“Risa,” Teddy echoed, and his eyes found hers, deep pools of blue. Imploring.
“It was Augustus.” Her words were whispers. “He was the one. He’s the one who’s behind the ring. That’s why he didn’t want Fletcher investigating it. And I’ll bet anything that the moment he realized Clark was a suspect, he arranged the deal with the medical supplies. He knew he couldn’t take her with any other Drada around, and…”
And it was going to take a hell of a lot more than an epiphany to break her out.
“We have to go,” Risa murmured, fishing deep within her pocket for the disc. “Now.”
TEDDY
“Twenty years an advocate, and there is one thing I have learned to be an unequivocal truth: legality is…overrated.”
~Adrian Lynch
Shaking, Teddy gave another unceremonious knock against the barrack door, earning a glare from a passing Drada, who’d winced at the reverberations.
Elsie.
They were going to get Elsie back.
He knew the path to Isa’s room like the winding game trails behind the farm, paths he’d trodden many times between visits to Fletcher’s cell when he couldn’t quite figure out what it was he needed.
Now, though, there was no question.
If Elsie was being held beneath one of the Praequintelya private residences, as Risa seemed to believe, they would need everyone.
His fist met the door again, agitation rising in the silence.
Where are you?
“Teddy?”
He started, turning to see a cloaked figure gliding down the corridor. “Alva?”
She tipped her hood back, frowning. “What’re you doing on the compound?”
“It’s…I’m trying to find Isa, but…”
“Something is wrong,” she breathed, eyes distant.
And he felt it, then.
A little ripple in the thread.
Someone, traversing the wire, and it gave Teddy a little nudge, like it had in the meadow, when they’d watched the girl burn and he’d heard the ghostly song inside his mind sung from another world.
Shouldn’t she be sequestered
Shouldn’t she be with the mystics
Something uneasy was curling in his chest as he found her glowing eyes.
She should not be here.
Her frown told him she’d heard every doubt.
But she said nothing.
“Where is Isa,” Teddy asked, voice thin.
She merely shook her head. “We need Fletcher,” Alva whispered, turning. “Come.”
The limestone steps flew by with ease as he followed her snapping cloak down the stairs to the juniper guard. A concussive flash with the snap of her wrist, and he’d collapsed, nothing more than a sort of pine-y mass against the wall.
Teddy could feel power rippling off of her now, the Thread trembling in tandem with her fury.
Whatever she was, whatever she could do…
It was not like the rest.
And that scared him.
“Fletcher!” Her voice snapped down the corridor, and he was watching the grating with unease as they came across his cell.
“Elsie—”
“They found her,” Teddy breathed, eyes stinging.
Fletcher’s eyes asked one question, and one alone. Alive?
“Step back,” Alva warned, shooing her brother to the furthest corner.
She closed her eyes, hands before her.
Then, slowly, she began to claw the air apart.
Except it wasn’t the air.
Something was shimmering between the grating, and the silver was giving way. Her jaw was clenched in concentration, her chest starting to heave, little jewels of sweat beading at her hairline as she wrought the impossible bars apart.
No—
The Thread was thrashing in his chest, caught in the battle between disappearing with the grate and flying towards the girl. Breath catching, he thrust a hand out against the wall, begging his knees not to buckle as the Thread gnawed through him, drawn away from the dormancy the prison was supposed to offer, snapping back in reflex to whatever craft Alva worked.
When she dropped her hands, panting, it was like someone had dampered the inferno, the only thing left smoke-filled lungs and stinging eyes.
Grating torn back, the silver bars had been twisted into unnatural knots, catching and snagging at Fletcher as he crawled through the hole.
Whatever she had done, it did not surprise him.
Whatever she was, he knew.
Fletcher met his sister with a tight hug, half-holding her up as she almost collapsed.
Words didn’t come, though, his eyes flicking to Teddy, Alva in his arms.
This was the easy one, the silence seemed to say.
And still, onward.
FLETCHER
“Right or wrong, they will stand beside you, and this—this is love.”
~Greysha Boewliç
Darkness had swallowed the City of Lights.
But this, the gods had foreseen, and as such, had given the Drada eyes that pierced the inky black.
Fletcher’s knuckles rapped on a door in a seedy back alley of Caelaymnis, a pair of voices inside hushing.
A thoroughly disheveled looking man answered, tawny skin warm even in the cold night air, the messy mop of black curls pulled back.
“They found her,” Fletcher breathed. “Rodion, they found her, and I need your help.”
To his credit, Rodion merely gave a curt nod. “Anything.”
“You might be censured—”
“—don’t care—”
“—arrested, maybe—”
“Fletcher.” Rodion had snapped his name through the night, forcing his attention back. “I am with you, whatever it is.”
“This isn’t just another mission. If—if this goes poorly,” Fletcher pressed, heart pounding, “they will take our heads for being traitors.” The word hung heavy in the air, poison.
Loyalty before amity, the barracks seemed to call across the city.
Rodion studied him for a long moment. Then, with a shrug, a grin began tugging at his lips. “I’ve had worse.”
Relief washed through Fletcher, and he felt his breathing slow a bit as some of the sound came back into the world. The shuffle of his own hands against each other, moving to spite his nerves. The wind making the mountains sing in the distance, a chilling tune sent drifting over Caelaymnis, the unworldly voice seeming to send a name whispering through him.
Elsie.
Elsie.
Elsie.
“Isa—they’re not here, are they?”
Rodion shook his head, brow furrowing. “Haven’t seen them since this morning. They’re not at the barracks?”
Panic was starting to rise in Fletcher’s gut again as he followed Rodion inside. “No. Teddy and I both looked—”
“Did you check your brother’s room?” Rodion asked, pulling on a tunic.
“Yes.” He growled out the word, resentful, half-pleased he hadn’t had to drag his friend from that traitor’s bed, half-anxious at thoughts he didn’t care to voice. His eyes flicked to Rodion, half-hopping as he tugged on the first pair of shoes he could find. “Augustus has Elsie. He’s been lying about knowing where she is. He’s running a ring, he…” Fletcher trailed off, words lost.
Mia turned the corner, buttoning her trousers. Swearing, her fingers cracked against the metal gromets of her pants, blood flying electric. “Shit. Isa’s good folk, you don’t think—”
“That ro’s never had a problem speaking their mind,” Rodion growled, turning for the door. “If Augustus thought they were a liability…”
Fletcher shook his head, following Mia into the street beyond. “I don’t—Augustus…” He left the thought unfinished.
And Augustus loved them.
Deeply.
Reverentially.
That man, he had to remind himself, was dead.
Had died almost a year ago, in the highlands, at the k
nifepoint of a round-eared power-poacher.
And Isa could kick his ass any day, that much was clear. He’d watched his brother and the ro spar. It was the only time Augustus ever hit the mat in defeat.
I am so sorry, Elsie.
I am so sorry that I brought this world to your doorstep.
I am sorry that I was not the man you thought I was.
I am sorry about this nightmare.
Because, in the end, she’d been right.
That’s what this was.
Just another nightmare.
SAM
“There is no worse feeling than that of inaction.”
~Sam Alderton
Sam sat still in the armchair of the sitting room, waiting.
Tick.
It was a barren house, cold and empty.
Tick.
He’d lit the fires, though, and rustled up a few candles shoved in the back of a cupboard.
Tick.
And now, he waited.
Tick.
The idea that Clark had simply been a convenient soul upon which to place Augustus’s blame…it made his skin crawl with mistrust.
Tick.
It felt accidental.
Tick.
Left too much unanswered.
Tick.
Elsie would kick down his door, demanding answers, though, as soon as she was back.
Tick.
As soon as she could restart her ashen heart.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It had been this, or taking to the streets with Teddy.
His husband, though, was a man of movement, and Sam always felt in this, they were well paired. One to move. One to stay. One to act, and one to think. Two parts, moving in perfect time to one another, independent and reliant.
Chim was dozing on the hearth rug, curled like a cat before the fire.
I claim your hearth, she’d whispered, taking each of their hands.
Something had snapped through them, standing there, tying them, that, even Sam could feel.
What game is this.
Why.
Fingers pressed to his temple, Sam tried not to watch the fire-shadows dancing for the demon-girl.
Tick.
Why had she talked about the Merchant armed with Life?
Tick.
And what was that, about hiding Death beneath the Weir.
Tick.
About the kingdom to be sold.
Tick.
About the River’s End.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
ELSIE
“They say death is the final act in the theater of life. To the audience, staring at the curtain, perhaps this is true. But, I ask, what of the actors behind the stage? What becomes of them, after the house is emptied?”
~Greysha Boewliç
I think they’re pulling me out of the slants
At least, that’s what the whispers are trying to say.
I heard someone tell me that, once, and I wondered what hellish dissociation could be so strong you yourself have been ripped from the pages you wrote.
I wrote.
She wrote.
I know you I know you I know you
Elsie waded through the muddy memories of the before, through the wash of slants and not slants and thoughts that seemed to belong to another, another, another world, but each moment was a little clearer, each blink of her burning eyes clearing away some of the reddish haze burning down from the corridor sconces.
The cell door wasn’t closing.
She waited for the screaming iron, the groaning hinges, the clank that set her bones singing, but it never came.
And she could see it, a blurred dream, so real in her frozen flesh.
Crawling. Rising. Running.
But her body would not oblige.
Even the thought of impetus set her lungs seizing, and it was the echo of the alley, a woman drowning, except this time it was her.
Who will they say I was, before I was ashes
Who will I be, when the embers die
There was a soft voice on the air with words, curling distant and pure.
Singing to the sound of drums.
A sweet mezzo.
Her eyes were stinging, fixed on the crushed velvet curtain, body tilted back in surrender against the cold stone wall.
It wouldn’t be long, now.
Heat was burning through her stiff fingers, something hot wrapping between them, around them—someone, she realized had taken her hand.
A hush fell across this glamorous box, gilded in stone and sweat and blood and tears.
Best seat in the house.
“Isa.” Her lungs had shuddered out the sound through her cracked lips, a crushed-paper name.
Black eyes were glistening, beautiful and broken as the ro gave her hand a squeeze, gave a smile that was nothing but grief and mourning.
One deft movement, and a fur-lined cloak kissed her cheeks.
The music had faded, now, nothing but a lie, a treacherous, gorgeous lie, and still, the heartbroken clapped, for at last, the tragedy had ended.
The curtain had fallen.
Over.
It was finally over.
FLETCHER
“She was vying for the throne. He was vying for a victory. It is terrifying, to imagine what the desperate would do, when cornered in their cages.”
~Adrian Lynch
“We used to be close,” Fletcher breathed, glaring at the monstrosity she called home. A lavish house on the banks of the river Weir. A wedding gift. A taunt, really. She didn’t need it. The palace had been hers at birth. Had. Past-tense.
Because now, Cam’s life was over.
It was hard to be sad about the sentence they’d pass. His grief about what his sister had been to him was soured by the knife she’d plunged into his back.
This would all be over soon.
Elsie.
He was going to see Elsie again.
He hadn’t bothered to don the gray overcoat and trousers of his uniform—nor had anyone else, he noted. There was no time for such trivial formalities, and so he would find her, in the rough linens of his prison ware.
Adrian and Risa were already waiting.
The sound of bone on wood rapped through the long night. The sound of salvation. Of the passing of judgement. Of Elsie, in his arms again.
“What—”
“Cam Praequintelya,” Rodion said, voice clear, crisp, “by the order of Commander Praequintelya, you are under arrest. The charges against you are as follows—”
She was struggling, magic flaring in her palms, the sound of boots on marble rushing forward, shouts, alarms being raised—
“What is the meaning of this?” Cormalum was running down the stairs, glaring, dark eyes flitting at the chaos. “Unhand her—”
“The charges,” Rodion barked out, snapping the shackles shut before letting Cam fall to the floor, “are as follows. Blood Magic, Treason—”
Cam hissed, her lucent flying harmlessly into the wall of the shield that ensconced her, shrieking at her guards to attack, to fight, to do anything, something, to free her. But they did not look to her for a command.
They were eyeing Cormalum with hesitation.
“Cam,” he breathed, brow knitting as he dropped to his knees, putting a soft hand against the shield that separated them. “Is this true?”
She was crying, now, chest heaving violently. “That girl defiled our laws,” she choked, straining against the shackles. There was the scent of panic in the air, the primal terror of an animal cornered. “She violated them! You know this—”
“Senator.” Risa’s voice was low, hardly a whisper. And yet, it sliced through the noise, deadening the din in the foyer. “We have received intelligence that Ms. Mirabeau is being detained on these premises.”
“There is a misunderstanding,” he fumbled, rising clumsily to his feet, dark hair askew. “I—that is impossible, why�
��why would we detain her…”
“Can our records show we have your full cooperation?”
“Yes, but—”
The soft padding of boots up the stairs interrupted him. Mia reached the landing, shaking her head. “Sir. I found something.”
FLETCHER
“Someone said I rescued her, once. But I didn’t. And she wouldn’t have needed rescuing, anyway, if it hadn’t been for the actions of a coward who thought she was his for the taking. She is no less strong, though, because she was the victim of his selfishness. She is no less brave, because this time, she couldn’t break the walls down by herself. And she is no less human, for what was running through her veins. Remember that, when you think of her.”
~Fletcher Praequintelya
Fletcher’s heart was racing with anger and anticipation as he pulled open the iron door.
A dungeon.
She had turned their home into a prison.
Before them, a dark staircase spiraled downward, unfolding into blackness.
Instinct told him to flee.
To leave this place, to never look back, to let whatever vile, rotting magic that was brewing beneath them fade into forgotten memory, never to be stirred.
The dripping of water filled the passageway below, his breath frosting the air.
Cells lined the walls.
And not a soul could be heard.
The quiet sent his heart beating violently against his ribcage in angry protest, like it could beat hard enough for the two of them.
No. No, no, no, she had to be here, that was what Chim had said—
The cell door clanked open with a high-pitched squeal, the hinges groaning in anguish. The grinding of metal-on-metal was interrupted, though, with a rumbling growl that filled the corridor.
Snapping and hissing, an enormous barghest bolted forward, teeth bared, spines poised for attack.
Without thought, Fletcher’s hands were up, a shield shimmering between the beast and the Drada. It must’ve sensed the fear in the air—fear for Elsie, fear for their safety, hell, even fear for his sister upstairs—as it hurled itself against the barrier.
Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1) Page 34