Dawn brought breakfast and morning reports from Amilia and Thrace’s tutor. Nimbus was bright-eyed and cheery, bowing to both—a courtesy Amilia refused to extend to Arista. The chief imperial secretary looked haggard. The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Holding her jaw stiff and her fists clenched, she glared at Arista eating breakfast in Thrace’s bed. Despite Amilia’s obvious contempt, Arista could not help liking her. She recognized the same fierce protectiveness that Hilfred exhibited.
“They’ve stopped the search for the Witch of Melengar,” Amilia reported, looking coldly at Arista. “They think she’s headed to either Melengar or Ratibor. Patrols are still out, but no one really expects to find her.”
“What about where Degan Gaunt might be held?” Arista asked.
Amilia glanced at Nimbus, who stepped up. “Well, my research at the Hall of Records is inconclusive. In ancient imperial times, Aquesta was a city called Rionillion, and a building of some significance stood on this site. Ironically, several parchments refer to it as a prison, but it was destroyed during the early part of the civil wars that followed the death of the last emperor. Later, in 2453, Glenmorgan the First built a fortress here as a defense against rebellions. That fortress is the very palace in which we now stand.
“None of the histories mention anything about a dungeon—odd, given the unrest. I’ve made a detailed search of nearly every section of the palace, interviewed chambermaids, studied old maps and plans, but I haven’t uncovered a single mention of any kind.”
“What does Aquesta do with criminals?” Arista asked.
“There are three jails in the city that deal with minor offenses and the Warric prison in Whitehead for harsher cases that don’t result in execution. And then there is the infamous Manzant Prison and Salt Mine in Maranon for the most severe crimes.”
“Perhaps it’s not a dungeon or prison at all,” Arista said. “Maybe it’s merely a secret room.”
“I suppose I could make some inquiries along those lines.”
“What is it, Amilia?” Thrace asked, catching a thoughtful look on her secretary’s face.
“What? Oh, nothing …” Amilia’s expression switched to one of annoyance. “This is very dangerous. Asking all these questions and nosing about. It’s risky enough ordering extra food with each meal. Someone will notice. Saldur is not a fool.”
“But what were you thinking just now, Amilia?” Thrace repeated.
“Nothing.”
“Amilia?”
The secretary frowned. “I just—Well, a few weeks ago you talked about a dark hole …”
“You think I was there—in this dungeon?”
“Don’t, Modina. Don’t think about it,” Amilia begged. “You’re too fragile.”
“I have to try. If I can remember—”
“You don’t have to do anything. This woman—she comes here—she doesn’t care about you—or what might happen. All she cares about is herself. You’ve done more than enough. If you won’t turn her in, at least let me get her out of here and away from you. Nimbus and I—”
“No,” Thrace said softly. “She needs us … and I need her.”
“Dirt,” Thrace said, and shivered.
Arista looked over. She was in the midst of trying to determine how to finish her latest letter to Hilfred when she heard the word. The empress had knelt before the open window since Amilia and Nimbus had left, but this was the first she had spoken.
“Damp, cold—terrible cold, and voices, I remember them—cries and weeping, men and women, screams and prayers. Everything was dark.” Thrace wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Splashing, I remember splashing, a hollow sound, creaking, a whirl, and the splash. Sometimes there were distant, echoing voices coming from above, falling out of a tunnel. The walls were stone, the door wood. A bowl—yes, every day a bowl—soup that smelled bad. There was so little to eat.”
Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.
“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my brother, his wife, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”
Thrace began to cry.
Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.
Fragile? Arista thought. Thrace had taken a blow that would have killed most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite would crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.
“Are you all right?” Arista asked.
“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It’s so familiar and yet …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”