She could see the commons below, grassy patches bisected by geometric footpaths that ran between the dorms and the Tower and the Science Main.
White marble steps led up to the vast Tower doors. Helena’s memory instantly superimposed the wave of blood and gore and bodies that had covered it when she’d seen it last.
She looked away.
She had to focus on the present.
HELENA WAS PUSHED INTO THE back seat of a motorcar, a necrothrall cramming her towards the middle as it seated itself beside her. The smell of rot immediately began to fill the enclosed space.
Her throat convulsed, and she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth.
Stroud climbed in on the other side, seemingly immune to the stench, flipping through her perpetual stack of files.
The motorcar drove down a long tunnel, amber light from the electric lanterns flickering across Helena’s lap, giving way to drab grey when the motorcar emerged from underground. She peered out, taking in the sky. It was dark and overcast, a grey that seemed to leach the world of colour. Looking out at the city, she was shocked by the scars still starkly visible from the war: huge gaps in the skyline, burned-out buildings, and collapsed ruins. It hardly looked as if any rebuilding had begun. The road was the only thing that appeared new.
When the motorcar crossed from the East Island to the West Island, nearly all traces of the war disappeared behind them.
Paladia had been founded on a river delta in the basin of the Novis Mountains. The original island had a high northern plateau which sloped down to the southern tip. The Alchemy Tower had been built on the highest point of the island, and the town—eventually a city—had grown around it until every inch of land had been built on. The island of Paladia, later called the East Island, was home to industry, trade, government, the perihelion cathedrals, and the Alchemy Institute.
The West Island was built centuries later, engineered to accommodate the exploding population. All of it was newer, bigger.
During the war, the Undying held diluted control over the West Island, while the Resistance had headquartered in the Alchemy Institute, giving them an established point of defence on the East Island and splitting the city-state in two. Because the East Island held most of the crucial infrastructure and the main ports, it had borne the brunt of the war as the Undying tried to seize control.
Contrasted with the ruins of the East Island, the West Island looked almost unscathed, its vast interconnected buildings vaulting up towards the sky, gleaming and unmarred.
When Helena had first sailed up the river and seen Paladia, it had looked as if some great deity had laid their crown in the dip of the mountains, the spires and gleam of the city reflecting across the water. She hadn’t thought anywhere on earth could be so beautiful.
The motorcar felt tiny as it sped through the West Island, crossing another bridge towards Paladia’s mainland, which spanned the miles from the river shore to the mountain tree line.
The mainland was mostly mines and agriculture, and the little that wasn’t commercial was owned by the oldest families who’d joined the Institute centuries ago, at the time of its founding.
If she was being taken to the mainland, then the High Reeve must have an estate of some kind. Either one was seized and bestowed post-war, or perhaps he was from one of the wealthy guild families. There had been a number who’d seen their fortunes explode from the industrialisation of the last century.
She leaned forward, looking towards the front window, searching for any signs of their destination.
Removed from Central, she was finally beginning to develop a vague shape of a plan.
Realistically, her chances of escape were negligible. Even without the manacles impeding her dexterity and suppressing her resonance, she had minimal combat training. Her resonance had always been her greatest asset. Assuming she could somehow escape, she had nowhere to go, no idea who was alive or who could be trusted, or who would trust her.
If she was cooperative, there was a chance she’d survive transference, but if she did survive, she’d be betraying the Eternal Flame, giving up information she’d sacrificed her own memory to protect.
Her hands clenched, pain sparking like fire in her wrists.
In the stasis tank, she’d told herself over and over that she’d survive, that she had to hold on. She couldn’t explain why.
After all, the whole point of her healing had been to ensure the survival of the others, to be a fail-safe so that Luc would not die. There was no use in a healer when everyone was dead.
She wouldn’t be a traitor. Whatever she’d allowed to be hidden in her mind, she wouldn’t let the Undying discover it. Surviving didn’t matter. She’d kill herself before they learned anything from her.
Perhaps her violent captor could be her means to that end.
If what Grace had said was true, the High Reeve preferred murder to strategic choices like interrogation. Men prone to violence were generally thoughtless, acting with emotion first and applying reason after.
If she could provoke him, he might kill her on impulse. One mistake was all she’d need, and her secrets would be lost. No amount of necromancy could bring a mind back from death.
What would Morrough do to the High Reeve then? Undoubtedly something even worse than what was done to Mandl.
Helena hoped it would be.
She might not be able to avenge Luc, but she could get justice for Lila.
The thought of Lila Bayard, dead, her face ripped off, her corpse used to imprison the people she’d once protected, made Helena’s chest grow so tight, it ached.
Lila had been one of the few who wasn’t bothered by Helena being a vivimancer. During the war, they’d even shared a room. They hadn’t been close—as a paladin, Lila was often gone, fighting at the front—but she’d never treated Helena like she was lesser for not being in combat.
Lila had been considered a once-in-a-lifetime talent as a combat alchemist. She’d joined the crusades of the Eternal Flame at fifteen, travelling the continent, investigating rumours of necromancy. Her life had revolved around becoming a paladin and serving the Principate.
People used to call Lila the embodiment of Lumithia, the warrior goddess of alchemy.
Helena couldn’t imagine how anyone could have killed Lila, especially not after Luc had been killed. Lila would have died a thousand times over before she’d live to see Luc captured. She had lived and breathed her vows of protection.
Helena blinked as they stopped at a checkpoint.
The trees along the road were all skeletal, bare-limbed. The motorcar drove a few miles farther and turned off the main road.
A building loomed through the trees as they drove down a long lane and a heavy, ornate gate swung open. The motorcar drove through, towards a towering house.
It was an old thing, its façade covered in bare vines which crawled up the front like blackened veins. The architecture was far from the modern elegance in the city. There was a dark, heavy quality to the ornate details, which appeared to have weathered at least a century. It bore five dark spires that jutted across the sky, three on the main portion of the house, and one on each wing that sprawled forward to form a half circle.
The gate and wall and other buildings all curved in to create an enclosed courtyard with an overgrown garden in the centre. The motorcar crunched over white gravel as it pulled around and stopped.
At the top of a wide flight of stone steps stood a young woman.
Helena was shoved out of the car behind Stroud. She drew a deep breath of clean air and shivered. It was bitterly cold, the damp country air immediately seeping into her bones. She’d forgotten the brutality of Northern winters.