The mousy, middle-aged man that had been cowering in the corner of the High Warlock’s chambers had been the Prior Aarin the Xelani spoke of. Lark had expected someone a bit more refined, someone worthy of holding the keys to a cell. In his terrified state, she’d removed the brass ring from his waist tie as easily as one might sheathe a sword. She’d sneered in his face, watching the man’s eyes widen, and chuckled satisfactorily as she’d slipped from the room.

  Drair’s malice had frightened her. There was a wildness in the woman’s dark eyes that Lark had never seen, the poison of revenge, a wildness that Nathis had most likely seen in her own. A knife to a throat that had scorned you was more tempting to think about when your hands weren’t covered in its blood.

  As soon as her feet hit the sand floor outside the small chambers, she had shifted into a run, flying past the sconces on the wall, the library, where she could have sworn she saw the shaggy blonde-headed boy lingering about the books, and made a sharp right into the offshoot that led to the inner chambers.

  Now, when she bursts through the outer door to the cells, gasps and shrieks come from the prisoners, as if they were awaiting the worst and it had come. She stands breathing heavily on their doorstep for a few moments, keys swinging in her hand.

  “You’re back,” she hears, a familiar female voice. She searches her brain for the name. Orain.

  “I am,” she answers the dark. There is little light coming through the open doorway, barely enough to see the edges of the first few faces, the captives’ dark skin fading into the black surrounding them. She mumbles a curse as she peels out the door again and down the hall, ripping a flaming torch from its bracket and hurrying back. “Sorry,” she huffs, standing this time in a circle of light.

  “You found Prior Aarin?”

  Orain’s voice is an octave higher. Surprised, excited, scared? Lark can’t tell. “I did,” she says, rushing to the first cells, jangling the ring in her hand, realizing with a sinking chest that there were as many keys as there were cells, if not more. “Cowering in the corner as my comrade put a knife to his master’s throat.” She chuckles. She struggles to handle the keys in one hand and the torch in the other, almost lighting her vest on fire as she fumbles.

  From the cell in front of her, a young man reaches his hand through the bars, his bronze skin gleaming. “Here,” he says, fingers outstretched. “Give me the torch.”

  She peers into the cell, catching his dark eyes and short-cropped hair. He is beautiful, a set of high cheekbones and full lips illuminated in the glow. She nods, sheepish, and gently transfers the torch to his palm, searching through the keys with both hands in the flickering light.

  “As far as I can tell, I think the cells are marked in some way,” comes the voice of an older man. She remembers the man from before, the one who had told her of his father’s murder, cut down by Larynthian soldiers.

  She looks up to see the cell bars reaching like tendrils into the domed ceiling above. At the end of the row, near the very top, she can see what looks like a symbol scratched into the surface of the metal. Rocking to her toes, she grabs the torch from the young man with a small smile, and raises it to squint at the etching. It looks like an upside down V, delicately carved. She drops, handing the torch back to the outstretched hand, and clinks through the keys, locating one with an upside down V etched into its thin handle, jamming it into the lock on the narrow door and wrenching the key in every direction until she hears a click.

  She blows out a held breath, and the captives in the cell before her do the same. The metal is cool on her hand as she pulls the door open, releasing the six Xelani that had been cramped in its depths, and she moves to the next cell. The young man holding her torch follows.

  “Where do we go?” a woman asks. She is wringing her hands at the head of the group now huddled around the exit door. Their clothes are tattered, hanging from their limbs like laundry on a line.

  Lark thinks as she works, reaching to see the next symbol and searching through the ring of keys. “My comrades are down the outer hallway to the left. Find Nathis. Armored, shaved head, old man. Looks about as miserable as you lot.” She winces, shooting the group an apologetic look. “He will take you out of here. From there…” She hesitates, screwing up her face. “Well, I haven’t really gotten there yet. We’ll have to book a ship.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She unlocks two more cells and twelve more Xelani are gathered in the small entryway. “Go on,” she waves. “He won’t bite. If you see any of the monks or whatever, there are more of you than there are of them.”

  The group shuffles out one by one, more dark skin than she’d seen in her lifetime. It felt strange to be a part of something she’d only learned about in her stepmother’s classes – far less strange, she thought, than the Xelani probably felt right now. Their homes were destroyed, their families gone. They had little to come home to.

  In the fifth cell, the one on the left, farthest from the door, is the older man she’d spoken to before. She recognizes him by the racking cough that shakes his thin frame. When her fingers finally release the lock, he is dragged up by one of his cellmates and walked to the opening, his bare feet shuffling in the sand below. He stops at the door, eyeing Lark with small, dark eyes, like staring into a portal, and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder. She freezes, swallowing. He nods once, a gesture of thanks, and slips his hand from her sunburned skin, allowing his companion to lead him away.

  In the next cell, Orain is waiting patiently, her hands wrapped around the bars of the door. She waves her fingers to the young man still holding the torch, mumbling for him to leave as she takes it. The boy slips out the doorway, leaving Lark with the last of the captives.

  “You didn’t forget,” Orain says, her eyes following Lark’s hands as she works.

  “Why would I?”

  The woman smiles sadly, but she does not answer. “Did you find your comrade?” she asks instead.

  “We did.” Lark looks up at her, grinning. “Trying to kill the man with the leviathan tattoo.”

  Orain huffs a small laugh. “She sounds exciting.”

  There is silence as the six wait for their freedom. Lark finds the key, twisting its cold form in the lock, and opens the cell door. Orain is the first to walk out, torch in hand, standing aside as her cellmates leave. She hovers at Lark’s shoulder, light spilling over the both of them. Her eyes are slightly swollen, her lips chapped and cracking in several spots, and her long hair is pulled back in a rough braid, similar to Lark’s own.

  “How did she make it out? Your comrade.”

  Lark hums, moving to the second to last cell. “She almost didn’t. Got picked up by Denand from our own holdings. Before that, she infiltrated-” Lark stops, dredging up the truth in her head before letting it loose. “My teacher, Nathis, the man you’re to find, he smuggled her in the castle under the guise of an assassin enlisted to the crown. It was smart, really. Wore a patch to cover her Lynac.”

  The woman nods. She follows Lark as she unlocks the last two cells, letting the others assemble out the door in groups that slip quietly down the halls, hopefully to meet with Nathis and the others.

  The holding room becomes very quiet, each cell with its door yawning open, the smell of human lingering. Lark, eager to join the others, pockets the bulky ring of keys and gestures to Orain to follow. They pad through the halls, meeting no one. At the library, Lark catches sight of Anarah, her eyes glued to the pages of an open tome, oblivious of their arrival.

  Lark bites her cheek, hesitating in the doorway. “Hey,” she says, softly. The swordswoman looks up, her honey-blonde hair slipping loose over her shoulder, and takes them in. “Are you looking for the cure?” Lark asks, her eyes flitting to the stacks of books held within their shelves.

  “Yes,” Anarah says, tucking her hair back and returning her eyes to the book. “Though I think I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here. There’s so much.”

  Lark nods, making eye contact with Orain, who is waiting patiently at her shoulder. “I have some help here, if you’d like to take them. Where are the others?”

  “Nathis is escorting the High Alchemist back to the ships. He’s going to try booking passage as soon as possible. Tygoh has led the Xelani to the kids’ lodgings for now, with Kelo.” She looks up. “And Drair left, I think.”

  “Of course,” Lark snaps.

  “She’ll come back.”

  “Maybe.”

  Silence follows, and Orain shifts uncomfortably behind them. The woman is filthy, her dark hair clinging to oily forehead. Her clothes are terribly stained. It makes Lark itch just to look at her.

  “I can help carry,” the woman says. “Are you looking for a cure for the afflicted?” Her eyes are curious, head tilted into the library, peering at the books as if she’d never seen so many.

  “I’m trying,” Anarah chuckles dryly. “I know it’s possible, but I’m not sure how yet. I’m Anarah, by the way, since Lark isn’t great at introductions.” She turns to reach a pale hand toward the dark woman, smiling.

  Orain stares at it, then takes a heavy breath before deciding to reach out. “Orain.”

  “Maybe we can have the leviathan guy help,” Lark suggests. “God knows he deserves to pay retribution somehow.” She tightens the knot on her braid and steps into the library’s dim. “Where do we start?” she asks, arms crossed.