“Sillus no see,” he says, his big brown eyes sad. “Never before.”
I look at the golden maiden, who slowly shakes her head.
“There must be a way.” Someone has to be able to get across the moat to feed the prisoners. Or beat them.
Leaving the group, I circle the perimeter again, this time more slowly, more observantly. I walk the full length of one side, then turn and walk another, and another, and finally the last. Half of the prisoners call out to me as I pass by—some in English, some in other languages, some in nonhuman speech. The others are too weak to speak.
My inspection turns up no clues. No bridges, no paths, no sign that anyone has ever made it across to reach the prisoners within.
Even if we figure out how to get the shield down, there’s still the matter of the moat—twenty feet of open space with the gods know what down below.
I turn my attention back to this side of the moat. If there’s nothing directly over it, maybe there’s something else around here that will give me a hint at how to gain access. A lever, a ladder, anything. I circle the moat a third time, now facing the outer ring of cells. They are spartan—each containing nothing but a stone bench, rusty shackles, and a disgusting bowl. And a downtrodden prisoner.
Men, covered in dirt and wearing nothing more than loincloths that look like they’ve been doing overtime as baby diapers. Pathetic, skinny beasts that look like they’re being slowly starved to death. Their empty eyes glance up and follow me as I walk by. Even though I know some of them are bloodthirsty monsters, it’s horrible to see them in such terrible conditions.
“What are you?” a hoarse voice whispers as I pass a cell.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up in warning, but I stop and look inside.
“What are you?” I throw back.
Inside the cell, a thin, haggard man lifts his head. He watches me with sagging, hollow eyes.
His tongue darts out over his lips before he says, “Innocent.”
I scowl. “Isn’t every convict?” I retort.
“I have been convicted of no crime,” he says, his voice smoothing out as he uses it more. “I have been sentenced to a lifetime of chains and beatings without trial.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For daring to disagree.”
That sounds like a bum deal. On any other day, I might be swayed by his sad story and inspired to do something to help—argue his case, maybe, or break him out of jail. But not today.
“Sorry, bud,” I say, actually meaning it even though it comes across as sarcastic. “Can’t help you.”
I don’t have time for this right now. I don’t have time for anything except saving Ursula from torture. But as I continue on my search, the image of his vacant eyes haunts me.
By the time I circle back around to the group again, I’ve exhausted every last inch of the walkway around the moat. I’ve studied every block of stone, every line of mortar, every keyhole and footing and iron pipe. Finding nothing but cells and prisoners, I am no closer to getting through the shield and across to the other side. There’s no sign of a secret button, hidden lever, or magical key.
“What the hell?” I shove my fingers into my braid.
I pace back and forth, running over the space in my mind. There has to be a way across. How else would the prisoners get over there? How else would the torturers get to them?
A tiny voice at the back of my mind suggests that maybe the only way across is a magic I don’t possess. I punch that tiny voice in the throat. That’ll shut it up. I don’t have time for negative thinking.
“There has to be a way.” I face the golden maiden. “You seem to know everything. Didn’t your sister mention this?”
She shakes her head. “I am sorry. Alaia would have no way to gain that knowledge.”
Turning on Greer, I demand, “Tell me everything you saw. Every last detail of the vision.”
Her eyes widen. “I did,” she insists. “I only saw the cell. Nothing beyond. I can’t even be certain it was one of these cells, or anything near this time. It could have taken place last week, or it might be going to happen tomorrow.”
“What good are your stupid visions?” I fight the urge to slam my fist into the stone wall. “Why even have them if you can’t figure them out?”
“I don’t know!” she shouts. “All right? I have no idea how these visions work or what they mean. I can’t even control them!”
“Then keep trying!” I shout back.
“What?!”
“Keep trying,” I say. “Try again.”
She blinks. “Try again?”
“Try. Again.” I close the distance between us. “Have another vision.”
“I—” She frowns and shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
She just blinks at me. “I never have.”
It takes me a moment to realize we’re not shouting anymore. With a calmer head, I start to think my idea isn’t a bad one. I’ve honed my super strength with years of training. Grace has been practicing her autoporting. Greer needs to do the same.
“Now’s a good time to start, don’t you think?” I place my hands on her shoulders. “Instead of waiting for a vision to come to you, go after it with a big stick.”
“How?” she mouths.
Thane steps closer to her side. “I think I can help.”
We both turn to look at him in shock.
He meets my gaze straight on. “Give us a few minutes,” he says. “I’ll teach her to draw down the vision.”
“Draw down?” I question. He scolds me with a look. “Fine. Answers later. We’ll give you some space.”
With Sillus hurrying to keep up, the golden maiden and I walk away from my sister and my other sister’s brother—my life has gotten too complicated by half—and back around the corner. If Thane thinks a few minutes alone with Greer will help us get to Ursula—Euryale—I’m willing to give it a shot. What other options do we have?
CHAPTER 10
GREER
When Gretchen and the others round the corner, Thane lifts my backpack off my shoulder and drops it and his on the ground at our feet. He steps closer so there are only a couple of inches separating us. He seems so calm and certain, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do this. I’m not used to feeling afraid of failure—I don’t generally fail, so what’s the point in fearing it?—but the pressure is overwhelming.
So much is riding on my ability to produce this specific vision.
“Thane, I’ve never—”
“You will.”
His eyes are so deadly serious that I have to believe him.
I want to believe him, which makes him easier to trust.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
I take one last look at his eyes, at his strength, before I comply—before putting my faith in him, in his ability to banish the unfamiliar helplessness.
“Imagine you’re in an empty room.” His voice drops to such a low whisper, I can barely hear him above the roar of the flames in the moat below. “A white room, with a white table and a white chair.”
I smile. “I like white.”
“Shhh.” He smoothes his fingertips over my forehead. “Just listen.”
I nod, enjoying the feel of his hands on my face, erasing the dull ache at my temples.
“You walk into the next room.” His fingertips dance across my skin, focusing on the spot right above my nose, between my eyes. “On the table there is a marble. It’s small and round, made of bright red glass.”
I picture it down to every last detaiclass="underline" the smooth surface of the table, the brilliant shine of the marble—even the aura of red from the light that passes through it. My mind is so intent on the room that the sounds and smells of the dungeon around me drift away.