Dedicated to Alana Sinclair for running awesome awards
and just generally being a fun person to talk to. (=

In my dream last night, I was standing in my mother's doorway as she swiped on her makeup. Words destroy more people than bolts or blades ever will, she lectured, practiced pats of her applicator concealing her complexion. A single whispered phrase in the wrong ear changes the course of history, while a secret unspoken bends the world to your will. Red lined her lips, and she popped them to smooth the color. Words are the most powerful, most dangerous thing in this world, Eleaviara—if you know how to use them. And in the mirror, she winked at me.

Because my mother knew how to use them. She could turn her enemy into her dearest admirer or make the most powerful man in the room feel no more significant than a child. She could manipulate the husband who wanted nothing to do with her into giving her almost any request. She could tease the daughter who loathed her into craving her attention and approval.

She would not approve of me right now.

"Trezhiang." After two days, nonsense words still tumble out of my carefully posed lips, and I slap my hand against the stone bench. "Arajiay!"

I'd curse if only I could get my mouth to make the proper movements. It might be comical if it wasn't so skies-be-blazed frustrating.

With movements that couldn't be more thoughtfully deliberate if I was speaking to the whole of Erreliah, my lips form a single, simple word. What comes out is gibberish a two-year-old could enunciate more clearly.

A growl tears itself from my throat. At least I can deliver that effectively. I scowl. My mind knows what it wants to say, my lips know how they should move, but for some reason, as I go to speak, my tongue trips, my mouth contorts, and sounds no one ever put together masquerade as words.

My stomach growls, and my eyes flick to the mostly-empty pitcher of water they brought me two days ago. Skies know when they'll refill it. They're civilized people, I remind myself. They won't leave me in here to die of hunger or thirst. Images flash in my mind of a weak and thin Aster locked away in Veradeaux's dungeon. His people won't treat me like she treated him.

Then again, she used to be one of his people.

A door slams. I push to my feet and press myself against the bars, watching as a wavering torch bobs its way down the corridor. Rising hope turns into panic slicing into my chest—there is no pitcher in these figures' hands, no tray. They're here to get me, and I have no words to speak to them.

Stomping feet and clanging metal grow louder until the two soldiers stop in front of my cell. The flickering flame in the hand of one casts unsteady light on the keys in the fingers of the other. The man with the keys jerks his chin at me. "Morsieve."

Confusion sharpens the blade of panic in my heart, and my fingers cling to the bars.

"Morsieve, dimoielle!"

Work, you blazing charm! Underneath the frustration and confusion, doubt grows—what if the effect never works and I'm stuck languageless for the rest of my life?

The guard yanks a dagger from his waist. Its hilt raps my fingers, and I draw back, hissing a breath. The man mutters something but sticks his keys in the lock. As it opens, the door squeaks like the creaking wood of a gallow's stage. For a second, I'm frozen, one hand nursing my stinging fingers, eyes locked on the guard.

He gestures, saying something in his language. When I don't move, he shakes his head, stepping into the cell and grabbing for my arm. I dance back, overcome by the feeling that I'm nothing but an animal in one of Erreliah's laboratories. I want to dart between these guards, escape up the stairs, find the open air, and fly away like the birds I used to study. I hesitate, trying to calm my racing heart, and in that split second, the man's hand clamps down on my wrist.

A stream of nonsense leaves my lips as I twist. He grabs my other arm, pulling them both behind my back and forcing me forward. I stumble, barely catching my footing as we leave the cell. The other guard pulls the door closed. The click of the lock reminds me whatever security I had alone behind those bars is gone now, and my stomach drops.

On instinct, I jerk away from the guard. His fingers dig into my wrists, the fabric of his gauntlets rough against my skin. He yanks me close, giving me as little room to move as possible.

Suddenly, my mind is somewhere else, snow flying into the mountain air as I kick and twist, trying to escape from the barbarian Trader dragging me away. That time, I yelled for Sean, that time, Sean saved me, but this time, there is no Sean, and there is no one to save me. I'm in a foreign land again with none of their words, no idea what's going to happen to me, and no way to stop it. I am powerless.

Reality comes back into focus, and I'm still thrashing, screams of nonsense bouncing off the stone walls. Some core part of me that hasn't lost its rationality tries to talk myself back from the brink, but I'm lost in the panic, and no matter how much I know that I'm making this worse, I just want this to—

"Stop!" I yell.

The guards freeze. Near my wrist, I swear a silver light ebbs away, but that makes no sense because the only real source of light down here is the torch. In the moment of silence, the singsong voice of my bracelet rings clear.

"So the little savage girl speaks after all, huh?" the guard holding me says.

He pulls me close again, and this time I manage to keep my head. Though my mind is buzzing and I can't stop shaking, I hold myself straight.

"Good. Then you'll understand when I say that if you pull that stunt in front of the Princesse, you'll have a dagger in your spine before you can blink."

Cold fear washes over me, and I nod.

"Good girl. Now come on. You've got a royal appointment to keep."