I avert my eyes, letting them fall on the expansive canvas stretched across the table, on the oddly shaped land mass that looks to be hand drawn in ink and surrounded by water. It’s too far from me to read any of the script.
“That will be all,” Zander says.
I take that as my signal, and I turn to follow Elisaf out.
“Not you.”
My back stiffens. Somehow, I know without looking that he’s talking to me.
Atticus’s cold, calculating gaze is on me as he passes. He slows long enough to whisper, “How unfortunate it is that you didn’t choose someone more skilled with a bow.” His hand curls around the hilt of his sword, as if to make a point. Surely, he’d use it on me, if his brother would allow it.
I’m sure I’ve had people curse the thief who made off with their jewels, but I’ve never had so many people wish me dead to my face.
Everyone files out, and I’m left alone, standing across the table from the man who decides whether those wishes are fulfilled.
The moments drag without a single sound as I wait impatiently and try not to stare at him, my curiosity about his elven kind competing with the anxiety I feel, knowing he would much rather have me dead. He needs me, though, should another daaknar show up. A reality that must burn his insides. Is that the only reason I’m still alive?
What would he do if one did suddenly appear? Throw me to it like chum to a shark so it can sink its fangs into me?
Princess Romeria chose to murder a king and queen and lead an insurrection rather than marry this man. Is it as Wendeline says? Was that choice about power and deep-seated hatred? Or is there something more?
Still, he says nothing. Is he waiting for me to grovel at his feet for my release? I haven’t reached that point of desperation—yet. But I’m not here to win a battle of wills. That would be stupid. I clear my voice. “Thank you, for taking the locks off the balcony.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my appreciation, instead gesturing toward the map. “Go ahead.”
I hesitate.
“You seem extremely interested in it, and I would prefer you interrogate me rather than my caster on matters of our kingdoms. Besides, there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before.”
I highly doubt that.
What has Wendeline repeated of our conversations? I’m beginning to assume everything. Did she tell him that I called him a monster? Would he care?
I approach the table cautiously, struggling to ignore the feel of his gaze on me, like cool fingertips against my skin. I tilt my head to better read, feeling a slight pull where the daaknar bit my neck, even though the marks are now invisible.
The map is drawn in ink and intricately detailed, on paper or canvas much thicker than anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t have anything to judge scale, but the various mountain ranges would suggest a vast expanse of land. Off the southwest corner of Islor is Seacadore, separated by Fortune’s Channel. In the southeast, Islor connects with Kier. In the north, Ybaris borders a large country named Skatrana. To the northeast is an island called Mordain.
“Something perplexes you,” Zander murmurs.
More like something is becoming shockingly clear. “Is this the only map you have?” I struggle to keep my voice calm.
“No, but it’s the most extensive one of the lands.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Why? Do you believe something to be missing?”
The Americas, Europe, Africa, Australia … I may not be a geography expert, but I know enough to recognize that this is not any of those continents, in any time frame.
It is far from here.
I calm my breathing. “What other places are there? Like, on the other side of this Endless Sea?”
“Espador and Udral, but we don’t concern ourselves with them. They are too far for benefits of regular trade.”
There’s no way people in North America or the other continents would not know of this place. It’s too big to be missed.
I slide into the empty chair to hide the fact that my legs are wobbling.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Zander mocks, but he’s watching me closely. After a moment, he offers, “You are suddenly rather pale, and I would prefer you not collapse on my table. I have work to do.” His eyes flicker to my shoulder where my scars are concealed. “Should I call for Wendeline?”
What could the caster tell me about sending people to other worlds with magic? Perhaps everything. And perhaps admitting that I’m not from this world is precisely what will make Zander decide I am, in fact, not more valuable to him alive than dead, daaknar or not.
I shake my head. I’ll gather that information some other way. For now, I should learn as much as I can from this map while Zander seems willing to share information. “Have you been here?” I point to Seacadore.
“Yes. Islor can produce most everything it needs on our lands, but there are things we enjoy. Their latest ruler, Empress Roshmira, is an especially keen partner in commerce.”
Commerce like the ingredients for Wendeline’s salve, I imagine. I tap Mordain. “And Wendeline’s from here, right?”
He stares at me without answering for so long that I begin to fear I’ve earned the priestess a flogging for admitting even that much about herself.
“Yes, she is,” he finally confirms, his tone calm, conversational. “As are all casters.”
“They’re all from this island?”
“No, but they are sent there at an early age to receive their training. Afterward, they are required to serve Ybaris.”
“But not Islor?” Like Wendeline and Margrethe?
His lips twist. “Ybaris does not allow them passage through the rift to come here.”
“Why not?” My questions are tumbling from my mouth without touching a scale first to decide if my curiosity might be dangerous.
“Because Ybaris does not want Islor having access to any of the casters’ power.”
The “why” is on the tip of my tongue, but I sense Zander’s irritation growing, so I hold it and refocus on the map, tracing the path from the island, through Ybaris, to where the cartographer illustrated a long, jagged canyon across the mountains. Great Rift is written across it. Wendeline wasn’t talking about a great rift as some sort of schism in their relationship. Or at least, not entirely.
This Great Rift is a literal split between the two kingdoms.
The only viable passage across on land is through an ominous sounding Valley of Bones, but he’s saying they’re not permitted to go through there. “So Wendeline got here by ship, then?” I follow the map south from Mordain, through the Grave Deep.
“Not that way. In two thousand years, no one has ever survived that sailing route. They traveled across Ybaris, into Skatrana, boarded a ship from Westport”—his long index finger traces the path to a port city in the far west—“to Seacadore, and then crossed the water to our port.”
I see now that Cirilea is on the southwest side. A channel cuts into the land, leading ships directly to it. “That’s a long way to travel to get here.” Wendeline did say as much.
“And I appreciate her for it.”
“Enough to flog her just for talking to me?” It slips out before I can stop myself.
“You forget yourself,” he warns through gritted teeth.