Flashback (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 7) Read online

  “Yeah,” Sophie said quietly. “I’ve been angry at Alvar for so long, I never thought I’d end up feeling sorry for him.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand this is why we’re going to be stuck here for hours,” Ro whined.

  “Nah, I’m sure the Council already made their decision,” Keefe told her. “They’re just putting on a good show for the Vackers.”

  “Wanna bet?” Ro’s grin looked dangerous when she added, “I say we’ll be here until sunset—and if I’m right, you have to wear ogre armor to school, instead of your uniform.”

  Keefe smirked. “No big deal. I would rock that metal diaper. But I say that this hearing will be done in an hour—and if I’m right, you have to call me Lord Hunkyhair from now on.”

  Sophie shook her head. “You guys are terrible.”

  “That’s why you love us!” Keefe draped his arm around her shoulders. “You should get in on this, Foster. I’m sure that devious mind of yours can come up with some particularly humiliating ways to punish us if we’re wrong.”

  She probably could. But no way was she risking having to wear a metal breastplate to Foxfire. Ro’s looked like a medieval corset paired with spiked metal bikini bottoms.

  “Hard pass,” she told him.

  Keefe heaved a dramatic sigh. “Fiiiiiiiiiine. I guess I can’t blame you, since I already owe you a favor. Any thoughts on what my penance is going to be, by the way? Don’t think I haven’t noticed how long you’ve been stalling.”

  “I’m not stalling,” Sophie insisted. “I just . . . haven’t figured out what I want.”

  “Yeah, I know.” The teasing tone faded from his voice, replaced with something that made Sophie very aware of how close they were standing. “Take your time,” he told her, the words mostly a whisper. “Just . . . let me know when you figure it out. Because I—”

  The doors to the hall burst open, cutting off whatever else he was going to say.

  “Oh good. Here comes the elf parade,” Ro muttered.

  “The Vacker parade,” Keefe corrected. “And get ready for it. They’re the sparkliest of us all.”

  They really were.

  Sophie’s jaw even dropped a little as she watched the legendary family filing into the hall in their elaborate gowns and perfectly tailored jerkins and jeweled capes. She’d thought she was used to the extreme wealth and ageless beauty of the elves. But the Vackers demanded attention in a way she didn’t know how to explain. There was something striking about each and every one of them—which was extra impressive considering how different they all looked from each other. She spotted every hair color, skin color, feature shape, and body type. It probably shouldn’t have caught her by surprise—the family line went back thousands of years, and elves didn’t separate themselves by appearance the way humans often did. But she was so used to how closely Fitz, Biana, and Alvar resembled their parents that she’d foolishly imagined all their relatives with similar dark hair and pale coloring.

  She studied everyone as they passed, hoping she’d catch a glimpse of Fallon Vacker—Fitz and Biana’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. She’d been trying to meet with him for months, hoping he could tell her more about why he’d sentenced Vespera to the Lumenaria dungeon. But he’d been annoyingly uncooperative.

  There were quite a few males with pointy ears—the trademark of the Ancients—but Sophie didn’t know any other details about Fallon’s appearance to help her narrow it down. And she couldn’t ask Keefe—the hall was way too quiet. No one said a word as they climbed the auditorium’s stairs and took their seats.

  And yet, somehow, the silence grew thicker when the doors opened again and Alden and Della strode into the hall, followed by Fitz and Biana and their goblin bodyguards, Grizel and Woltzer.

  Sophie had seen her friends shattered by grief, shaking with anger, sobbing with hysterics—even battered and bloody and half dead. But she’d never seen them looking so . . . timid. Their clothes were dark and boring, and they kept their teal eyes focused on the floor. Biana even disappeared for longer between her steps than her vanishing ability usually caused.

  So did Della, who’d worn her long hair pulled back into a simple knot, along with a gown and cape that were dull gray, without any frills.

  Alden’s cape and jerkin were equally plain.

  Not that any of it helped them draw less attention.

  The air in the room shifted, turning hotter and heavier with each stare sent their way—a blast of searing judgment aimed at the family of Vackers who’d brought scorn upon the name. And Fitz and Biana seemed to shrink under the weight of it, ducking their chins and picking up their pace as angry murmurs began to swell—starting as a low rustle and growing into a pounding thrum.

  Sophie tried to think of something to say as they drew closer, but her mind wasn’t cooperating—and for once Keefe didn’t seem to have a joke ready. So she was forced to go with the less-than-inspiring “Hey.”

  Biana’s head snapped up. “Whoa, what are you guys doing here?”

  “Your dad didn’t tell you he got us in?” Keefe asked, dropping his arm from Sophie’s shoulders when he noticed Fitz staring at them.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Alden explained. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is!” Biana practically tackled Sophie with her hug—but Sophie hugged her back as gently as she could.

  Biana kept claiming that she’d recovered from the brutal injuries she’d suffered in Nightfall, but Sophie had noticed that Biana always wore long sleeves now and chose gowns and tunics that covered her neck and shoulders.

  “By the way, you look awesome,” Biana said, pulling away to admire Sophie’s dress. “Now I’m wishing I braided my hair or something.”

  “Oh please, you look amazing,” Sophie assured her. “Like always.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  Even in a hall full of Vackers, Biana managed to shine.

  So did Fitz—though Sophie was trying not to notice.

  “Hey, Fitzy,” Keefe said, elbowing Fitz’s side. “Wanna join our bet on how long this Tribunal is going to last? You get to name your terms—oh, but if you lose, you’ll have to wear a metal diaper to school and call me Lord Hunkyhair from now on.”

  “Uh . . . yeah, no,” Fitz said as Biana asked, “Hunkyhair?”

  “Lord Hunkyhair,” Keefe corrected. “What? It’s accurate.” He tossed his head like he was in a shampoo commercial. “I think we need to make it a thing either way—don’t you, Foster?”

  “I think you’re ridiculous,” Sophie told him.

  Then again, Biana was giggling. And Fitz’s lips were twitching with the beginning of a smile. Even Alden and Della had relaxed a little.

  But everyone turned serious as Alden motioned for them to follow him toward a narrow silver staircase that led up to a platform with a row of chairs facing the Councillors’ thrones.

  Fitz offered Sophie his arm, and she tried to ignore the way her insides fluttered at the gesture. He was probably only doing it because everyone knew that climbing things without tripping wasn’t one of her strengths—particularly when she was wearing heels. But her face still grew warm as she hooked her elbow around his.

  It got even warmer when he told her, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “So am I.”

  She meant it, even though the buzz in the room was shifting tone—and she caught enough scattered words to know many were now talking about her.

  “Raised by humans.”

  “Genetically altered.”

  “Project Moonlark.”

  There were also a few mentions of “matchmaking” in the mix, and Sophie decided she did not want to know what they were saying. Especially when she noticed Keefe’s smirk.

  Fitz guided her to a chair on the far left of the platform and took the seat next to her, with Keefe sitting on his other side, followed by Biana, Della, and Alden. All the bodyguards took u
p positions behind them.

  “Where’s Alvar going to be?” Sophie whispered, noticing that there were no empty seats.

  Alden pointed to a portion of the floor that had a square pattern. “That platform will rise once he’s standing on it.”

  “He has to face the Council alone,” Della added quietly.

  “And it looks like our time starts now,” Keefe told Ro, as two dozen heavily armed goblins marched into the hall and took up positions around the Councillors’ thrones.

  “They call that security?” Ro huffed. “I could take them down without even drawing a dagger.”

  Fanfare drowned out Sandor’s reply—which was probably for the best. And Sophie’s insides squished together as all twelve Councillors shimmered onto the platform in their gleaming silver cloaks and twinkling circlets.

  Ro snorted. “Wow. Do the jewels in their crowns seriously match their thrones?”

  “I suppose you’d rather we ink our adornments to our skin?” Councillor Emery called back.

  His deep, velvety voice bounced off the emerald walls—but Ro didn’t look the least bit intimidated as she reached up and traced one of her pink claws over the tattoos swirling across her forehead.

  “I doubt you guys could handle the pain,” she told him.

  “I think you’d be surprised what we can bear,” Councillor Emery responded.

  His skin was usually a shade similar to his long dark hair—but whatever memories inspired his statement had turned him slightly ashen.

  “But that’s not what we’re here to discuss,” he added, taking a seat in his sapphire-encrusted throne, which matched both his circlet and his eyes. “I know many in this hall have important assignments to return to. So let’s not waste time.”

  “Did you hear that?” Keefe asked Ro as the other Councillors sat in their respective thrones. “They’re not going to waste time.”

  “Psh—like that’s going to last,” Ro argued.

  “Bring in the accused!” Emery commanded, and four additional goblin warriors marched into the hall, flanking a hooded figure who blinked in and out of sight with every step, just like his mother and sister.

  Alvar had never been as effortlessly attractive as his younger siblings, but he’d always made up for it with immaculate clothes, perfectly gelled hair, and a build that looked like he’d spent hours working out every day. He would’ve been horrified by the scrawny, battered person he’d become. His loose gray cloak seemed to swallow him, and greasy strands of his dark hair hung in his pale blue eyes.

  But worst of all were the curved red scars marring his gaunt face.

  “The Council better get this right,” Fitz whispered as the platform raised Alvar to the Councillors’ height.

  “State your name for the record,” Councillor Emery ordered.

  Alvar gave a wobbly bow and drew back his hood. “I’m told it’s Alvar Soren Vacker.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe that to be the case,” Emery noted.

  “I don’t know what I believe,” Alvar told him. “Like I keep telling you, I have no memory of my past.”

  Fitz reached for Sophie’s hand when Councillor Emery closed his eyes. As spokesperson for the Council, Emery’s job was to telepathically mediate all arguments, to ensure the Councillors presented a unified front for the audience.

  Several long seconds passed—and Ro’s grin widened with each one—before Emery asked Alvar, “Do you understand why we’ve brought you before us today?”

  Alvar bowed again. “I understand that certain charges have been raised against me. But I have no way to verify them.”

  “Are you implying that we’re liars?” a sharp voice barked.

  All eyes shifted to Councillor Bronte, the oldest member of the Council—with the pointy ears to prove it, along with the piercing stare of an elf who could inflict pain on anyone he wished with a simple glance.

  Alvar shrank back a step. “Of course not. I’m just . . . emphasizing my predicament. You keep outlining my crimes—but I feel no connection to any of it. Just like I feel no connection to anyone in this room, even though I’m told you’re my family.” He glanced behind him, studying the intimidating crowd before his eyes settled on Alden and Della. “I wish I could remember you. I wish I could remember anything. But since I can’t, all I’ll say is . . . whoever did these horrible things that you’ve accused me of—that’s not me. Maybe it used to be. And if that’s the case, I’m truly sorry. But I promise I’m not that person anymore.”

  “Right,” Fitz muttered, loud enough for the word to echo off the walls.

  “I understand your skepticism,” Councillor Emery told him. “We have doubts as well.”

  “Then let me prove myself!” Alvar begged. “I realize the chance of regaining my freedom is slim. But if you did decide to grant it—”

  “We’d be endangering the lives of everyone in the Lost Cities,” Councillor Emery finished for him. “Whether you remember your past or not, your connection to the Neverseen poses a threat we cannot ignore.”

  Alvar’s shoulders slumped.

  “But,” Emery added, and the whole room seemed to suck in a breath, “your current imprisonment also creates quite the conundrum.”

  Fitz’s hand shook and Sophie tightened her hold, twining her gloved fingers with his as Councillor Emery closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

  Ro leaned down and whispered to Keefe, “Settle in for a long debate, Betting Boy. And get ready to prance around school in our tiniest armor.”

  Keefe shrugged.

  But Emery stood, pacing twice along the platform before pausing to face Alvar. “I’ll admit, none of us are entirely comfortable with what I’m about to say—but we’re also not willing to issue a sentence while there are so many uncertain variables.”

  “WHAT?” Fitz blurted, jumping to his feet.

  “We understand that this is an emotionally challenging situation for you,” Emery told Fitz. “That’s why I’m tolerating your interruptions. But surely you can agree that the primary goal of any punishment must be to prevent further crimes from being committed. And we cannot determine what’s necessary for your brother in that regard until we discover who he is now. We need to witness how he interacts with others and study how he behaves in ordinary situations—which cannot happen in his isolated cell. But since we can’t trust him either, we must move him to an environment where we can keep him constantly monitored and separated from our larger world while still providing ample opportunities for us to take his measure.”

  Sophie noticed the total lack of surprise on Alden’s and Della’s faces the same moment she realized that this was why she’d been invited for moral support.

  A quick glance at Keefe told her he’d come to the same conclusion.

  So neither of them gasped with the rest of the crowd when Emery announced the Council’s decision. But she still felt a sour wave of dread wash through her when he said, “For the next six months, Alvar will be returning to Everglen.”

  TWO

  BUT HE’S A MURDERER!” FITZ shouted. “Are you forgetting that Alvar helped bring down Lumenaria?”

  “Absolutely not!” The hall fell silent as Councillor Terik rose from his emerald-encrusted throne.

  Sophie hadn’t seen him since the devastating Peace Summit, when the majestic castle had crumbled around them—and he actually looked better than she’d been imagining, given his injuries. His pale skin showed no sign of any scars, and his cobalt blue eyes were bright and clear. But when he stepped forward . . .

  His right leg moved smoothly, but his left leg was much stiffer and slower. If it weren’t for the silver cane he pulled from the folds of his cloak, he would’ve toppled over.

  “As you can see, I’m still adjusting.” He tapped his left leg with his cane, filling the hall with a soft clanking that confirmed what was hidden underneath the thick fabric of his clothes.

  Elvin physicians were light-years ahead of human medicine, but even they couldn’t re
grow a severed limb. Instead, a team of Technopaths had built Terik a custom prosthesis.

  But metal would never work exactly the same as muscle and bone.

  In fact, when Terik took another wobbly step, he couldn’t hide his grimace—which was probably why he told Fitz, “I understand your fury better than anyone. But . . . we must not let our anger make us overlook potential.”

  The last word rippled through the room as his meaning sank in.

  “Yes,” he said, tucking a loose piece of his wavy brown hair back under his emerald circlet. “I performed a new reading on Alvar.”

  Terik was the Lost Cities’ only Descryer, which meant he could sense the potential of anyone he tested. But he rarely put the ability to use, claiming it caused too many problems.

  He turned to study Alvar. “I told myself that if the results were the same as my prior reading, I’d push for a life sentence. But something’s changed.”

  Alvar sucked in a breath. “What does that mean?”

  “Truthfully? I have no idea,” Terik admitted. “Readings can be difficult to interpret.”

  “Then how do you know he’s not worse?” Fitz countered.

  “I don’t. Potential is a tricky thing. We have to live up to it in order for it to matter. But it shouldn’t be ignored either—especially in a situation like this. We’re all born with certain qualities. Certain limitations and abilities. But our experiences are what truly shape us. Everything we see and learn and do makes us who we are. And in Alvar’s case, all of that has been wiped away. So we can’t presume to know anything about him. Nor can we assume that he’ll make the same choices he once did.”

  “Which is why we’re giving you these six months,” Emery told Alvar. “Prove yourself worthy, and we’ll take it into consideration during your final sentencing. Fail to impress, and we’ll make sure you never see daylight again.”

  “And don’t expect any leniency,” Councillor Alina—Sophie’s least favorite Councillor—added. She tossed her long dark hair, which gleamed with caramel-colored highlights as she rose from her peridot-covered throne. “The smallest mistake will end your trial period immediately. And you’ll be sharing your apartment with two of our most trusted goblin warriors, who’ll make sure we know everything you do.”