So few … And she remembered Killian explaining to her that if the Marked weren’t where they were needed to protect the people, it damaged faith in the Six. And that was what gave the Corrupter his power. “If that is the case, then we must find a cure before it spreads.”
Quindor folded his hands, watching her over them. “I can see that you’ll not be swayed until you’ve seen the proof yourself. Come.”
He took her into the sublevel of the tower, the circular staircase illuminated by candles that cast dancing shadows over the stone steps. Much like the levels above ground, the corridor ran in a circle with doors on the exterior of the hallway, though what lay in the rooms beyond, she had no notion. Ahead, she caught sight of two guards standing outside of one of the doors, both of whom inclined their head to Quindor as he approached. “Grand Master.”
“This is Lydia,” he said to them. “One of Hegeria’s Marked who has recently joined us.”
They lowered their heads respectfully. “Marked One.”
It was all she could do not to cringe at the honorific, instead smiling at them.
“Before we go in,” Quindor said, “I’ll remind you that what you will hear is not the voice of a child, but the voice of the Seventh god. And the Corrupter is nothing if not a liar.”
At her nod, he pulled a key from his robes and inserted it into the lock, then swung the door open, allowing Lydia to step inside.
She’d expected to find a dungeon cell. Chains. A cage.
Instead, Lydia’s eyes fell upon a room with more comfortable appointments than her own. The walls were paneled with tapestries depicting each of the Six, the floor layered with carpets, and the bed at the center covered with thick blankets. Several lamps burned brightly, and a brazier gave off needed heat.
And on the floor, wearing a pink woolen dress and playing with a puzzle, was a little brunette girl. At the sound of them, the child turned, and a gasp tore from Lydia’s face as she recognized her as one of the orphans who’d lived with Finn in the sewers. A girl whose life Lydia had saved from illness.
A girl who now possessed no more essence of life in her than the stone floor she stood upon.
“Grand Master Quindor,” the girl said, smiling wide. “It has been so long since you visited.”
“I’ve been away, Emmy,” he answered. “Only just returned. How do you feel?”
“Well.” The girl—Emmy—beamed. Then her upturned grey eyes moved to Lydia, her head cocking slightly. “I know you.”
Lydia’s blood chilled, her mind recoiling at the idea that the words were coming not from a little girl, but from a dark god.
“You were one of the Princess’s guards!”
“Yes.” Lydia’s voice croaked, and she coughed to clear her throat. “I also saved your life in the sewers. Do you remember that?”
“That was you!” Emmy bounded to her feet, the pink ribbons on her braids bouncing on her shoulders, and Lydia had to steel herself from taking a step back. “Finn told us it was Hegeria herself.”
“Finn likes to tell stories. It was me.”
“Oh!” The girl darted across the room, flinging her arms around Lydia’s waist and squeezing tightly. “I remember your face sparkled like diamonds. You looked like a princess of the north.”
Lydia’s heart thundered against her rib cage, her fingers like ice as she placed a hand against the girl’s back, feeling the measured rise and fall of breath, certain that if she pressed her ear to Emmy’s chest she’d hear the beating of a heart. Everything about her appeared alive and vital.
But Lydia’s mark told her a very different story.
One could not heal the dead, she knew that. Except abandoning Emmy to the fate of the child she’d watched murdered on the street made Lydia sick.
Quindor was watching, his face grim. “Try, if you must.”
She had to. She had to know.
“Emmy, will you sit for a moment?”
At the girl’s nod, Lydia led her to the bed, lifting her on top of it and then sitting next to her. Then she took a deep breath and took hold of Emmy’s hand, feeling the warmth of the girl’s skin against her own.
And she pushed.
It was as though something sank its claws into her and yanked, dragging life from Lydia with painful violence. A scream tore from her throat, and then she was on her back on the floor, Quindor kneeling next to her. “Many others, including me, have tried to bring her back. But one can’t heal death.” He looked to the girl. “Thank you, Emmy.”
A sniffle filled Lydia’s ears, and she looked up to find the little girl weeping. Climbing to her feet, she sat next to Emmy again, careful to keep her hands a safe distance. “It’s not your fault.”
“The Grand Master tells me that I am dead,” Emmy whispered. “But I don’t feel dead.” She looked up at Lydia. “Is he telling the truth?”
Lydia bit her bottom lip, then said, “There is no life in you.”
Emmy’s chin trembled. She reached into her pocket, pulling out something that glinted in the lamplight.
A gold-and-onyx cuff link in the shape of a galloping horse.
“He told me that he’d protect me,” the girl whispered, then she dropped the cuff link on the floor with a clatter. “He lied.”
He did protect you! Lydia wanted to scream, but instead bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood.
“Calm yourself, Emmy. We will leave you to your toys.” Quindor motioned Lydia to follow him outside, closing the door firmly behind them.
“That”—she pointed back toward the room holding Emmy—“is cruelty of the purest form. No matter what has been done to her body, her mind is intact. She’s a little girl who doesn’t understand what’s happening to her.”
Quindor sighed. “What you were speaking to wasn’t human, Lydia.”
“But she has Emmy’s memories,” Lydia protested, wishing
