They set up camp down an inconspicuous, overgrown side road—it might have led to a little village in the mountains or nothing at all. No one passed by.

Lyle and Iris sat on the ground, their hands and feet tied with rope, a belt, and a bridle, as the family set up camp and tended to the horses. The family was too near to discuss plans of escape, so Lyle and Iris sat there in silence and watched.

Iris was contemplating what she had overheard—Torsten suggesting that Lyle could be the son of Lydian Torrey. Oliver’s oldest brother.

She doubted it. It was far-fetched.

She had met Lydian Torrey, once, a long time ago. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that because he wasn’t really allowed on this side of the world anymore, since he had deserted the Cambrian military to join the Emperor, but he occasionally snuck over to see friends and family, including her father, his cousin. She didn’t remember much about him—and it had been so long ago that she wasn’t even sure where it had been.

It was a blurry memory from early childhood. She had entered a room and seen three people sitting around a table, talking. She remembered Lydian most clearly because of his white-blond hair, and the way he’d been sitting—with his feet up on another chair, slouched comfortably. When she had entered the room with whoever had taken her there—her father? Both of her parents?—everyone at the table had stood to greet them, but when Lydian stood, he was at least a full head taller than everyone else.

She remembered being scared of him, but for no reason other than his size and his quiet demeanor. Lydian had greeted whoever she was with, then looked down at her. He’d said something that had made everyone laugh—what had he said about her?

You made this yourself?

When everyone laughed, Iris had hidden her face in a parent’s leg. She had been picked up, then, and held on a shoulder as the adults continued to talk.

She had been confused at the time, but now that she thought about it, that was pretty funny. Had he been speaking to her mother? Both of her parents?

Could Lyle be Lydian’s son? He had the same coloring, certainly, but plenty of people with northern blood did. Lyle was a little shorter than average, though he still had a lot of years to grow. He did have a certain quip like Lydian, but that didn’t prove relations. Besides, who knew where Lydian was fifteen years ago?

When she got to Northfort, she would have to ask Oliver about it. Lydian was his older brother, after all.

“Now, let’s treat the princess well tonight,” Torsten said, “so she can tell her mother that we were civilized.”

“You tied us up,” Lyle pointed out.

Iris wanted to remind Torsten that planning to keep Lyle as a slave was far from civilized, but refrained. She didn’t want them to suspect how she felt. “I would appreciate that,” she said instead.

Stien snorted.

They ate dinner together in mostly silence. Stien brought out a jug of mead from the wagon and convinced Torsten to drink with him. Stien then offered a drink to Gertrude, who ignored him at first, then after some nagging, took it. Iris watched the girl gaze into the cup blankly for a few moments, then drink the whole thing at once as soon as Stien turned away.

Stien then offered some to Iris and Lyle. Iris watched as Lyle almost accepted it, then glanced her way and retracted his hand. She hid her smile and shook her head.

“Sorry, Princess,” Stien said with a mock bow, “I wish we had some fine Silurian wine to offer you. My deepest apologies.” He then sauntered off and slumped into a rock.

His mother, who was watching him with a concerned look, turned to look at Iris and her eyes softened. “Were you named after Queen Iridis, child? I’ve been wondering. I know your mother is trying to live up to her right now.”

Iris nodded. She hesitated, then decided to continue her nice act. “My mother wanted to name me Iridis when I was born, since I have black hair and there is violet in my eyes, but my father said that was ridiculous, so they compromised.”

Gertrude lifted her bowed head. “You have violet in your eyes?”

Iris nodded, and Gertrude immediately came over to inspect her eyes. She took Iris’s chin and tilted her eyes toward the sun. “Oh, I see it. It’s just a little ring, but it’s there.”

“No way,” Stien said, and came over to look. Iris did not like being this close to him, but she sat still as he looked into her eyes. When he saw it, he blinked in surprise.

Torsten and Frida came next, and then they all stared at her. Iris was used to this, because it happened every time it came up. She looked into the distance and let them stare at her eyes.

“I thought that died out hundreds of years ago,” Stien said, leaning back on his heels.

“My uncle has it too,” Iris said. “It’s from my mother’s side.” She looked over at Lyle, who had not yet had a chance to look closely at her eyes. He did look, and she looked right into his eyes.

He held her gaze for a long moment. “What . . . does it mean?”

“What does it mean, he says,” Torsten said, and laughed brashly.

Lyle looked annoyed.

Iris ignored Torsten and explained, “It was revered in ancient times,” Iris explained to him. “They said it meant you were descended from Thaire. You were supposed to be a great warrior.”

“The wolf?” Lyle asked, frowning. “But . . . how can you be descended from a god?”

“You can’t,” Stien said shortly. “She’s descended from Astheldian royalty is what she is. Tyrants. Emperors who wanted the world for themselves. Burned farms to starve people, slaughtered thousands of innocents, murdered their own family members over a throne . . .”

“Stien, please,” Frida reprimanded.

Stien spread his arms innocently. “I’m just stating facts, Mother.”

“In a cruel manner, Stien.”

Iris, who had gone quiet, distracted herself by telling Lyle, “Queen Iridis had violet eyes and black hair. That’s why they named me Iris.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said airily, looking into her eyes again—to examine the violet ring or not, she wasn’t sure. Lyle blinked and seemed to catch himself. “Your name,” he said, looking away. “Your name is beautiful.”

She smiled, seeing his ears turn pink. “Thank you.”

“Ooh,” Stien said slyly, gesturing to them with his drink. “Lyle from nowhere is in love with a princess. Bad idea, kid.”

Lyle turned redder, but Iris pretended not to see and instead snapped back at Stien, “Are you capable of shutting your mouth?”

Stien grinned at her.

“Lyle Torrey might have a better chance,” Torsten added mischievously. “I still think he’s Lydian’s.”

Iris blinked, realizing that if it were true, it would actually make it far worse, because it would mean she and Lyle were distantly related. She cringed.

“Leave them alone,” Frida chided. “We’re already keeping them captive. You don’t need to harass them as well.”

“There’s no better time than when they’re our captives,” Stien insisted. “They can’t do anything about it.” 

“Your mother has a point,” Torsten said, though Iris could see his cheeks reddening from drink. “We’re supposed to be being civil.”

They were all silent for a few moments, then Stien started making strange movements in the air with his hands. Gertrude turned to stare at him. “What are you doing?”

“Just some math.” He pointed at Iris. “Was the last emperor your uncle?”

“No,” Iris said defensively, but then grimaced. “He’s . . . my mother’s uncle.”

“The emperor?” Lyle demanded.

Nose scrunched, Iris nodded.

“And maybe you’re Lydian’s son!” Torsten boomed. “Fate is a strange thing, isn’t she?” He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then added as he looked at their plates, “Anyhow, if you’re done eating you should probably get back in that wagon.”

 

They returned to the wagon again, and Frida tossed in two deer-skin blankets before Stien tied the canvas shut.

“That’s not enough to keep them in there,” they heard Torsten say. “Let’s take shifts. Who wants to go first?”

“I will,” Frida said gently.

Iris and Lyle sat on the hard floor. She could see that he was worried, but also exhausted.

“I’m going to stay up,” Iris breathed to him.

“Now, don’t get too friendly in there, children!” Stien crowed.

Lyle clenched his teeth.

“I’m going to stay up all night,” Iris tried again, “and watch to see if there’s a chance to escape.”

“That’s what I was going to do,” Lyle whispered.

“You did it last night. You need sleep.”

“I slept in the wagon.”

“So did I, and I slept some of last night, too. I can do it, all right?”

After a moment, Lyle nodded. “If you start to feel like you’re going to fall asleep, wake me up.”

“I will.”

He made himself as comfortable as he could on the floor by her feet, then looked up at her. “You’re sure you won’t fall asleep?”

She pulled her deer-skin blanket over her legs. “I’m not going to let you be a slave if I can stop it.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, and lay his head down on the floor. “But I’m not worried about it.”

“You should be. I’m going to tell my mother everything they said. If they do end up separating us, she’ll figure something out. We can even find where they live in Slovland, I would bet.”

“I’m just going to run as soon as they look away.”

“But I would worry about you. I would never know if you’d gotten away or not.”

“I’ll get away.”

She sighed. “Maybe one of them will fall asleep on shift tonight. But if nothing happens, we’ll figure it out tomorrow, all right?”

“If you say so.”

She listened to the camp carefully as Lyle lay at her feet. She could see the glow of the campfire, and as people walked by, their enlarged silhouettes fell on the wagon’s canvas. From the dwindling voices, she knew that Torsten and Stien had gone to bed, and Frida and Gertrude remained up. They were talking quietly over the fire.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Frida told her daughter-in-law. “You can stay with us as long as you want to. Gods know we need the extra hands, Gertrude.”

“I know that, but . . . maybe I should go back home for a while.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know . . . my mother . . .”

“Going back to her will just make you more upset. Stay with us. I know Stien can be . . . Stien. But you really don’t need to worry about him. We want you here.”

It went on for a while, and Iris listened curiously. Their voices rose and fell, and sometimes their words were obscured by the crackling of the fire or wind batting at the canvas around her, but it was an easy way to stay awake.

Iris wondered where Clive was right now. Had the circus group met the soldiers on the road and turned him over? Was he at Northfort right this moment, sleeping in a warm bed with their mother hovering nearby? Had Oliver searched him for injury and apologized for letting them out of his sight?

Or was he shivering in a tent somewhere, having been taken by Ordics? She shook the thought off stubbornly. The circus group seemed nice, surely they would protect him. Maybe they hadn’t trusted the soldiers and had taken him straight to Northfort themselves. Or dropped him off nearby it. Would he be able to find his way? If she got to Northfort tomorrow and Clive hadn’t been found yet, what would she tell her mother?

Surely he was fine. He was young. Surely people would protect him and guide him.  

“You can go to bed,” she heard Gertrude say. “I’m not going to be able to sleep for a while.”

“Are you sure?” A pause, then, “All right. You come get me when you are, all right?”

“I will.”

The next hour or two was filled with nothing but the wind, the chirping of crickets, and the hooting of owls. Iris focused on her breathing to make sure she wouldn’t fall asleep accidentally as the exhaustion pulled at her lids. Every ten or twenty minutes, Gertrude would add more wood to the fire, which let Iris know she was still awake.

Then she heard a tent open and Stien’s voice say, “Can’t sleep. I’ll take the watch.”

“If you insist,” Gertrude said, and her silhouette rose across the canvas as she stood.

“Think they’re having fun in there alone?” he asked, and his words were overly loud and a bit slurred.

“How much did you drink?” Gertrude said with distaste.

“Wish you’d drink more. Then maybe we could have fun like them one night.” His shadow fell on the canvas next to Iris as he drew nearer to Gertrude.

Gertrude was quiet as he approached, and for an uncomfortable moment Iris thought she was going to witness something she didn’t want to, but then Stien took a step closer and Gertrude swung her fist down and nailed him in the stomach. At least Iris thought it was the stomach, but she couldn’t be sure.

Stien doubled over with a groan, then fell to the ground.

Gertrude stood over him. “I’m sure Niklaus would be proud to see you now,” she spat. “Maybe that will help you stay awake,” she added, then her shadow slid off the canvas, and a moment later there was the sound of a tent opening and closing.

Iris watched Stien’s shadow on the canvas, a flickering orange glow all around him as he slowly got back to his feet. He sighed harshly and spit on the ground. Then she saw a turn of his head and thought he might be looking at the wagon.

Goosebumps rose on Iris’s already cold skin. Stien’s enlarged shadow against the canvas made her uncomfortable, for though she knew he was over by the fire, it made it feel like he was standing right outside. Her heart pounded. She glanced down at Lyle—he was fast asleep, curled up on the floor.

Stien stood that way for a few minutes, and she was beginning to think he was going to stand the whole time to keep himself awake—but then he moved again. His shadow became smaller and smaller as he approached the back of the wagon. Then he was right outside.

Iris prepared to kick Lyle awake, but decided to refrain until Stien actually did something, in case he was just being weird.

Then she saw a quick movement at the top of the canvas. She wasn’t sure what it was until it came again, lower—it was a blade. Stien was cutting the strings that tied the canvas together.

Iris’s leg jerked out and kicked Lyle in the back of the head on accident, but he barely stirred. She reached down to shake his shoulder, whispering his name urgently as the third, then the fourth ties were cut.

Lyle suddenly scrambled to his feet. “What is it?” he demanded.

Iris looked up—the final tie was cut, but no one came in. Instead, she saw Stien’s shadow pass over the left side of the wagon and disappear, like he was heading into the woods.

Her heart pounded in her ears.

“What happened?” Lyle asked her. She was still gripping his arm.

“Stien—he cut the ties,” she breathed. “Then he walked away.”

“Then let’s go,” Lyle said, moving to the exit.

“What if he’s waiting out there?” she whispered nervously, pulling his arm. “What—what is he doing?”

“He went the other way,” Lyle said quickly. “Come on, now’s our chance.” He moved out of her grip, pulled apart the canvas, and stepped outside. He looked both ways, then held out a hand and helped her down.

Then they ran—down the little road they’d come up, which was far longer on foot, she realized after the first few minutes. The cold wind battered her face and she tripped a few times in the dark. She was already breathing hard, but she did her best to keep up with him—fear made her feet fly. She heard no shouts behind them, nothing—had Stien truly just let them go? She didn’t understand.

When they finally reached the main road, they took the moment to lean over and gasp in breaths.

“We have to keep going,” Lyle said eventually, and they started to jog down the road.

“Why did he do that?” Iris asked breathlessly. “He was the one who wanted the money!” Maybe he had been so drunk that he had been halfway through coming into the wagon to terrorize them, and had forgotten what he was doing and went to relieve himself in the woods. But, if she was honest with herself, she had a nagging feeling he had been acting drunk to get Gertrude to leave and not come back out.

“I have no idea,” Lyle said between heavy breaths. “How far to Northfort?”

“I don’t know, I—“ the moon appeared from behind the clouds, half-full and bright enough to show them the land ahead. She saw the city of Iridia, carved into the mountain to the northwest of them, glowing in the white light. “Not far,” she said excitedly. “It should be just on the other side of Iridia.”

Lyle let out a breath of relief. “Thank the g—“

The distant pounding of hooves came from behind them, and they both looked back. Three people on horseback, coming from the south.

“Off the road,” Lyle said, but Iris was already running off the road. They ducked behind a large boulder and waited, hoping they hadn’t been spotted.

The horses slowed as they approached the place Iris and Lyle had left the road, and the men spoke amongst themselves. She recognized the language immediately. “Ordics,” she whispered, teeth clenched.

Lyle swore. They both looked around, but there was nowhere to run. It was just flat plain interspersed with rocks. If they ran, they would certainly be spotted.

The moon fell behind the clouds again, and the world darkened. Peeking over the rock, they watched the Ordics head their way. Maybe now it was too dark to see them.

“We should run,” Lyle said.

“No,” she said quickly, looking at the silhouettes of the riders. “They have bows.”

Lyle hissed between his teeth. Iris was near tears. After all this, would she still be taken by these savages?

“Come on out, children,” one Ordic called in the common tongue. “We saw you already.”

Iris gripped Lyle’s hand, determined to not let this happen. He would have some kind of crazy plan. “What do we do?”

“Get in the shadow of the rock as much as you can,” he whispered, “maybe . . .” They positioned themselves so every part of them was in the moon-shadow of the boulder.

A horse rounded the boulder on their right and stopped. The man on the horse smiled down at them. “Would you look at that. A boy and a girl. Exactly what we are looking for.”

Another horse came into view, and its rider trained a bow and arrow on them.

The third arrived and started laughing. “Midnight patrol wins the gold after all!” he crowed, and then they started talking in their own language. Iris caught bits and pieces, but they were talking too fast for anything else. She tried to keep breathing and not cry with the unfairness of this. It was over, her mother’s cause would be lost, everything was lost—

Lyle gripped her hand. Very quietly he said, “We’re going to get out of this one, too.”

And for some reason, she believed him.

 

They were blindfolded, their hands were tied again, and they were put on separate horses. At least, Iris thought, they hadn’t taken her for her black hair and disposed of Lyle for his yellow hair. She wished they had left him behind, though, so he could be free and also maybe come up with some kind of plan to rescue her, or go to Northfort and tell her mother everything.

Iris was uncomfortable with the stinky man behind her who occasionally called out to his friends and laughed brashly at their reply. His chest pressed against her back sometimes, but he didn’t touch her other than that.

After twenty minutes or so of riding, the horse’s hooves hit something hard, and the sound echoed all around her. Were they . . . underground? It sounded like they had entered a city’s cobblestone, but . . .

Iridia. They were inside the ghost city.

 

When the horses stopped, the man sitting behind her dismounted, then grabbed her by the waist and put her on her feet.

He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to lead her somewhere, but she stumbled on a rock and fell to her hands and knees on stone. Pain shot up her legs.

She heard laughter from around her, more men than three. Someone called out in Ordivician, and the man behind her answered. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She tensed, but blind and bound, she could do nothing. She bounced on his shoulder as he walked with long steps.

“Lyle?” she cried out suddenly.

“I’m here,” Lyle said from her left.

She let out a breath.

A minute later, the man carrying her put her down and pulled her blindfold off. It was so dark, it hardly made a difference. She was pushed from behind and stumbled into empty space. She heard feet scuffle next to her as someone else was pushed in as well. Then she heard the echoing clanks of a lock and receding footsteps.

She immediately reached out and felt a warm shoulder. “Lyle?”

“I’m here,” Lyle said, touching her arm. “Where do you think we are?”

“I think we’re in Iridia,” she whispered. There was no light in here whatsoever, not even starlight. “Underground?”

Something moved near them, and she gripped Lyle and backed away from it.

“Hello?” Lyle asked. Iris could hear his scared breaths.

There was silence, and then a man’s voice said weakly, “Iris?”

Iris’s heart nearly jumped into her throat.

“Is that you?” the man whispered. “No, they—did they really get you? They’ve been talking about it, but . . . is your brother here?”

“Who are you?” Iris asked. Her back hit cold metal bars.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man croaked, “I’m—my name is Soren Henders. I don’t know if you remember me, but . . . you . . . you sound like your mother.” His accent was Rhondivan. He sounded like home.

“Soren Henders?” she murmured. She did recognize the name, but she knew lots of names. A distant memory of her father saying the name came to her, and she had a vague positive sense around it, as if he had been speaking fondly. It was better than nothing.

“Yes, I’m—I’m a friend of your father, I was a student of his at the Academy. He—he sponsors my trips, archeology and linguistics . . . you probably don’t remember me, but it—it doesn’t matter, how did you get down here? Who is this with you? Where’s your brother?”

“My . . . father?” she breathed, voice shaking. “When . . . did you last see him?” Her mind flew to wild places—maybe her father was just out on an archeology trip, maybe the letter meant he was just missing, maybe—

“I just left his house three months ago, he sent me on a trip up here, but it was—it was cut short by the Ordics. I can’t believe you’re really here, we—we have to get you out, or—have they identified you yet—“

“Three months,” Iris repeated numbly. It only took one month for letters to travel from Ilyich to Whitehall.

“Yes, why?”

She let go of Lyle. Her throat was dry. She felt sick. “I . . . we got . . . a letter. They said . . . they said—“ her lips trembled and curved on their own. She tried to repress it, but her raw fear and exhaustion did not allow her. The sob broke through of its own will.

“What?” Soren asked, alarmed. She heard him shuffle closer to her, and she gave up and fell into his arms. “What happened?” he asked, blessedly willing to hug her. In the darkness, she would almost imagine it was her father’s arms around her.

She buried her face in his chest and wailed, “They said he was dead!”

She felt Soren’s breath contract. “What?” he whispered. “No, that—that can’t be right, I was just there, when did—when did the letter come?”

“Two—weeks ago,” she said between sobs.

His back hit the wall, and he squeezed her.

“And my mother,” Iris babbled, “she just had to keep going, she—she couldn’t stop, we couldn’t even go down for the funeral, it’s dangerous because—“ she hiccupped. “Because all of her enemies want to hurt us, and then—then the Ordics, they got into the castle, and—and she was screaming at Oliver to take us, and he took us to a tunnel, but they were already running up the stairs to her room—“

She choked on her own words and had to stop to breathe. Soren held her tight. She felt his chest lifting with heavy breaths, and his warm hands on her back.

Her father had been so good at comforting, any time she was upset all she wanted was him—and now that she needed comforting more than ever before, he was gone.

“And—and there was this guard, I didn’t know him but Oliver told him to come help us, but he—they shot him in the throat, right in front of us.”

Soren let out a harsh breath.

“I’m so scared for Mother because Oliver said the Ordics—that they torture people they don’t like, and everyone was yelling—so I made Oliver stay behind and go save her, but then Clive and I, we got lost in the tunnels, and we—we found Lyle, he helped us, but then we were held hostage by Slovish people, and we escaped and ran right into the Ordics—and none of it matters because my father is gone,” she finished, and then just sobbed.

No one said anything as she cried, cried out everything she had been holding in. Her body wracked with pain—her knees from falling on stone, her feet from running in someone else’s shoes, her head from not sleeping. The sobs felt like they were going to crack her ribs, and many times they were so strong she lost her breath and had to gasp for air.

When the tears eventually slowed down, Soren asked her very gently, “What happened? How did . . . Malcolm die?”

“Nothing,” Iris said, and the sobs bubbled up all over again. “Nothing happened, they said his heart just gave out—he was in his study and then he just—he just—it’s not fair, he’s too young! We were supposed to have more time with him! It’s . . . it’s not fair.”

“I know,” Soren said softly. “I know it’s not.”

She ran out of things to say, but then the tears came back with the image of her father dying alone, probably in pain, without being able to leave a note or say goodbye to anyone. It was so heartbreaking, it felt like her heart could not contain it.

Her knees buckled and she brought them both to the ground. “I don’t even know if my mother is alive,” she sobbed, and hated the words.

“She is,” Soren said firmly. “I’ve heard them talking, I know their language. She’s alive, and she’s looking for you with everything she has.”

She took a shaky breath. “Oh. Good.” She imaged her mother personally fighting everyone who tried to hinder her search, sending out everyone she could. The soldiers they’d met on the road were from her mother. Of course they were. That meant there were more, probably on every road in the area, which meant Clive was probably safe. Probably.

“We lost Clive,” she said miserably.

“What happened?”

“We—we were getting into a wagon—he’s . . . he’s with a circus caravan, headed for Northfort. We haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“That’s far better than us. I’m sure your mother has found him by now.”

She sniffed. “But—I don’t know if Oliver made it, either. He was fighting the Ordics in Whitehall . . .”

That would be a blow in a different way. The idea of her mother’s death made every bit of her tense up and want to scream. She would fight to the last inch of her life, teeth and nails, to stop that from happening.

Oliver’s death would be different. It would be like a needle straight to her heart.

“Are you talking about Oliver Torrey?”

“Yes,” she breathed, wiping at her eyes.

His chin nudged her forehead as he nodded. “I haven’t seen a Torrey bested yet. I’m sure he’s fine.”

She felt a hand that wasn’t Soren’s gently touch her shoulder, to figure out where she was. Then Lyle’s hand slid down her arm, found her hand, and squeezed it. She had all but forgotten he was there, he had been so quiet.

She was taking a breath to apologize to him, for she had lied about her father to him, but just then she felt his head rest on her shoulder, and she knew that she didn’t have to. He understood.

 She felt a blessed emptiness, now that everything she had been carrying inside was spoken aloud—and she was strangely at peace, for the moment. She let out a long breath, sinking into both of them, and felt her whole body relax.