She shakes her head. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Those who helped me carry messages have all abandoned Cirilea with the outgoing ships.”
The sanctum’s doors swing open.
My body stiffens as Malachi strolls in, pausing a moment to admire the statue of himself on the dais.
“Proper devotion. That is what I like to see.” He closes the distance to me with quick strides. “There you are. I left you with a quill and paper for a moment and when I returned, you were gone.”
I smile while my rage simmers. For a moment, my ass. After releasing Elijah briefly last night—just long enough to prove he was still in there—Malachi had me record his words in a letter and then left me with orders to pen duplicates and spirit them to kings and queens and lords and ladies of Islor and nearby realms with the help of the castle fancier and my affinities.
I haven’t seen him since.
“The letters went out at first light.”
“You must have given those messenger birds’ wings something extra. I’ve been visited by a nosy kell for a neighboring realm.”
“You wished for a swift delivery.”
“And what might my love be doing here?”
He plays at easygoing, but I have spent enough time with him to know it is all a ruse. He may turn as quickly and fiercely as a storm at sea. “I thought I would heal my fellow caster.”
He hums, sizing up Wendeline, who bows deeply and murmurs, “Your Highness.” But I sense her body turning rigid with fear.
“Come. I have need of you now.” The demand is soft, but it is a demand, nonetheless.
And while he calls me his queen, I am not foolish enough to believe I am anything more than his servant.
“Thank you for the kind gift of healing, Your Highness.” Wendeline dips her head. “If only I should be able to return the favor one day, though I fear I will be of little use to you.”
“If ever a need, I know where to come.” It’s as much a threat as a promise.
Malachi snaps his fingers and barks, “Now, Sofie.”
“Do you remember the wisteria that climbed the stone walls in our place in Belgium?” I ask as we walk the crumbled path in the garden. “It lives still, even after all these years.”
“Hmm?” Malachi frowns, then dismisses my wistfulness, his focus ahead.
I expected as much. I’m not reminiscing for his benefit. Elijah would tend to it daily in the warmer months, pruning and training the clambering vines.
If Elijah must be held hostage in his own body, the least I can do is remind him that I know he is still in there.
The nymphaeum comes into view, a solemn rectangular stone surrounded by pillars and trees, skirted by an altar.
“Send us through again,” Malachi commands, sliding his hand into mine.
“Back to the Nulling’s entrance? Why?”
“You question me, loyal servant?” The edge in his tone is unmistakable, and when his fingers clamp over mine and squeeze, I know I walk a precarious line.
“Of course not, my love.” Pushing aside my trepidation, I channel into the stone and take us through.
And gasp.
Once a vacant cave that we passed through on our journey to Cirilea, the space is now crammed with a horde of beasts.
Malachi grins with satisfaction. “Behold my army.”
“You have brought demons to this world.”