Zuleeka’s face was melting into colorful shapes as the hallucinogenic drug pulled Kiva into its embrace, but somehow she managed to slur a single word: “Back?”
“To Zalindov,” Zuleeka said. “I can’t have you running around helping your prince get in the way of my grand plans. Or Torell, if he doesn’t cooperate.” She leaned toward the swirling bars and whispered, her face tinged with a hint of madness, “There’s so much more happening here, so much you don’t understand. Mother was thinking too small. I won’t be making the same mistake. And I won’t risk you being free to stop me.”
In the back of Kiva’s mind, she knew she should be upset, even terrified, but instead, her limbs loosened as she relaxed, a humming sensation overtaking her body, the pain in her head fading and her troubles disappearing.
Zuleeka was saying something else, something Kiva couldn’t hear around the pleasant chiming sound in her ears. She watched through a foggy cloud as her sister turned to look at someone — Mirryn, who rematerialized at her side, summoned by the whistle — and handed over the golden pouch.
“She’s already so out of it,” the princess commented, her amused voice coming to Kiva as if from far away. “I’ll go make sure the prison wagon is ready and give the rest of this to her guards. They’ve agreed to keep her dosed until she reaches Zalindov. She won’t cause them any problems that way.”
The fuzzy outline of ice blue silk disappeared from Kiva’s vision, her head lolling to the side. Somehow she’d ended up on the ground without realizing it.
“Goodbye, sister.” Zuleeka’s words were nothing more than a distorted whisper of sound. “I wish things could have been different.”
What happened next, Kiva couldn’t say, the angeldust pulling her under, its grip swift and powerful. She was aware of Mirryn’s blue dress returning again, of the dungeon cell opening and then her body floating. She laughed at the sensation, feeling lighter than air, but then she was outside in the cold and lying on a hard surface, her limbs cramped tight as more iron bars surrounded her, caging her in.
And then she was moving.
The following minutes, hours, days, weeks became a blur of crunching gravel and clanging bars, broken only by the briefest moments of clarity, just enough time for her transfer guards to blow more of the caramelly powder into her face, sending her under all over again. She dreamed of golden palaces and glittering rivers, of rooms full of windows and mist-covered marble. She saw Jaren’s face, his hands, his lips, as he touched her, held her, cherished her. And she whispered to him, telling him everything she’d never said aloud, all the truths she’d bottled up inside, too afraid of what they would mean if she let them out.
I know you’re scared. But I promise you don’t have to be.
His voice washed over her like pure sunshine, and she wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wasn’t scared anymore.
Because she loved him.
More than anything.
And when she finally awoke one crisp morning and found herself surrounded by familiar limestone walls, the first thing she did was murmur his name, reaching for him.
But he wasn’t there.
Reality crashed down on Kiva, even as the angeldust still flooding her system sought to regain control of her mind. She fought it, remembering how Jaren had looked after he’d kissed her — and then the pain in his features after he’d learned of her betrayal.
A sob left her, but her anguish was muted by the drug, as was her fear when Warden Rooke’s dark face appeared, staring triumphantly through the iron bars of her prison wagon.
“Pity we filled your position in the infirmary,” he said, “but there’s always plenty of work in the tunnels.” His lips stretched into a smile. “Welcome home, N18K442.”
And that was the last Kiva knew before the angeldust pulled her under again, leaving her with one final conscious thought:
If Rooke was sending her to the tunnels, she would have six months left.
A year at the most.
And then she would be dead.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wrote this book in the middle of a global pandemic, while recovering from surgery, after being diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder, and then, halfway through drafting, my beloved grandmother passed away. So to say it was challenging is a vast understatement.
But.
Something I’ve learned is that the best things in life rarely come easy, and the toughest battles reap the greatest rewards.
Writing and editing The Gilded Cage might have been one of the hardest experiences — of my life — but because of that, it’s also the book I’m most proud of. And I have so many people to thank for helping me along the journey.