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more than an illusion, just like his mother's voice. Another attempt at torment by his captors. It would not shock him to hear the crone's next.
    A hand trailed across his chest and Donovan flinched. A moment later, the realization he once again had a body overrode all other thoughts. The elation of that discovery vanished with the first beat of his heart, because with the return of his physical form came touch, sensation, thirst, hunger, and pain. A great deal of pain.
    Donovan clenched his teeth against the onslaught. Legs, unused to bearing weight, collapsed beneath him and he fell, shivering, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Torrent after torrent of agony drenched him in sweat, left his chest heaving, his throat raw from the screams that tore through him despite his best efforts at keeping them locked behind clenched teeth. It may have lasted only a moment, or perhaps an eternity, and it left him drained.
    Light pierced his skull, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for it to dull before peering out through barely parted lashes. From his vantage point, he could see only bare feet. He did not need to see more than that.
    "Did you think to so easily escape me?" The priestess lowered herself, multi-colored skirts flaring out around her as she squatted and tipped her head down to look at him with violet eyes. She had not changed from the first time Donovan had laid eyes on her in the hovel in the swamp.
    "You…are dead," he said through chattering teeth.
    "No more dead than you," she said. "It appears, however, our positions have been reversed."
    "This is…illusion."
    "This" --she pinched the skin of his arm-- "is illusion. You are not. I am not. I" --she gripped his chin and forced his face around-- "am your nightmares."
    Donovan laughed despite it all. "I do not have nightmares, Priestess."
    Her lips curved into the expression of a wolf eyeing its prey. "You will now."
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    "You. Girl."
    Ciara turned to glance over her shoulder, wondering what poor servant had the misfortune of being hailed in such an obviously disgusted tone. Jorny, her assigned guard for the day, made a small noise in his throat at the sight of the round, matronly woman, striding across the Great Hall directly toward them, accompanied by two guards wearing crisp, amber and black uniforms.
    He leaned in and, for Ciara's ears only, said, "Lady Honval. Imperial Mage."
    The woman drew to a stop three strides off, hands folded loosely over her ample stomach. Her dark eyes swept over Ciara from head to foot, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. The unmistakable brush of power accompanied her scrutiny. "You're her. Donovan's daughter." She snorted inelegantly. "Not much to look at, are you?"
    Ciara raised a hand to self-consciously tuck a stray hair back into its customary single braid, feeling very plain beneath Lady Honval's continued inspection. The mage's gleaming, auburn hair sat atop her head in an elegant pile, and the richly embroidered gown she wore far surpassed the simple dress Ciara had chosen.
    "It should be you in the dungeon awaiting execution," Lady Honval said. "Not Lord Reinhold."
    "I'm sorry you feel that way," Ciara said.
    "Truly? I suspect you are quite relieved to find yourself exculpated. Donovan would not have come here were it not for you. The general knew as much. He should never have brought you to Nisair."
    Ciara's brow furrowed. By her recollection, Bolin would have agreed with that statement. "It was my understanding, my coming here was the Emperor's decision."
    Lady Honval's lips pulled tight against her teeth. "He fawns beneath the pompous Lord General, blinded by misplaced adoration. That will soon be remedied as well, have no doubt. I will see those responsible for Lord Arnok's death pay, no matter their station."
    "We did all we could to stop Donovan."
    "I believe you are too modest by far. To hear it told, you are possessed of power to rival even that of an Imperial Mage." Lady Honval leaned in, a curl