Page 91 of Fire to the Stars

He leans in and whispers, “They can’t die.”

Our prisoner is high value and therefore extremely dangerous. Keep his location—nay, his very existence—a secret from the public at all costs.

—Gag order from Irvin Bard, marshal of Jardincourt, November23, 1760 AA

Chapter Thirty-One

Abel

Marshal Bard leads me into the interrogation cell and locks the gate behind us. The wall torches wipe the shadows from a blue-cloaked figure’s face in the center of the room. Ropes bind the young man’s arms and legs to the chair. Sweat glazes his pallid skin. Black veins draw cracklike marks across his cheeks. He’s a stark contrast to the healthy woman Claire killed when we escaped Ravinfort.

“You were supposed to secure the park’s perimeter. How did they get past it undetected?” I demand. “Let alone this man. He’sill.”

“That fact concerns me as much as it does you,” Marshal Bard replies. “We barely saw the silverwolves before the assassins started shouting commands in the Old Tongue.”

I want to be angry, but I can’t blame him. I had the same experience back in Ravinfort. Plus silverwolves aren’t unheard of in Jardincourt National Park.

The prisoner’s head lolls.

“He’s said nothing?” I ask.

“We’ve been interrogating him since the arrest. All we’ve gotten are a few words.”

“Eau de vie…eau de…s’il vous plaît,” the prisoner whimpers, as if on cue. He sags in the chair.

“Can you translate?” Marshal Bard asks.

“Eau de vie.” I swallow. “It means ‘water of life.’ ”

“What is that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I approach the man. “Where is Madame Afi?”

His blink is slow, eyes bloodshot, as if he’s had too much to drink.

“Have you offered him the pardon?” I ask Marshal Bard.

“Yes.”

“A full one? Upon immediate recovery of Madame Afi?”

“Yes, we’ve been very clear with him. We even offered him life-changing amounts of money to give up his allies. All he’s done is babble in the Old Tongue.”

“Then I’ll try the Old Tongue.” I snap my fingers in front of the prisoner’s face. “Où est-elle—Madame Afi Meteku?”

“S’il vous plaît.”

“Parlez-vous la Langue Commune?”

“Eau de vie. S’il vous…plaît.”

I look at Marshal Bard. “He won’t say where she is or whether he speaks the Common Tongue. I’d assume he’s choosing not to cooperate, but he doesn’t appear to be in his right mind. Any idea what’s wrong with him?”

“I was hoping you could shed some light on that. Step back.” Before I realize what he’s doing, his knuckles slam into the prisoner’s face with a sickeningcrack.

“Marshal!”

He punches again and again. The prisoner’s head snaps left and right. The chair, bolted to the floor, rattles but holds him in place. Blood drips from his brow and lip. A tooth flies across the cell and nestles in a corner. Only then, out of nowhere, does he thrash against his bonds.