“You can pretend you didn’t know about the mages’ attack. They caught you by surprise, too. Look. You even knocked one out. Ruudde will thank you.”
“No. This is our one chance—”
“What happens if you break me out and we run?” Cilla said, looking gray. “They’ll keep threatening Nolan’s family. He’ll give in eventually. He’ll possess you and take you back.”
“His pills are wearing off. He’ll only be able to watch.”
“Nadi can still travel to his world. She’ll ask where we’ve run to.”
“We have to try!” Amara gripped the cell bars, yanking, pushing, but the metal was embedded so deep in the stone walls it didn’t even rattle. “I can’t go back to before. I can’t. We’ll contact other mages. Most don’t know you’re not—they’re loyal to the princess. That Dit mage from Teschel is alive. She’ll pin down any spell you ask her to.”
“Amara …” Cilla looked at her for too many, too valuable seconds.
“You weren’t even eating.”
“I only wanted them to tell me what was going on.”
“You hurt yourself.”
“I …” Cilla swallowed, as though it stung to see those signs. “It’s no use. You can’t get me out, anyway.”
Amara checked the lock again. The rust made it look deceptively weak. She looked sideways, counting the number of cells between them and the end of the hallway, and—yes. This was a different cell from Cilla’s earlier one. That one must’ve gotten too torn up from the effects of the curse, when the stones had come loose to crush her.
Amara tugged at the bars another time. The walls resisted every fraction of movement. That could change, though the thought of how she’d make that happen dried her throat and made her want to turn and run.
She crouched, feeling Ilanne’s clothes, the leather of her boots. Her fingers closed around the handle of a familiar knife. She banished old nightmares and clamped the hooked blade between her upper arm and body to free up her hands. “I can cut you.”
“Perfect plan,” Cilla said humorlessly.
“I’ll take your blood and stay close to the bars.” Amara gestured at where the metal punctured stone. “The curse has nothing to work with except the stones or bars. It might give us an opening.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“It might be the last time. It’d be worth it.” As she said it, the memory of pain sent her heart churning against her ribs.
Cilla stared at Amara with those shiny, narrow eyes, the dark bags underneath setting them off all the more. A smile hovered on her mouth, not quite managing to crease her cheeks, not quite tugging up the corners of her lips. It was enough. “If that’s what it takes,” she said. She glanced at Ilanne, whose hair splayed out over bare stones. The mage’s arm rested awkwardly on her hips, pointing in a direction it shouldn’t. Cilla stepped closer to the bars. She moved to the side, where Amara could reach her without Ilanne’s body in the way.
Amara breathed deeply. She followed Cilla until they stood close together, only metal bars and shallow breaths between them. The shouts came closer every minute. In a nearby hall, footsteps slammed. Amara took Ilanne’s curved blade with one hand and reached for Cilla’s lips with the other, her fingers running over the dips and curves and warm skin. She wanted to kiss those lips again. The cut had healed over, leaving a mark that’d fade in time.
Amara’s fingers trailed lower, over Cilla’s shoulder and down, resting on Cilla’s wrist. She pulled it through the bars and pressed the blade to the fragile flesh on the inside of her forearm.
She could still back out.
She could still leave Cilla for the mages to kill.
Part of her wanted to call in Nolan. She was risking his family’s life in doing this. Could he even control her anymore? He ought to. He could do exactly what Cilla said. He could step away, claim he had nothing to do with the mages’ attack, and point at Ilanne’s unconscious body as proof he was on Nadi’s side.
That would make it easy for Amara. Not having a choice was always easy. It was always safer. However bad things were, you kept your head down and did as you were told in order to avoid worse.
The world always wanted people like her to believe those lies.
You were never safe as long as you were at someone else’s whim.
Amara’s eyes met Cilla’s, dark and beaten and haunted.
Not having a choice was the worst thing in the world.
Amara pushed the knife down. Nolan didn’t stop her. And in that moment, with her enemy’s knife in her own hand, a point pressing on Cilla’s arm, Cilla’s skin familiar against hers, relief sneaked up on her and refused to let go. Because what she’d told Cilla wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she couldn’t go back to her old life; she could. If she went back, she’d hate herself, but it meant survival. It might be worth it or it might not be, and she’d never have to find out because it would never happen. She wasn’t going back.
It wasn’t because of what Maart wanted, or because of what Cilla asked, or because of what Jorn said. She’d made the choice. It was hers alone. This or nothing.
Blood welled up from Cilla’s arm. Amara let the knife clatter to the ground. She reached for the cut. She was almost smiling now, a desperate smile that had her lips trembling, that came with tears burning her eyes.
This or nothing.
Cilla pulled herself loose. She stepped away from the bars.
Amara reached through. Her fingers found only air. Her smile faded, and she shouted, her voice hoarse. Cilla couldn’t—why was she—
“Ilanne said she was sorry,” Cilla said.
Amara yanked her arms back to sign. “Because she knew she was wrong! You need to—”
Cilla’s dull eyes hardened. “No. Because she knew she was right. She felt terrible, and she did it anyway because she knew she had to.”
“Come back! We need to—we need to try—” Amara stopped talking. She crouched and took the fallen knife, smearing every drop of Cilla’s that still clung to the blade onto her own arm, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t compare to the amount of blood on Cilla’s arm. And more kept coming, and once the curse hit, there would be more and more—
Cilla went on. “No more Nolan in your head. No more ministers. No more backlash. No more curse. You’ll be safe, and his family will be safe, and the Dunelands … We won’t have to run anymore.” A drop of blood trickled down Cilla’s arm, changing its path when Cilla reached up to unwind the bandages from her chest, letting the glow from her false, torn-up mark shine through. “I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered as the rocks in the walls started to shift.
Amara couldn’t make signs anymore. Her hands wouldn’t listen, and she didn’t know what to say if they did. She clawed through the bars. Her muscles stretched so far they hurt, the beams pressing into her shoulder and against the side of her face until she couldn’t go any farther. Cilla stood footlengths from even the tips of Amara’s fingers. She backed up farther. Stepped onto the cot without looking.
“I’m sorry. For this and for everything else over the years. It wasn’t right.”
Amara knew it wasn’t right, she knew, but it wasn’t Cilla’s fault, and if she got down from that mattress, if she just—if she just came toward the bars, they could try—fix it—
“You probably shouldn’t look.” Cilla smiled wanly. “It’s not pleasant.”
It wasn’t.
Cilla’s turn to hurt. Amara’s turn to watch.
Amara screamed so loudly she didn’t recognize her own voice as the first stones wrapped around Cilla. They pulled her into the wall. They pressed her tightly. Stone crunched. Other things did, too. Amara kept screaming. As long as she kept screaming, she couldn’t hear Cilla’s.