by Claire Luana
“You got cheese?” Penelope asked around a mouthful of stew.
Just you, he had said.
“I think…” Wren said, suddenly aware of Penelope’s interest resting heavily on her and the cheese. “It might be poisoned.”
Instantly, the other woman leaned back imperceptibly.
Wren’s mind whirled. Poisoned… or something else? Could it be that she wasn’t entirely without allies after all? She had met the Head of the Cheesemonger’s Guild, after all. A Gifted master.
She thought of the boy’s youth and nerves. Had he infiltrated the Block to get her this cheese? For what end? Did she dare think that it was infused with the magic of intelligence and intellect? Or could it be actually poisoned?
Well, she told herself, then she would be rid of Killian, and Lucas would be free. Either way, this was the best option she had.
She took a bite.
The salty tang of the cheese flooded her mouth. Creamy and as smooth as a dream, with a hard rind—the richness of the cheese belonged in a palace, not these macabre surroundings. It was the stuff of kings and monarchs, not condemned confectioners.
“Well?” Penelope asked. “You think it’s poisoned? It’s a strange thing to poison, cheese. How do they even get it in there?”
Wren shook her head, swallowing, not wanting the perfection of the flavor to leave her. “I don’t think it’s poisoned,” she finally managed.
The next instant the tingles began—an effervescence that spilled from her tongue through her whole body, right down to her mangled fingertips. It swirled through her mind, a whirlwind of texture and awareness, taking her world-weary intellect and shooting it through with a pure bolt of energy. Connections, insights, brilliance dazzled through her, as if her mind had suddenly been welcomed into a vast new library of knowledge. A disbelieving laugh bubbled forth from her. The cheese was truly infused. With a gift of the mind. Perhaps the guildmasters did not have the means to save her. So they did their best to help her save herself. But… that wasn’t possible. She was beyond saving. But Lucas…
Her thoughts whirled, faster, faster, computations and calculations and connections firing and tallying. Wren leaped to her feet.
She knew what to do.
Wren pounded on the door, excitement bubbling within her. “Guards!” she shouted. “I want to see the inquisitor!”
“Wren—” Penelope hissed.
The guard peered through the bars at her. “Girl, no one asks to see the inquisitor.”
“Well, I do,” she said. “I’m ready to confess.”
The Grand Inquisitor’s guards took her back to the room of horrors. Was it the inquisitor’s office? Fresh blood gleamed on one of the screws on the table. The new universe of her mind offered her hundreds of possibilities for its use. She shuddered. Sometimes ignorance was preferable.
One of the cheese’s side effects was to allow her a blessedly dispassionate evaluation of her circumstances. The verdict was in, the results were unassailable. The chances of she and Lucas both getting out of this mess alive were infinitesimal. But she could save Lucas. If she struck the right bargain.
The inquisitor entered, exuding power and barely-restrained violence. He wore no jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms. His brocade violet waistcoat hung unbuttoned. She was surprised to see that he was handsome—a chiseled jawline, a finely-wrought mouth, and dark eyebrows that hinted at what color his hair would be if he hadn’t shaved it bald. She had been too terrified to notice the last time she had sat in this room.
“Am I to understand you’ve had a change of heart?” he asked, ushering her to sit in the chair. His manners were as pleasant as a diplomat’s.
She sat.
He didn’t bother to tie her arms to the chair. Apparently, they were now talking man to man, so to speak, rather than torturer to tortured.
“You’ve put me in a bit of a bind,” she said.
“One of my favorite pastimes,” he said, flashing a predatory grin.
She suppressed a shudder of disgust, forcing herself to hold his gaze, forcing her injured hand to lay still on the arm of the chair, rather than curl against her body for protection. “I understand that I will confess, one way or the other. Eventually.”
“You’ve come to terms with it sooner than most,” he said. “I admit I’m disappointed.”
Her nostrils flared in distaste. However handsome he was, the man was abhorrent. “There is another for me to consider.”
A look of confusion crossed his face before realization dawned on him. “Lucas Imbris,” he said. “I’d heard the two of you had grown close.”
“Yes.”
“In over his head, that fool boy. The king was most displeased upon his return. I told him not to let his children galivant around Maradis, playing as priests and scholars and inspectors. But kings think they know better.”
“You see the trouble it places me in. I can’t confess without dooming him. And whereas I might yield to save myself more pain, I will fight with all I have to spare him.” She had thought long and hard about whether the king would truly kill his own son just to spite him. From what she knew of the king’s character, about his esteem for his younger children, the answer was yes. Or at least, it wasn’t a clear no. She had to do this.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“I’ll confess. Write it out,” she said. “You have your scapegoat. But I want you to spare Lucas. I know the laws are malleable in Alesia. The king can pardon him.”
He tsked. “You presume that your confession is worth such bargaining power. I’m afraid that’s far from the case. I could get it without making any concessions.”
“The guilds, the city, they know of your skills, your interrogation… tactics.” She twisted the word. “There will always be doubt whether you coerced a false confession from me. But if I give it freely, appear before them whole and unharmed…” Mostly whole, she thought.
He stood, seeming to ponder her proposal, pacing twice before the cell door. “I could make you such a deal. But there would be a condition.”
“What?” she asked warily.
“You will also confess that your actions were directed by Guildmaster Chandler.”
Her breath stilled. Give up Chandler? Why? Even as she thought the word, the connections formed, showing her Killian’s aim.
“I see,” she said. “All the evidence linking Chandler to the crime is circumstantial. Maybe you can make the case, but it’s tenuous. He has powerful friends. It won’t look good that the crown is pressing the case against him so hard.”
“But if we have an incriminating witness…” Killian said.
“There will be no doubt.”
“You choose. Chandler or Lucas.”
Either way, her life was forfeit. Could she lie and doom Chandler to this fate? Do damage to the cause of the guilds, help the king? She thought of his kind eyes, of Bianca’s, his wife’s, gentle smile. They didn’t deserve this.
But… her mind buzzed like a hive of honeybees. A new path opened up before her, a desperate, last-ditch fool of a plan that would most likely get all of them killed. Or… it could save them all. She ran through the permutations again, the myriad scenarios playing out in an instant. Yes, it could work.
“Agreed,” she said. “I’ll testify against Chandler. Tell them that he paid me to murder his rival Kasper to increase his guild’s influence.”
Killian’s gaze warmed. “Excellent. Guards,” he called, “fetch me paper and ink.”
“I have one more condition.”
“I don’t think you understand how negotiation works, girl,” he said. “You need to have leverage to make demands.”
“It’s a small thing. An indulgence that will help you as well. I want to confess publicly at my execution. And I want Greer there sitting in the front row, so I can look her in the eyes as I die. So she knows I’ll be waiting when the Huntress comes for her.”
“Impossible,” he said.
“Give you a platform to spout off accusations? You must think me a fool.”
“You forget, you have Lucas’s life in your hands. I know it is forfeit if I don’t behave. A public confession will be better for the king anyway, an accusation of Chandler that will shock the city, ring through the guilds. Invite the guild heads so they will all be there to witness his downfall. After the performance I put on, there will be no way anyone can accuse you of forcing me to speak the words. All this, before the drama of me losing my head.”
He considered. “I cannot agree to a public confession. Can’t have your fellow guild members making some last-ditch defense of your innocence. But I can secure Greer’s attendance. And the attendance of a few more. A private party of sorts. Witnesses to your final hours. And Chandler’s.”
Wren nodded curtly, her heart sinking a little lower into the blackness that already surrounded it. Though she didn’t know if she had any friends left at the guild, part of her still hoped they cared. That they would take note, perhaps be there at the end. Killian had dashed those hopes, like he had dashed all others.
“Why do you want this? Truly? Not just for revenge with Greer.”
She offered him an answer that held a kernel of truth. “I don’t want to die alone.”
He stroked his chin, as clean shaven as his bald head, before giving a curt nod. “You have a deal.”
Chapter 39
The inquisitor brushed aside his instruments of pain and cruelty to make room for Wren to write her confession. She took the quill with clumsy fingers still roaring with pain from Killian’s earlier attentions. Slowly, she penned her confession, the spiderweb of lies that would seal her fate and perhaps Chandler’s. She risked so much… too much? She couldn’t know. Though doubts plagued her, the clarity that had come from the infused cheese soothed her fears like a balm. She finally had all the pieces, saw all the angles. It was time for one final gamble.
When she was done, Killian picked up the parchment and read it. “Very eloquent,” he praised. “Quite a tale indeed. You could have had a future in the arts of espionage. Together with your Gift… it’s really a shame to lose such an asset.”
She sighed. She was growing weary of bantering with this horrible man. “Is it sufficient?” she asked.
“Indeed. You have met your terms. Lucas is being released—”
“Lucas!” she exclaimed. “He’s here? Why?”
“He did vouch for you,” Killian explained, as if to a child. “So I was within my rights to arrest him. I brought him here to ensure you were properly… motivated… to confess.”
“You’re a bastard,” Wren hissed, a low anger thrumming in her veins.
“Spare me your righteous indignation. He’s being released as we speak. But he will be at the execution. To remind you what you have to lose if you get any… wild ideas.”
Wren found strange comfort at the thought that Lucas would be at the execution. If her plan went awry, at least there would be one kind face to look on as she left this world.
“When?” she asked simply.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“So soon?” she asked, her stomach dropping.
“The peace treaty with the Apricans failed. They already move on our border. The king has a war to fight; he can’t be concerned with petty matters of guild politics.”
“Is that what I am?” she said bitterly.
“Don’t be morose,” he said. “You’re giving up your life in the service of your king. Think of yourself as a soldier of sorts. There are far more pointless ways to die.”
They walked into the hallway together, side by side, the guards traveling behind them. It was almost like they were equals now. Co-conspirators in the king’s grand design. Her mouth twisted in a hard line. The king deserved to pay for playing with their lives as if he were a puppet master. But he wouldn’t, she knew. The rich and powerful never paid the price. Always people like her.
She was lost in a downward spiral of despairing thoughts when they almost crashed into another set of guards and a prisoner coming from an adjoining hallway.
“Lucas!” Wren said, her eyes roving over him for signs he had been mistreated. He looked tired and disheveled but unharmed.
“Wren,” he breathed, his hand partially reaching for her before falling.
“How lovely.” The inquisitor clapped his hands in mock delight. “A final reunion. And farewell.”
“They say you confessed,” Lucas said. “That you’re to be executed tomorrow. I’m being released.”
She looked at Killian, biting her lip. “Can we have a moment alone?”
“No.” He snorted, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.
She sighed, looking in Lucas’s dark eyes, trying to say with her eyes what she couldn’t with her lips. “I did confess,” she said. “I deceived you. I did murder Kasper.”
“But Chandler…” he said.
“Chandler was my patron in this dark deed,” she said. “I’m sorry… for everything. I never wanted to lie to you. What was between us… It was real.”
He shook his head, the muscles in his jaw working. She could see he didn’t believe her. Good, she thought, a desperate relief flooding her. Please don’t believe me. She didn’t want him thinking the worst of her. To see disdain on his face, disgust where there had once been esteem… she thought it would shatter whatever fragments of her heart remained, whatever torn bits of her resolve.
“If you did this for me…” he said. “It’s not right, for you to die… for me.”
“You risked everything for a girl you had only just met,” she said. “Am I not allowed to do the same for a man…” A man that I love, she realized. She wanted to say it. But not here. Not in this place, with the howls of prisoners and Killian’s sneer bearing witness. Better it die with her. And so she finished her sentence. “That I respect.”
“All right,” Killian said, shoving off the wall. “Tearful goodbye time is over. I have places to be, people to torture.”
Lucas’s guards began pulling him down the hallway, away from her. “Wren!” The word was mangled.
“Thank you for these weeks,” she called. “They were an undeserved gift. And Lucas…” she called. “The Destrier, keep him on his estate!”
Killian snorted as they kept walking. “Nice coded message. I hope you take comfort in the fact that Mr. Imbris is powerless in all of this.”
“You’re an ass,” Wren grumbled under her breath. But her thoughts weren’t on Killian. They were on Lucas and Chandler. She hoped upon hope that Lucas understood her message. Keep Chandler away. Give him an opportunity to escape, if her confession truly implicated him. If her tenuous plan went wrong.
Killian laughed out loud. “It’s really a shame we have to kill you.”
They reached a cell and the guard opened the door, shoving her inside.
“This is new,” she said, looking around the interior, which boasted a small bed with a shabby straw mattress, a bucket of water, a table, and chairs. It almost looked like a room at an inn.
“I thought you could use a little comfort on your last night on earth.”
“You don’t want me talking to the other woman and telling her our little arrangement,” she quipped.
“Smart girl.” He shook his head with a rueful smile. “I could put you in with the men… You wouldn’t get much talking done.”
“This is fine,” she said hastily. “Thank you. And I’d like to make a request for my last meal.”
“Your last meal?” He arched an eyebrow. “You’ve heard about that, have you?”
The Block was notorious for two things. One, the cruel ends prisoners met inside it, and two, the elaborate last meals they earned before they died. Maradis was a city that loved its food, and this macabre little homage reflected that.
“I want puffed pancakes with maple syrup and fresh loganberries, and eggs scrambled with spinach and truffles, and bacon. The thick kind with peppered edges.”
“Brea
kfast for your last meal?” He raised a dark eyebrow.
“Breakfast food is the most delicious,” she said. “I never understood why such things were relegated to the morning.”
“Very well.” He inclined his head slightly. “I will have the guards inform the cuisinier of your order.”
And with that, the door clicked closed.
Wren was deep in her own misery when her last supper was delivered hours later. The injured fingernails on her hand burned like fire when she moved, a palpable reminder of her weakness, her helplessness. Had she been a fool to agree to sell out Chandler in exchange for Lucas’s life and one last shot at her own? It was bad enough that the king had gotten away with murdering Kasper, but if things went wrong, she’d be ridding them of another guildmaster in the process.
It wasn’t fair. She had figured it out. She had solved the puzzle, had exposed the real killer. It should have been enough. It should be Greer in this cell, her last meal like ash on her tongue, while Wren was finally, after so many years, free to live her own life.
“Life isn’t fair,” she said out loud, reminding herself. The powerful have the means to keep their power, and the weak stay weak. She had learned that at a very young age. From her father, from the head of the Sower’s orphanage, and then from Ansel and his gang. Just look at the guilds themselves—the Gifting. The entire system was designed to funnel wealth, power, and privilege up to those at the top, and ensure that no one else had access. It would take a revolution to change the way things were—a revolution that may or may not ever come. And she was out of time.
She had come so close. But in the end, close wouldn’t matter.
Wren’s dinner was getting cold, and so she tore herself from her rumination and dove in. She ate her eggs first, shaking on salt and pepper, enjoying each fluffy bite. Next she slathered the airy rounds of puffed pancake with glistening maple syrup, fresh succulent berries, and powdered sugar. Last, the bacon, thick crisp slices that mingled salty with sweet. She savored the interplay of flavors on her palate, the sensations of chewy and crispy and smooth. Taste and smell and touch—a good meal and a full belly—the sensations of being alive. The honesty of flavor and texture and pride of craft. These were the things she would miss when she was gone. When she was done, she picked up the plate and licked the maple syrup off it with a smile. Might as well enjoy every morsel.
