“I’ve thought long and hard about it, sir, ever since we left those storerooms. I’ve decided that we need help.”
“Help,” Merik repeated, easing off his new cloak—much too large—and draping it across the bed. “With what exactly?”
“Dead men comin’ back to life.” She thrust out her chin, as if preparing an argument. “Whatever that was—whatever we saw in the storerooms, it wasn’t right. It was … unholy!”
“And I’m sure the guards will deal with it.”
“What if they don’t? What if they can’t? Or what if they didn’t even see what we saw? Someone needs to know there’s dark magic happening in the Cisterns, sir.”
“Someone?” he asked carefully, though he already saw where this was headed.
“The Royal Forces. Or … or the High Council.”
“Ah, right.” Merik laughed a dry, cruel sound. “You mean the Royal Forces and the High Council that are led by my sister. Who, in case you’ve forgotten, tried to kill me.”
“We don’t know she did that. Not for certain.”
“Don’t we, though?” A hot, charged breeze scraped through his chest. Merik fought it. He wouldn’t let it loose—not on Cam. “We know she left us for dead at sea.”
“She did that for the Foxes, sir. I ain’t saying it was right, but she got those weapons for the Foxes, and we just saw, plain as rain, that her piracy is working.”
For half a shallow breath, all he could do was stare at Cam. Then, with lethal slowness, he said, “What we saw was Vivia hoarding food. For herself. Are you taking her side, Cam?”
“No!” Cam’s hands shot up. “I just … we can’t face corpses that wake up, sir! Not on our own! And what if,” she pressed, “the princess didn’t try to kill you? What if it was … well, what if it was someone connected to that dead man in the storerooms?” She stumbled two steps toward Merik.
But he turned away. He couldn’t look at her. The one person he’d trusted, the one person who’d stood by him through everything … Now she was turning on him too.
He fixed his eyes on Kullen’s books. On The True Tale of the Twelve Paladins. His lungs were expanding, pressing against his ribs with a rage that begged to be used. To pummel and break. To go head-to-head with his sister, once and for all.
“Vivia,” he forced out, “is the one who tried to kill us.”
“No,” Cam snarled. “She ain’t. Look at me, sir.”
Merik didn’t look at her, and his winds were spinning now. Small, turbulent chops.
Cam stomped in closer, her shirt flapping like sailcloth the instant she got close. “Look at me!”
“Why?” Merik had to pitch his voice over the building winds. The cover of The True Tale popped wide open. “What do you want from me, Cam?”
“I want you to see the truth! I want you to face it, sir. I ain’t blind, you know—I’ve seen the marks on your chest, and on your arms! Just like the dead man in the cellar. We need answers, sir, and I think I know where—”
“And I ain’t blind either, Cam.” Merik finally turned toward her. “I can see blighted well that you’re a girl.”
For half a windswept breath, she gawped at him. Surprised. “Is that what you think I am? All this time, and you still haven’t sorted it out?” Then she barked a hollow laugh. “Why am I surprised? You didn’t notice me when we were on the Jana. You couldn’t even remember my name back then, so why should I expect you to understand—to see me for what I am now!”
Cam thrust in closer, until there was nothing but her face mere inches away. Too close for Merik’s hot winds to even spiral between. “You think you’re so selfless,” she spat. “You think you’re working to save everyone, but what if you’re going about it all wrong? At least when I live as a boy, no one gets hurt. But you pretendin’ to be a martyr? Pretending to be the Fury? That hurts everyone.”
Too far. Merik’s winds launched up, sweeping between them. Knocking Cam back and kicking books in all directions. But she wasn’t finished. She wasn’t even fazed.
She just stretched to her fullest height and roared, “Stop seeing what you want to see, Merik Nihar, and start seeing what’s really here!”
Then she launched past him, aiming for the door. It slammed, leaving him alone with his winds, his rage, and books scattered everywhere.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Dreaming was different tonight. Vastly so.
Iseult found herself in Esme’s tower, a decrepit, crumbling thing in Poznin that she’d seen once before—except that the last time, it had been through Esme’s eyes.
This time, Iseult saw the tower through her own. She was in Poznin, in her very own body, and staring at the back of a girl she could only assume was the Puppeteer.