Page 88 of Hearts Lost

ITHRONEL

TRADES

Abell rings.

Panic threads through my chest as the fear of all the small creatures living in this place pulls tight around my own dread. I lift my head from my knees and stare at the wooden door of my cell. There’s a crack in that door that’s at eye level, at least if you’re on your knees. I’ve tried not to think about who must have made that crack, or how long they’d been trapped in here, working away at the wood with their fingernails, trying to open a window into another world.

I creep forward as my heart climbs into my throat. How long have I been in here? Long enough to get hungry, yes, but not so long that the hunger turned to agony. Long enough for light to seep through the crack in the door, trace a path across the straw-strewn stone floor, and then vanish again. Long enough to relive every mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life.

The bell rings again, and I feel like something with long, cold legs is dragging itself across the back of my neck. There’s a low rustling sound on the other side of the door, like something massive sliding across the floor, and I know what I’m going to see even before I press my face to the crack in the door.

The dragon. Rensivar the Wicked, the one who built the barrier and ended the war between the Kingdom of the Summer and the Kingdom of the Fall. The dragon who trapped an entire kingdom in the Lands Below.

For a long, trembling moment, I freeze, waiting to see if the nightmare dragon will somehow sense my presence at the door of my cell. The room beyond my cell is filled with murky shadows, the few lamps burning along the walls emphasizing the darkness instead of mitigating it. The great black dragon moves through the gloom, his scales rustling softly. The bell rings once again.

“Oh, come on,” Rensivar growls into the gloom. “Just do it already.”

As if in response, the far wall begins to shimmer with a strange iridescence. It’s almost like the dim lamplight is pooling against the wall, or perhaps sinking into the stones, causing them to buckle and bend. My chest feels tight, and my breath catches in the back of my throat. Some part of me howls for whatever’s coming through that portal, and another part of me wants to shrink back against the wall.

Because it can’t be. Because it has to be.

The portal grows like a thundercloud, billowing and rippling as the bell chimes its high, silver song through the darkened room. Finally, the dragon Rensivar huffs, shakes himself, and thrusts his head through the churning portal. I hear the low, growling echo of speech, although I can’t make out the words.

He’s vulnerable, some part of me notes. If I had a weapon—

But I don’t have a weapon. All I have is a stained velvet dress, a tiny crack in a locked wooden door, and the ability to sense the blind panic running through the generations of rodents living here. I twist my hands together in the velvet of my dress and watch as Rensivar’s barbed tail thrashes against the stone floor, casting wild shadows against the walls.

They’re arguing, I think, Rensivar and whoever is on the other side of that portal. Something small and light that might almost be hope flares inside my chest. Is Aloserin on the other side? And if not, then who—

Rensivar pulls back; a low growl bounces off the stone walls. My heart jumps into my throat, and I feel too hot and too cold at the same time. Because the portal is shivering again, trembling and rippling, and now there’s something inside that shifting heat mirage. Someone is coming through.

It can’t be. But it is.

Aloserin staggers through the portal, dragging another figure with him. This man has pale hair, and he’s draped across Aloserin’s shoulders like he’s unconscious. My gut pulls tight; I feel like I’ve just been plunged into ice water.

Rowan. That’s the man who stood inside the teleportation hub, the man who was arguing with Lythienne when I agreed to help King Galan’s magicians. My heart thuds like I’m running another race, like I’m just steps from the finish line. Aloserin’s mother told Rensivar that Rowan could control the void. And Rensivar said he’d take Rowan. For a price. For a trade.

“Stars, no,” I moan, but my words are lost in the hiss of the portal and the thud of boots on stone.

Aloserin lifts his eyes. His expression is as sharp as a dagger. Rowan’s boots drag across the floor. I think of Aloserin reaching for my hand, of the look in his eyes as his magic rippled over me, pulling me under, and I wonder how it had felt to Rowan. I won’t let them hurt you, Aloserin had said. I wonder if he’d made any promises to Rowan.

Something hot and panicked rises in my throat like steam building inside a kettle, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep it from escaping. Because this is wrong, this is all horribly wrong. An image snags in my memory, a nothing moment from the day when I sat in the huge, sunlit room with the magicians of the Kingdom of the Fall and told them everything I knew about the weapons King Grathgore had given me. Lady Arryn Damoira had crossed the room to fetch something and, as she’d walked past Rowan, she’d trailed her fingers over his shoulder. He’d turned to her with a soft, easy smile that made me feel like someone had slid a knife through my ribs. I didn’t need anyone to explain the heart magic ritual the two of them had shared; the love between Arryn and Rowan was so obvious it hurt to watch.

And here’s Aloserin, the person I most wanted to see, the last person I ever wanted to enter Rensivar’s chambers, and he’s dragging the man Lady Arryn loves toward my cell. As a trade.

I scramble backward on my hands and knees, tears stinging my eyes and blurring my vision, my heart and my head screaming that this is wrong. I don’t deserve this. Rowan is one of King Galan’s magicians. Rowan has people who love him, he’s important, he’s worth something. Aloserin can’t—

There’s the sound of a lock sliding open, and then the door to my cell swings back on rusty hinges. Aloserin stands in the doorway, silhouetted in the flickering lamplight, Rowan’s limp body at his side.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No. You can’t.”

Aloserin staggers into the room, turns, and falls to his knees. He lowers Rowan gently to the floor of the cell, and I bite into my fingers to keep from screaming. This can’t happen. It can’t.

Rowan’s eyes snap open, catching the light. Aloserin reaches under his cloak and pulls something out, something long and dark and sharp. For one horrible heartbeat, I think he might plunge the little dagger into Rowan’s chest, but then he presses it into Rowan’s hand instead.

“Good luck,” Aloserin whispers so softly I think for a moment I might have imagined it. “Asshole,” Aloserin adds.

No. No, I didn’t imagine that. The dim light flickers over Rowan’s lips as they curve into a grin.