“It is time to stop playing games,” he said now.
He took a conch from the campaign table and placed it on the arm of her chair. Sera realized he was going to record his interrogation.
“The Iele summoned you, daughter of Merrow. We know they have. We’ve heard their chant, too. We also know that they summoned Princess Neela—the one who keeps the light. They mentioned four others in the chant. We want to know who they are. And we want to know where the talismans are.”
Serafina laughed in disbelief, bluffing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My forces destroyed Cerulea to take you and the Matali princess. We’ll destroy every city in every realm if that’s what it takes to get the talismans. You can prevent that.”
“You’re insane. The Iele are make-believe. They aren’t real.”
“No? Then why did you reach out to Vr?ja when she appeared in your mirror?”
Serafina’s heart lurched. How did he know? No one else had been in the room when she’d had that vision of the witch, and the terragogg with the black eyes.
Traho waited. A minute went by. Then two. Then he pulled out his knife again. Serafina steeled herself. She would not scream. He wouldn’t take her courage and he wouldn’t take her pride. She was Serafina, principessa di Miromara, and he was sea scum.
As Traho came closer, a tiny bubble floated past Serafina’s face. She barely noticed it. Until it popped, softly, right inside her ear.
Lie, child.
Thalassa had regained consciousness, though she hadn’t revealed it. Then she’d cast a bolla spell. Her magic was so powerful, she didn’t have to sing. All she had to do was whisper, and tuck that whisper into a bubble.
“Who are they? Where do they live? I won’t ask again,” Traho said.
Serafina looked down. She hoped it looked like she was struggling with her conscience, when really she was struggling to make up four names.
“Mitsuko…” she whispered.
“Louder, please. Speak into the conch.”
“Mitsuko Takahashi. From Shiroi Nami in the East Sea. Alice Strongtail from Cod Shoals in Atlantica. Natalya Kovalenko from the Volga. Lara Jonsdottir from Villtur Sjó.”
“Good. Very good,” Traho said nodding. He picked up the conch shell and listened to it, making sure everything she’d said had been captured. Then he looked at Serafina again. “Now,” he said, “where are the talismans hidden?”
“I don’t know where they are. I don’t even know what they are.”
“Vr?ja, the witch—”
“Told me nothing,” Serafina said. She held out her hands, spreading her fingers wide. “Go ahead. Cut them off. When you’re finished, I’ll say the same thing.”
Traho weighed her words, then turned to the two soldiers stationed by the doorway. “Take them both to the prisoners’ tent,” he said.
He bought it, Serafina thought. Relief washed over her. “Let Thalassa go,” she said. “I gave you what you wanted. I told you what I know. Let her go.”
“Not yet,” Traho said. “Her powers will be useful to us. Yours, too, Principessa. But it’s late now and you must rest. Good night. Sleep well.”
A guard handed Thalassa a rag to wrap around her hand and led her out of the tent. Another now led Serafina toward the doorway.
“Oh, and Principessa?”
Serafina stopped. She turned around.
Traho smiled. “Gods help you if you’ve lied to me.”
SERAFINA STRUGGLED when she saw the collar.
She flailed and tried to break away, but one of the guards grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, immobilizing her. All she could do was blink, eyes wild, as another guard closed the collar around her neck and padlocked it. Like the cuffs and gag used on her earlier, the collar was made of iron, and iron repelled magic. While it touched her throat, she could not songcast.
As soon as the guard released her, she thrashed about, stirring up silt from the tent’s floor. The collar was heavy and cruel, and attached by a chain to a wooden post. She leaned forward and pulled against the chain with all her might. Slapped her tail against the pole. Threw her shoulder into it. But she only succeeded in hurting herself.
“Stop, child. It’s no use.”
Serafina swam back to the wooden post. Thalassa had been chained to it also. She looked at her beloved teacher’s face, mottled by violence. At her maimed hand, swaddled in a blood-soaked rag. “Magistra,” she said brokenly, “why? Why did he do that to you?”
“Because he believes the Iele are real. And he thinks that I might have some connection with them.”
“Sera?”
Serafina whirled around at the sound of the voice. “Neela!” she said tearfully.