Frankly, I doubt I will ever feel ready for whatever revelations await me there, but at least I am properly clothed. I’d found a gown—just as he said I would—in the wardrobe and wormed into it, contorting my arms to do up the laces at the back.
The dress is in a style I’ve never seen before, with belled sleeves, a fitted bodice that plunges scandalously low in the front, and long, lightweight skirts made of the same gauzy material asthe nightgown, but dyed a dozen different shades of blue. Sheer, overlapping layers of navy and cerulean, turquoise and sapphire, lapis and indigo, froth around my heels as I move. The effect is such that the wearer appears to be clothed in a part of the sea itself, caught in the crest of a wave with each step.
It is exquisitely beautiful.
I hate how much I love it. I am ashamed to admit I spend a fair stretch of time examining my reflection in the mirror before I leave the chamber. I’m still far too thin, but no longer appear quite as feverish or malnourished as I did the last time I saw myself. Against my fair coloring, the gown does not look altogether terrible. I pinch some color into my pale cheeks and run my fingers through my mussed white-gold mane. Lacking all skill with ribbons and pins, I let the locks fall freely around my shoulders and down my back.
As I turn to leave, my gaze catches on my wrists in the mirror’s shiny surface. The skin that peeks from the bottom of my draped sleeves is almost completely healed. I can barely see the scars where my iron shackles scorched down to sinew. Only a hint of unevenness remains where days ago there were angry red puckers.
It is miraculous. Impossible. No one heals this fast.
No one normal.
I try not to dwell on it—when I do, my mind begins to brim with disturbing thoughts I have neither the time nor the inclination to wade into. Not at the moment, as I descend the final polished step of a steep stone staircase and find myself immediately ushered by two silent, soft-footed servants down a short hall that opens up into a sun-drenched sitting room.
Like the bedchamber decor, the furnishings are well crafted but sparse, almost utilitarian. There is no art, no adornment anywhere I can see. The wall of windows provides the only visualdiversion. From this vantage the entire range is on display. The full splendor of the Cimmerians stretches out before me, an unending flow of peaks and valleys. There is a rare beauty to their snowcapped slopes, an undeniable pureness in the way they pierce the sky. The only flaw in the spectacular view is the man standing on the terrace outside—his back to me, his eyes on the horizon.
One of the servants propels me across the room to a set of double doors and practically shoves me through them. My host turns as I approach, his gaze raking me from head to toe.
“A wind weaver in my colors. That is something I never thought to see again in all my days.”
Hiscolors.
Who is this man?
A general?
A lord?
Someone powerful, clearly. But he has not given me so much as a name or an affiliation. I am not sure whether we are still within the autonomous region of the Cimmerians or if we have entered sovereign territory.
I stop a good distance from him, turning my head toward the mountains and laying my hands on the stone railing. Despite the snowy clime, the terrace itself is warm. Twin fires burn in low stone trenches that run along the perimeter of the floor to either side of us, casting a pleasant glow across the entire veranda.
“Where are we, exactly?”
“The Acrine Hold.”
I keep my gaze fixed on the mountains. “Am I supposed to know where that is?”
“You would, were you from the Northlands.” He pauses. “Which, obviously, you are not. Tell me—where did the princeling find you after all this time?”
I finally glance at him, brows raised. “You seem to know quite a bit about Penn’s activities.”
His gaze gains a cutting edge when I let slip the casual nickname. “I make it my business to know a great deal about a great many people,” he says with aching slowness. “You, on the other hand, remain an enigma. Especially as you haven’t answered a single one of my questions, while I have entertained several of yours.”
“On the contrary, you seem to know more about me than I know of myself.”
He arches one brow in silent inquiry.
I blow out a sharp breath. There is not much point in playing coy. He already knows what I am. And if anyone can offer me an explanation about my fate…I suppose it is someone who shares it.
“The truth is, until a few days ago, I’d never even heard the termRemnant,” I tell him. “Besides the mark on my chest, there was never any indication I was anything but an ordinary halfling. I’d never tapped into any power. I wasn’t even aware that I had power to tap into.”
He shows no reaction.
“I didn’t understand that the mark meant I was…” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m still not sure I truly understand what it means.”
There is a heavy beat of silence, followed by a low, angry oath. “Fucking Pendefyre.”