The Deceiver's Heart (The Traitor's Game 2)

Sensing a trick, I was slow to reach for it, and as I did, my eyes caught on the faint scar on my palm, a square cross. I clenched my hand into a fist and pulled my arm back.

With his eyes on my fist, Simon replaced the knife. He walked forward, taking my hand in his and opening it. Brushing his thumb over the scar, he said, “I can tell you about this.”

I already knew. “As a girl, I once tried practicing with my father’s dagger, but I misused it and cut my hand.”

Simon shook his head. “That never happened, Kes. It’s a false memory.”

“It did happen! It frightened me so much, I’ve never picked up a weapon since.”

“Kes—”

“I remember it, Simon! Enough with your lies!”

He stared at me, looking genuinely disappointed. It was probably nothing to the expression he’d wear after I escaped. Because more than ever before, that had to be my goal. First opportunity I had, I was leaving.

We rode for hours, with only the occasional tug of her arm against mine and my repeated pleas for her to talk to me, to help me understand what she did and didn’t remember, but she ignored every request as if I weren’t even there. It was a cold day, with slowly gathering storm clouds, a perfect parallel for Kestra’s mood. Rain was coming, and if that was another sign for Kestra and me, then I dreaded knowing what it was. I hoped at least that we’d get to a decent shelter before the storm came.

Our route that late afternoon was largely determined by occasional gashes in the earth known as the slots, steep-walled crevices that created a maze through the land. If we were being followed, our pursuers would have to stay on our same route, unless they traveled through the base of the slots.

And I knew in my heart that they were somewhere behind us. If we were caught this time, Tenger would probably kill me outright. This violation of my oath would be considered inexcusable. There was no going back for either of us.

After yet another failed request to get Kestra to talk to me, I decided on a new tactic: a story of my own.

“I once protected a girl very much like you. Equally stubborn, but I eventually learned that the more she cared about something, the more stubborn she became. I think you might be similar.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, unwittingly proving how stubborn she was.

“Obviously.” I chuckled at that and briefly felt her sharp glare, but when our eyes met, she blinked a few times, then looked forward again.

“She was curious and had a fierce intensity about her. She felt everything with such passion that it was impossible to be around her and not get caught up in it too.” Slowly, I exhaled, like breathing was an afterthought. “It was impossible to be around her and not feel passionate about her.”

I stopped there, realizing that I wasn’t only saying those words for her, I was feeling them more intensely than I wished. Kestra was right in front of me, so close that she was in every direction I looked, part of every breath I drew in. But if I couldn’t find a way to undo Endrick’s magic, I would lose her for good.

After a moment, Kestra asked, “What happened to this girl?”

A brief pause. I wanted to be careful here. “She fell into Lord Endrick’s clutches. He took her from me.”

She turned enough that I saw a hint of moisture in her eyes, but her voice was steady when she said, “If she was part of the rebellion, then he had to stop her, to protect the Dominion.”

Likely without realizing it, she had relaxed in the saddle to lean against me, turning my struggles in having her so close to sheer torture. I said, “It was his second attack on her. The first time, he sent so much pain through her body that she barely survived it, leaving behind a tracking ball at the base of her neck. We got it out, but it left a scar that would still be fresh.”

“You mean, it’d be fresh if Lord Endrick hadn’t killed her in the second attack.”

My eyes settled on her. “I never said he killed her. Only that he took her.”

Kestra sat up straight again. “Simon, stop—”

“Took her memories and made her believe in a history that isn’t true.”

“I’m not—”

“She has servants to bathe her and do her hair. It’s possible that in the week since she’s been awake, she’s never felt the back of her own neck.”

“I don’t have a scar there.”

I took her hand. She tried to pull it free, but I kept hold of it and lifted it to her neck, leaving my hand in place until she stopped fighting and felt the scar. Her breaths came in short, harsh bursts, a single tear falling to her cheek.

“What caused that?”