When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a table in what seemed to be a kitchen, my arm soaking in a bowl of water. The cool was blissful on my burned skin, and the pain was only a faint echo of what had been there before.

A woman leaned close, tsking maternally as she studied my arm. I could smell the soap she used—lavender mixed with rose. An artificial scent, since real flowers were rare in the years following the appearance of the gray. They needed too much sunlight to grow.

She did not notice I was awake. “Poor dear,” she murmured. “She has been through an ordeal.” She lightly touched my arm. “And this will certainly leave a scar. But I cannot help but wonder about the shape of the burn. It is almost like a hand.”

“We would appreciate your discretion,” said Cass, somewhere behind my head.

“Of course,” the woman replied. “With my husband’s activities, I am used to keeping secrets.”

“Magritte?” I whispered, recognizing the young woman’s kind smile and dimpled cheeks. The butcher’s daughter had been one of the few in Nulla who’d treated me as a human being.

“Aye, it’s me.” She patted my good arm, probably forgetting I was a mem in her eagerness to avoid my injury. Nevertheless, I was careful not to venture into her mind uninvited. “I am so very glad to see you alive and well, Sephone.”

Had she expected otherwise? The pressure on my hand increased, as if there was something else she desperately wanted to say, yet couldn’t quite manage. Her mouth worked, but no words came out.

“Easy, mistress,” Cass cautioned. “She has pain enough as it is.”

The pressure vanished and her voice became anxious. “My apologies, Sephone. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” I assured her, then eased myself into a sitting position and inspected my right arm. The skin was no longer scorched and blistered, but it was still frightfully red. Magritte was right. It would leave a substantial scar in the unmistakable shape of a hand.

“Jillane—our healer—came,” Magritte told me, “but it was a very bad wound, and she did everything she could. If she hadn’t been here, you would have almost certainly lost your arm.”

I nodded, but a part of me was more sullen than grateful. All the gifts proved to be either temporary or limited in their power. An alter had healed my broken ankle, but I still limped when I was overtired. I would keep my arm, but bear a frightful mark. I thought of Dorian’s scar. And Jewel’s.

We match, you see. For Jewel knows what it is to live with scars.

When I pulled my arm from the water, it immediately began to sting and burn. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I swung my legs over the side of the table and began to slide off. Cass stopped me, his hands on my shoulders. I wondered where Dorian was. And Regis.

“Steady. You’ve been unconscious for several hours. And Mistress Magritte needs to tend to your wound.”

She bustled into place, as if she’d been waiting for the summons. I watched numbly as she smeared an herb-scented paste over the burn, then carefully bandaged my limb from elbow to wrist. How many times had I done the same thing for Regis?

“Magritte,” I began, but she zealously avoided my gaze, “how did you come to be here in Orphne?”

Just as I asked the question, everything slotted into place. If Regis’s sweetheart was here, and the woman had spoken of her husband—

“You came with Reg.”

“Aye.” She tucked the loose end of the cloth beneath the rest of the bandage and leaned closer, studying it critically. I frowned. Magritte had always been spirited and chatty, and never in her life had she paused to evaluate her handiwork, let alone with such intensity.

“How?”

She swallowed and looked at me but barely. “It’s a long story. I think Reg would tell it better.”

“Where is he?” I glanced at Cass, who was leaning against the wall watching. “And Dorian?”

He shrugged. “They’re having some kind of conference in the next room. Apparently, lumens are not invited. Mems could probably try their luck, though.”

As Magritte busied herself setting the table to rights, I stood, keeping one hand on the rough wooden slab for balance. There weren’t any green or black ribbons in sight, which meant Cass had been drinking again.

“What are they talking about?”

Cass grinned. “Why don’t we find out together?”

I thanked Magritte profusely for her help—a hesitant, almost birdlike bob of her head was all I received in return—and moved toward a door I assumed led to the next room. I twisted the knob and slipped inside.

Just as the kitchen had been an ordinary kitchen, the sitting room was similar to most I’d seen, except there was no fire and no windows. Given the abundance of lanternlight, I guessed we were still underground.

At the other end of the room, several men were leaning over a round table cluttered with books and papers, engaged in passionate discussion. Dorian stood opposite Regis, the expression on the face of my childhood friend a nearly perfect replica of the one worn by the former thane of Maera. If not for the gaps in their ages, they could be brothers. And neither man was even aware I’d entered the room.

“Clearly you have a type,” Cass murmured in my ear, and I jumped at his closeness. He had entered the room so quietly, I hadn’t registered his presence.

I scowled at him. “You presume a great deal.”

“A pity your friend is married now.”

“I don’t love Regis.” I met his gaze directly, so he could see the truth in my eyes. “I thought I did once, but it was merely a childish infatuation.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Drawn to the political type, are you? Perhaps the man who believes in an idea greater than himself?”

His perceptiveness provoked my ire. “What would you know of love, Cass?”

His brows hiked higher, but he only chuckled. “More than you might think, Seph, and not at all in the way you mean.”

I opened my mouth to question him further, but at that moment, I heard my name called from across the room. In a second I was once again embraced in Regis’s arms, albeit more gently than last time. I tensed instinctively, and he drew back, apologetic.

“Sorry. I always forget.”

“At least we know now that it’s not personal,” Cass quipped.

Regis gave a light laugh, but he still focused on me. “You saw Magritte?”

“Aye, I did. I’m so happy for you, Reg.” I said it with all the warmth I could muster, because although I’d spoken truly to Cass—I felt naught for Regis besides friendship—I couldn’t help feeling that he was hiding something. Invisible strings tugged at the corner of his mouth and eyes, causing one side of his face to droop. Was it guilt I saw? Fatigue? Or merely concern.

“I had a report from Nulla not long ago, Seph,” he explained. “I’d hoped to hear you were safe and well, but instead I was informed that you were missing. It was only recently that I learned you’d left the neutral ground with Lord Adamo.”

I glanced behind Regis, seeing Dorian standing there. His expression was unreadable, but I thought I detected concern in his eyes.

“Lord Guerin’s dead,” Regis informed me. “Traemore has replaced him as lord of Nulla.”

Relief assailed me in waves, and my knees nearly buckled. Guerin was dead? I would never again have to visit that sordid mind, aged and faded as it was. I would never be forced to peruse his memories of the war years—the massacres and the hunger and the desperation. So many images I barely understood, even now. They had been my grim companions since childhood, my monsters forever lurking under the bed.

But no longer. I was free . . . though the memory splinters remained. All I had to do now was to find a way to remove them, including everything that remained of Guerin’s past.

Regis seemed to be avoiding my gaze. “There’s something else, Seph. Traemore has accused you of poisoning Lord Guerin over the years you spent bleeding his mind.”

“Poisoning him?”

My body trembled with anger. How dare he spread such an outrageous lie when it was my body that grappled with a nameless toxin. My mind that had been poisoned from the years I’d spent in Guerin’s head . . . under Traemore’s direct supervision.

“Aye.” Regis finally met my eyes. “Traemore has put out a reward for your capture, Seph. As things stand,” he added slowly, “you can never return to Nulla.”

I laughed. “Good riddance.” But beneath my confident mask, a coldness was threading through my chest, weaving in and out of my ribs. The sensation was too much like the winds of Nulla: a penetrating breeze even the warmest cloak could not keep out, a chill gust that settled in the bones and was not easily dislodged.

I shook off the recollection and looked over at the table—a smaller and rather more impoverished version of Lady Xia’s—then back to my friend. “What is this, Reg? Are you a rebel now?”

Regis exchanged a look with Dorian. “You might say that.” With a few terse words, he dismissed the men at the other end of the room—just like Lady Xia had—and they filed out through an unseen door.

My eyes widened. Was this the alliance Cutter had spoken of? How deeply was Regis enmeshed in its workings? But that was impossible. Cutter and Regis would never be on the same side. Not in a million years.

I am used to keeping secrets. Magritte’s confession to Cass echoed in my mind. I had thought there were no secrets between Regis and me, at least none of great significance. But though it was just a few months since I’d seen him last, here he was in Orphne, ordering men around like he’d been commanding soldiers for years.

At the thought of soldiers, I caught Dorian’s eye. “There are things I have to tell you.”

He straightened instantly. “Draven’s man?”

“I saw into his mind.”

Regis gestured to an armchair, and I dropped into it gratefully. My legs were still treacherously unsteady. Dorian and Regis seated themselves in chairs opposite mine, but Cass remained where he was, leaning against a faux mantelpiece designed to look like a fireplace. Dorian—and probably Regis—wished him elsewhere, but I didn’t believe Dorian’s insinuation that Cass was a traitor. A traitor didn’t stand so closely, or share so much of himself. Not with a mem.

“I only had seconds before he died,” I began. “Maybe a minute at most, but it was enough. I focused as best as I could, though it wasn’t easy. The alter’s name was Varrick, and he was recruited by Lord Draven to capture us. Cutter was telling the truth: Ignis is Draven’s son. His real name is Asa Karthick.”

Regis was nodding, and I guessed that Dorian had brought him up to speed. Perhaps the alliance knew all of this information already.

“Cutter joined forces with the Karthicks willingly at first,” I went on, “hoping to use them to find me and then return home as if naught had occurred. But then the elder Karthick saw an opportunity, a way to use Cutter’s abilities as a metus. With the help of other alters, he was able to greatly enhance Cutter’s powers.”

I saw Regis tense. He had suffered under the merchant’s gift far more frequently than I had. I recalled the night Cutter had attacked me in the garden in Idaea—how easily he had overcome me. Now I understood why his gift had been so strong.

I continued, “In the beginning, Lord Draven used Cutter to control Arch-Lord Lio and the Council of Eight. Just little fears implanted here and there, enough to implicate Lord Adamo and other enemies. But Lord Draven soon realized that there was another way to influence his potential opponents. He discovered that just as a mem can color water with a memory, a metus can impart a state of fear within a potion, which induces anxiety and trepidation when it is consumed. Once inside a person, the fear will search for an outlet, a reason for the state of terror. When it is found, it will grab hold of the threat and not let go. Even if what is feared is not truly dangerous.”

I was dimly aware that both Regis and Dorian were leaning forward, and Cass had pushed off the wall.

“They are tainting Calliope’s water supply, reducing the people to a collective bundle of raw nerves. Lord Draven’s minions are spreading fears about an invasion from the north, with false reports of raiding parties roaming the borders, capturing slaves and killing for sport. The people are terrified of the threat and desperate to protect themselves, but so far Arch-Lord Lio has been seen to do naught. Meanwhile, Lord Draven is living a double life, calling for Memosine to gather its armies and move against the outlanders. His supporters grow more numerous every day.”

I concentrated on keeping my breaths even. The fear had saturated Varrick’s mind, and it was difficult not to absorb it . . . or be tainted by the same draught he had consumed so many times before.

“Cutter must have eventually reconsidered his involvement. Not long ago, he betrayed Lord Draven and came after us alone. He’s been on the run since Idaea. But before he left Calliope, he managed to acquire the necessary evidence to expose Lord Draven’s crimes.”

Regis and Dorian exchanged a look. Regis blew out a breath. “So that’s how he did it.”

Was he referring to Cutter or Lord Draven?

“We have the evidence,” said Dorian. “It was right here, in Regis’s house. There are some on the Council of Eight who privately despise Draven. A trusted messenger will convey copies of everything we have on Draven to our allies. We can only hope it is enough to convince them to move against him. If what you say is true, the Eight, as well as everyone else in Calliope, are as compromised as Lio.”

“But surely you have other allies.” I thought of the thaness of Thebe. “You must warn Lady Xia, and the leaders of Marianthe, too. It is as you feared—Lord Draven seeks to acquire more than just Memosine.”

“Yes,” Dorian agreed. “I will send her a message. And whomever else I can still trust. We must hope they will come to our aid.”

“There’s something else.” My chest tightened. “I held on to Varrick’s mind as long as I could, but a dying man’s mind is impossibly fragmented, so the details are somewhat hazy. Varrick saw Silvertongue visit Lord Draven. Not once, but several times. I don’t think Silvertongue is an ordinary merchant, or even just a mercenary recruited to kidnap alters.”

Dorian leapt to his feet. “You’re suggesting Draven is working for Silvertongue, and not the other way around?”

“Aye. I don’t know how, but Silvertongue is at the center of everything.”

“This is worse than we thought.” Regis also stood, turning quickly to Dorian. “If we kill Draven, whoever is behind his rise to power will only replace him with another figurehead.”

My eyes widened. “You want to assassinate Lord Draven?” I looked at him, and for the first time, I wondered if I was seeing the real Regis. His easy smile was gone, the silver and gold flecks in his irises muted by shadows, the set of his mouth hard and unyielding. This Regis looked like a man who could kill.

“Whatever it takes to secure our freedom.” Regis was resolute.

I rose slowly to my feet. “But you’re not a slave anymore.” I studied him further. Features which had once been so familiar were oddly—and painfully—foreign. “Are you?”

“No man should ever be a slave to another,” was his vague response.

“No man . . . and no woman.”

Something flickered in his expression, and I saw it again—a flash of guilt, like a falling star. “Aye.”

I stared at him. “I thought you were going to Marianthe. To free your brothers.”

“If I do this, they will be free.”

“If you do what, Reg?” I crossed my arms. “What are you trying to prove?”

Regis glanced at Dorian. For once, the former thane of Maera seemed unsure of himself. How was it that, after the tense meeting in the alley, Dorian now trusted Regis so readily? And why did I sense that both of them were willing to sacrifice anything they cared about in the name of Caldera—including their friends?

Drawn to the political type, are you? Perhaps the man who believes in an idea greater than himself?

Cass’s taunt was more accurate than he realized. How had I never seen it? Perhaps that really was what had drawn me to Regis. And to Dorian. Two men oblivious to anything but the causes they bled for.

“You saw Cutter recently, didn’t you?”

Regis wet his lips. “Aye. I happened across him in Orphne.”

“Happened across?” I retorted. “Or met with him directly?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Seph, but—”

“You’re Symon.”

He flushed. “It’s not what you think. And I didn’t deceive anyone—Symon is my middle name. Cutter arranged a meeting with one of the leaders of the resistance here in Orphne. When he saw who I was, he threatened to turn me in to the local authorities as an escaped slave if I didn’t do as he asked.”

“And what did he ask?”

“He told me about Lord Adamo and said he’d be sympathetic to our cause. He believed Lord Adamo could aid us in our plot to kill Draven.” Regis spread out his hands. “I’m only one of many leaders, Seph. Several men are under my direct command, but there are many more above me. The resistance is spreading rapidly across Caldera. We call ourselves the Sons of Truth.”

How fitting. “You didn’t answer my question. What did Cutter want you to do?”

He seemed to gather himself before replying. “To guard the evidence he entrusted to us while he tracked down Lord Adamo. He said the lord had something we could use against Draven, something Draven badly wanted. At first, I didn’t realize he meant you. When I found out . . .” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Cutter threatened to expose me. I couldn’t risk the Sons, Seph. I couldn’t risk Magritte’s life. But I would never have allowed any harm to come to you—”

“You were going to use me as your pawn.”

Regis’s skin was sallow and strained. “Cutter wanted to use you to assassinate Draven. After what happened in Iona, he believed you were the only one who could get close to him.”

I had said as much to Lady Xia, though Dorian had been vocal in his disapproval of the idea. But it was one thing to volunteer for a suicide mission. It was another thing entirely to be offered up like bait.

“Cutter may have changed his allegiances toward the end, Seph, but he still used people for his own twisted purposes. I would never have used you in such a way.”

“Unless you believed you didn’t have a choice.” I looked him in the eyes. “Unless you believed it was the only way.”

Regis’s eyes widened. “How could you think that of me?”

“Because you’ve done it before.” I searched his face, looking for the boy who’d taught me my letters, who’d protected me from lecherous men. Surely, I was wrong. I waited for him to defend himself, to insist it wasn’t true.

That he hadn’t left me behind.

Instead, he reached for my hand. I flinched as his fingers brushed against the tight bandage and jerked my arm close to my side.

“I always intended to come back for you,” he insisted. “But it wasn’t as easy as—”

“You left me. You left me with Cutter.”

Anguish swept over his features, and he reached for me again. I easily evaded his grasp.

Words rushed out of him. “If I took you with us, Cutter would have pursued you to the very borders of Caldera, as he ended up doing anyway. You were his most prized slave. You were far more valuable to him than I ever was. I told myself that I could do more for you—and for the Sons—if I was away from Nulla.”

I said nothing, but inside I was drowning, pulled down into myself by a force too powerful to resist. I recognized it as a self-protective instinct . . . a shield behind which I could hide my pain. I emptied my face of every emotion, forbade the tears to fall, and clenched my jaw. By the time I met Regis’s eyes again, my voice was as tight as the string on Bear’s crossbow.

“Don’t worry, Regis.” Iciness filled my tone. “It would seem you did me a favor.”

“A favor?” His voice was hopeful.

“When you abandoned me in Nulla, I didn’t have to worry about you anymore. I no longer feared my actions would bring down retribution on your head. I made plans of my own . . . to escape.”

Regis’s face fell.

I spun around, then added another jab over my shoulder before I left.

“So I’m grateful, Regis, for everything you’ve done. Because it was your leaving that finally set me free.”