethen’s throat. “He’s not worth it.”

“How can you say that?” Sophie asked, desperate to see if her inflicting was strong enough to batter Gethen through the force field.

But her fury faded when Oralie whispered, “Because Kenric would’ve wanted me to.”

Gethen smiled. “Clearly this meeting is going to be worth the energy I’m using—though if you think I don’t feel you in my head, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought,” he told Mr. Forkle. “If you truly want to learn something, you should let the moonlark give it a go.”

The hunger in his eyes was enough to convince Sophie that everyone had been right when they told her not to search his mind.

“I only came here to talk,” she said, trying to get back to the script.

“Well, then I assume this is the part where you try to distract me?”

“Actually, it’s the part where I ask you for help,” Sophie corrected.

One of Gethen’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned casually against the curved wall. “Something big must’ve happened, then—not sure I can guess what. The timeline’s been reset so many times, it could be nearly anything.”

Sophie bit her lip, steeling her nerves before delivering the next line. “They took Wylie.”

“My goodness—they’re full of surprises lately” was all Gethen had to say. “And a little bit desperate, if they’re back to Cyrah.”

“Desperate for what?” Sophie asked.

Gethen tapped his chin with his bleeding finger, stippling it with red. “Same thing we all are. Fintan just has a different approach. Gisela was all about cause and effect. Strategy and patience. Fintan’s driven by impulse—not that either affects me way down here.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Sophie asked. “Don’t you hate that they’re carrying on with their plans while they leave you rotting in this cell?”

“Oh, I’d hardly say I’m rotting. The food is far tastier than anything the Neverseen grew, and the guards bring me a squishy pillow every night to sleep on. And who would complain about having so much time to rest and recharge?”

“You really expect us to believe you don’t mind being here?” Sophie asked.

“Why not? You expect me to believe the offer you’re about to make is real.”

“I don’t have an offer,” Sophie said. “I came here hoping I’d find a shred of decency left.”

He sucked his bleeding finger. “Sorry to disappoint. And nice trick, Forkle. You might’ve had me there a few weeks ago, but all this rest made me so much stronger. Good to know that’s the information you’re interested in, by the way. I assume that means they snatched Wylie from the Silver Tower? What’s the matter—can’t figure out how they got in?”

“We’re working on it,” Sophie snapped.

“I’m sure you are. But if you haven’t figured it out already, I don’t imagine you will. And even if you did, you’d need an ability you don’t have to make it work. Seems shortsighted of you,” he told Mr. Forkle. “If you gave her extra powers, why not give her one of everything?”

“More isn’t always better,” Mr. Forkle told him. “Sometimes it’s simply more. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“I might, if you take the time to enlighten me.” Gethen sank to the floor again, staring up at the curved ceiling. “Go ahead. Tell me a story.”

“Never mind,” Sophie said, turning to Mr. Forkle. “Save your energy. He’s never going to help us rescue Wylie.”

This was the turning point in their plan.

Gethen could either let them walk away, or . . .

“Are they holding the boy hostage?”

Sophie nodded, letting the memory of Wylie’s wounds turn her eyes teary—selling the lie. “He’s been missing for over a week.”