57

What is this shit?” Nália asked. She didn’t even know what she was seeing. In all her life, she had never seen a room like this. She didn’t even have the words to describe it, but the right words came from Wenthi.

The furniture—a bed with wooden posts and lace drapery, several cushioned chairs with embroidered pillows, a wooden table with gold and silver inlay—was not of Pinogozi design. Wenthi presumed they were Outhic, likely Hemish or Reloumic. Not a scratch or tear on any of it.

And the room was bright, light and airy due to the grand open window, with a balcony overlooking a view of the Pino Sound, glorious and blue. Nália had no idea where one could even see such a view.

Wenthi knew.

“This is Intown,” he said. “In the 1st or 2nd Senja.”

“Yes.”

They both saw the woman who had spoken, sitting in a cushioned wicker chair on the balcony. Her pale hand reached out and clicked off the radio next to her chair, which had just been playing low static. She slowly got to her feet, picking up a cane as she did, and walked over to them.

Nália didn’t understand what she was seeing. Or more correctly, she didn’t want to. This woman was milk pale, golden haired. Surprisingly young looking considering how she moved like an old woman. No. She moved like someone who was in constant pain.

“Determined, aren’t you?” she asked as she limped over. “I sensed that in both of you. I thought I had it in me to hold you back, but . . . well, here you are.”

“Both of us?” Wenthi asked. “You mean—”

“Yes, I’m aware of the both of you,” she said with a disgusted sigh. “Quite the trick you two have been doing. I don’t think Shebiruht even knew what she was making this time.”

“How do you know—” Wenthi started.

“Wait a shitting swipe,” Nália said. “Who is this llipe?”

“You haven’t figured it out, Miss Enapi?” she said, limping closer. Then her body shifted, into the flawless image of Varazina—perfect vision of timeless Zapisian beauty—and then back to the golden-haired, broken woman. “I’m who you fought so hard to find.”

Nália couldn’t believe that. It was impossible. Too unthinkable to even put into her own words.

Wenthi did instead. “How is Varazina a llipe woman living lavishly in the center of Intown?” he asked.

“Lavishly is a strong word,” she said. “It’s a well-appointed prison, but still a prison.”

“This is no prison,” Nália spat out. She looked around the room, spotting bits of food and luxury that no single person she knew could afford in a year. “Who are you?”

“I told you, Miss Enapi,” she said. “I’m the voice you heard on the radio, who gave the orders. Who touched your spirits and your bodies.” She ran a finger on Wenthi’s chest. Nália felt the charge of connection. “At least, to the extent I could, being kept in here.”

“But always through a mask,” Wenthi said. “Why the deception?”

The woman went over to the bed, her breathing labored. “I think you just have to look at Miss Enapi’s face to see the answer to that. She’s in absolute shock. The horror that a woman like me might be leading their revolution.”

“Like you?” Nália said. “A damned llipe? Or not even that? Are you some shitmouthed Reloumene here with our Alliance overlords? Is that what you are?”

“Oh, no, I was born here,” she said. “And to call me llipe is fair. That’s entirely why I get locked away in here instead of . . .” She gasped for breath, crawling onto the bed. “I am just as much a victim, though, as any of you.”

“That’s some bullshit,” Nália said.

The woman rang a bell as she struggled for breath. “You’ll forgive me. I had already exerted myself quite a bit before you two pulled that stunt. So I am quite spent right now.”

An old woman—a servant, clearly, by the style of her dress, and either baniz or jifoz by her complexion—came in.

“What do you need, Miss Penda?” she asked.

“Bring me the doctor,” the woman said. “I am very shaken right now.”

“Right away, miss.” The servant left.

“This doesn’t make any damned sense,” Nália said.

“Penda?” Wenthi asked. “That’s impossible.”

The woman smiled weakly. “It’s not, Mister Tungét, I’m sad to say.”

“What?” Nália asked.

“She’s not just a llipe,” Wenthi said. “She’s Penda Rodiguen. The granddaughter of the tyrant.”