Page 91 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Well?” Sylan asked. “Did I pass your test? Am I real?”
Ingrid couldn’t think. She couldn’t do anything. She was right back in the throes of panic.
“Am I real?” the cruel prince said again. “Or am I just in your head?”
She closed her eyes and willed herself to awaken. She lifted mental hammers and began banging them against the inside ofher skull, clenching her lids over her eyeballs forcefully until her head ached.
Wake up. Wake up.
Every fiber of her soul ached and tugged at one another. Her blood boiled, skin prickled, hair follicles burned. This was worse than any visions she’d had on Earth. Worse than the constant torment from the Shades. This was a small death, nipping away at her in agonizingly small bites.
She dug deep inside herself and willed it to stop.
Wake up, she demanded.
Wake up.
WAKE UP!
She opened her eyes.
The room was the same as she’d left it. The fire was still burning. The starlight still danced on the floor. But Sylan, the nightmare of her enemy, he had dissipated as fast as he’d descended upon her.
She shot upright, staring at the spot her dark psyche had placed Sylan in, almost expecting him to reappear.
That chair, she thought, it would have to go. She’d ask Callinora to take it away as soon as possible. Burn it. Throw it in the sea. As long as she never had to look at it again. As long as she never had to think of it again. Of him. Of her enemy.
She didn’t tell a soul about the vision.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ingrid’s followingdays were spent rotating between Raidinn’s room to train with Tyla, her own quarters to continue her studies of Ealis, and the royal stables to make sure Alkaleese was adapting. Each was done with some level of discrepancy, of course, per Callinora’s instructions, avoiding any eye contact with passersby as she walked the castle halls. It wasn’t dangerous to be seen, but being seen meant you were thought of. And being thought of in a court such as Maradenn’s…
She kept to herself, barely had time to talk to Dean alone, barely had time for anything but training, studying, and, after her muscles and her mind had reached their limit, joining the rest of her friends up in Callinora’s chambers to further discuss their journey to the Occi Isles.
It was an odd sort of privacy in a building housing so many. Often, Ingrid would stare out into the night-dark city and feel like the only Viator on Ealis. It was a familiar feeling, but it never lasted. The painful thought of those advisors being just a floor or two below would hit her, and she could almost feel them scheming ways to rid the city of her, as well as any ideas that could be construed as anti-Hydorian.
After their initial meeting in the throne room, King Nestor had sent word of his surrender to Makkar, as promised. Callinora had met with her father during the drafting of the letter and made sure no mention of the world-walkers was included. Even in his grievous state, he knew how his hospitality would look.
Meanwhile, the people of Maradenn stirred and whispered about what a surrender might mean, and what the future of their home might look like. Would Makkar demand full allegiance? Would he expect the army, full of sons and daughters and mothers and fathers of Maradenn to join the crusade of Earth? Rumors circulated throughout the city, causing panic, unrest, and disorder.
And the halls of the castle were just as riddled with gossip.
Tales were spun of Makkar making requests to visit Maradenn for a diplomatic meeting of rulers. There was speculation that Maradenn would soon be a puppet state—the tyrant of Hydor installing one of his lackeys as regent. Callinora even heard exaggerated tales of the king himself. That he had beenpossessedby the Magus’ power. That he had died days ago, and the male seen around the castle was a shifter who’d taken over his likeness.
The facts, however, were far less noteworthy. Carrier birds from Hydor and Maradenn’s Roke flyers—large birds of prey mounted by messengers or soldiers—had flown in and out of the city, marking the first extended communication between the kingdoms in nearly a century.
That was all. No coup. No possessions. No spells. No tyranny. Just your average surrender, a desperate bid for peace, and, of course… a secret plot to install Callinora on the throne as quickly as possible.
“We should move now,” Dean offered.
He was sitting at the dining table in Callinora’s bedroom, running his hands through his disheveled hair. With each passing night, his urgency had increased. He didn’t appear to be sleeping. Bags had formed under his bloodshot eyes, and he’d somehow lost weight in the short three days they’d been there.
Everyone around the table watched him with varying levels of concern as he spoke. “Why risk this mission if the populace is already unhappy? We might wake up to Makkar and his generals walking freely in your castle. There must be like-minded Viator in your court. Ones that would support you as Queen.”
“There are a few,” Callinora said, plucking a piece of cheese from a butcher’s block and washing it down with that bright blue wine she so enjoyed. “But the populace’s opinion only goes as far as the politicians pandering to them—you know this. The vote among the high council, as it stood now, would be heavily in my father’s favor. Second in line would be his head advisor, Ballius, easily the most conniving of all the conniving little snobs.” Callinora extended her tongue out from her mouth, as if she’d swallowed a bug. “Though I doubt he's got the balls to make a play just yet.”
Ingrid covered her mouth to hide a laugh, but on second thought, decided the room could use a little bit of humor, especially Dean.
