Page 33 of Hallowed Games

The woman nodded. “When my father grew poppy-sick, I learned how to heal him. I can help you. If anyone gets injured, you will need me. So, I agree to join.”

The fewer people I had trying to kill me at the outset, the better, but I had no idea if this woman was actually good at anything.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

Her eyebrows raised with hope. “Sazia de Zallas, daughter of Vicomte Pau de Zallas. And I deeply regret coming to this Archon-forsaken kingdom on the cursed side of the sea.”

“Fair enough.” Godric rubbed his chin. “What about this? If this Aquitianian woman can actually help Hugo by tomorrow morning, I’ll join your little alliance, and I will let her join, too. Because that would be a bloody miracle.”

“You won’t be able to get poppy water here to wean yourself off slowly,” said Percival. “Whatever Sazia has to offer is probably the best you can do to keep Hugo healthy.”

“Good.” Godric clapped his frail friend on the back. “We’ll get you back into shape, Hugo. Just like you were in the king’s army.”

My throat tightened. If only that entire army could rise again. But the king had been burned, the maypoles torn down, and the Order had us digging our own graves.

And what could we do about it?

Only take away their greatest weapon—isolation.

CHAPTER 17

Back in the Raven Lord’s room, I’d been sitting on a green silk daybed before a fireplace for hours. Heat from the flames warmed my face and skin as the sun slid lower in the sky. Apart from lunch and dinner with the other Penitents, I’d been alone in here all day, praying to the Archon that Maelor would never find Leo. That he’d actually searched the weald and found nothing.

My mind was a tempest. How many hours had it been since Leo had last eaten? Or slept? At dinner, I’d been a zombie, unable to speak clearly to my new allies. I only knew that Percival de Montfort had joined us, which seemed a good thing. He’d been trained to fight as a knight since he was a little boy.

In here, with only the walls for company, the loneliness made me feel emptied out.

Smoke from the fire curled into my nostrils. The thing about burning to death was that it was brutally slow, and I’d already had a taste of the excruciating pain. I pulled off my gloves, flexing my fingers. I almost never had the chance to let my scarred skin breathe.

I stared at my wrists where the Baron had burned me. He’d wanted to give me an excuse for wearing the gloves, but he’d also wanted me to understand how truly painful it was to burn. Don’t ever let yourself get caught, Elowen, because the torment awaiting you is like nothing you can imagine. That had been his lesson.

Sighing, I stared into the fireplace. I shouldn’t be quite this worried. Surely Maelor would never find Leo. He didn’t know a thing about the Eboria plan or Uncle Hamelin. Maybe Leo had made it all the way to Eboria unharmed.

Restless, I stood and crossed to Maelor’s wooden writing desk, which was strewn with parchments, ink, and quills. Some of the papers displayed drawings of flowers, foxgloves and bluebells. Two torn pieces of a drawing lay side by side—a hawthorn tree. Next to the tree, he’d scribbled,

A grief that may consume my mind

The loss of Pearl, two souls untwined

What was that about? A wooden chest sat on his desk, and I opened it to find more drawings—one butterfly sketch after another—stuffed into the box. On some, he’d smeared them with paint. Violent streaks of vermillion, blue, and saffron streaked across the tidy black lines of the wings.

An icy shudder swept over my skin. In the recesses of my thoughts, a buried memory echoed. I’d seen a butterfly carved into a silver amulet…

But just as quickly as the memory had arrived, it was gone again. I was left staring at the oddly agonized art before me. Pain screamed from these vibrant smears of color.

In the corners of the writing desk, where it met the stone wall, I found ashes settled into the cracks. I smudged my fingers over them, turning my fingertips black. When I knelt, I found a large pile of cinders beneath the desk.

Odd. What was he burning in here? I rose, surveying the brightly hued clutter. On a table by the desk, colored pencils lay over a drawing of a landscape—green grass and a tree of bright gold, ripped in two. The words so surely set in shining gold were violently scribbled over part of the page.

I picked up a gold pencil to stare at it. I’d never seen anything so pretty in my life. How much would something like this cost?

I stared down at the back of my bare hand and traced gold pencil onto my skin. I drew a little star. With the pencil, I crossed back to the astrolabe, and I stared at my own brown eyes in the reflection. I drew gilded streaks beneath my eyelashes, tracing the sweep of my eye.

As the door creaked open, my heart leapt. I could hardly breathe as Maelor crossed into the room, his eyes darting to me. I clutched his gold pencil.

He quirked an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

But I had no interest in talking about the pencils right now. “What happened?”

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