“Galius.” She took his hand.
“A moment, I heard—” But then he looked at her again, and realization dawned in his eyes. “By the Faia,” he whispered. “Have you hidden someone?”
He batted her hand away, a look of betrayal on his face.
“Listen—” she said.
The door to the washroom banged open, and Grei emerged, his chest bare. The three moles that Galius had described were visible on his bronze skin, even in the darkened room.
“I’m the one you’re looking for,” he said. “So get away from her.”
Galius stood with his mouth open, then his lips set in a grim smile. “The brave boy. The one who picks his fights large.”
“I said get away from her,” Grei repeated in a low voice, and his eyes narrowed. Adora recognized him focusing his newfound magic.
“Grei, no!” she said.
Galius staggered back, touching his head. “What slinkery?” He said, then threw back his shoulders and drew his longsword.
“No!” Adora said, lunging between them. The Order could spring Grei from the dungeons. They could not bring back his corpse.
But Galius caught her wrist, yanked her sideways. She gasped and fell to her knees.
Grei swung at Galius’ face, and the Highblade ducked, head-butted Grei in the chin and sent him reeling backwards. Grei slammed into the bedpost, tripped, and fell to the floor.
The Highblade leveled his black blade at Grei’s nose.
“Galius, listen to—” Adora began, then cried out as he twisted her wrist.
“Quiet,” Galius said. “You’ve broken my heart, Adora.” Without turning, he shouted to the door. “Gareth! Jhan!”
The door swung wide. Galius opened his mouth to give orders, but the words died on his lips. Blevins stepped into the room.
Galius shoved Adora over, and she fell hard. He leapt back, keeping both Grei and Blevins in view and pointing his blade at Blevins’ chest. The fat man watched him, unfazed, then held up his hands in a pacifying gesture.
“Calm yourself, Highblade,” Blevins said, his voice slurred.
“Where are Gareth and Jhan?”
“Resting.”
Galius was flustered by Blevins’ appearance. “Who are you?”
“A loyal patron of The Floating Stone. Adora is a very attentive bartender. I was worried she might get injured in this little scuffle.”
Adora scrambled across the wood floor, grabbing the sheet and wrapping it around herself. Grei started to stand, but Galius flicked the blade in his direction. “Stay down, boy.”
Grei froze, and Galius turned the sword back on Blevins. “Speak quickly, sir. Your life depends on it.”
“Drop your sword,” Blevins said.
Galius frowned. Perhaps Blevins thought he could bluster his way through, convince Galius to lay down arms. But Galius did not waste time, and he didn’t banter with criminals. Adora knew what was coming next.
“No!” she shouted.
Galius lunged.
The stroke should have skewered Blevins through the chest, but somehow Galius missed. Or Blevins moved. It happened so fast that Adora wasn’t sure, but the fat man suddenly had Galius’ sword hand in his meaty fist.
He clubbed the Highblade on the top of the head with his other hand, then slammed an elbow into his face. Blood flecked the wall and Blevins wrenched the blade from Galius’ numb grip. The enormous man held the sword like a dagger in his left hand.
Galius stumbled back, a thin crimson streak across his cheek.
Blevins had that deadly look again. His face was flushed, and he was sweating. He flipped back his voluminous cloak and drew a long sword from his side. The cross guard was smooth steel, but the hilt bore a ruby on one side and a scratched stone as black as night on the other. She knew that sword. Where had seen it before? Was it the delegate’s?
“Unfortunately,” Blevins said to Galius. “Your choices are few.”
Galius looked at him incredulously.
Blevins continued. “You can submit, in which case things get interesting for everyone. Or you can fight.” He tossed the black sword at the Highblade’s feet.
“Blevins!” Adora said, aghast. “Are you mad?”
“Shut up,” he said, then to Galius. “She’s a good woman. A liar and a sneak, but a good woman. She doesn’t understand a man’s code, though. Some things must be settled the way they must be settled.” The fat man nodded at the sword in front of Galius. “Which will it be, Highblade? Surrender or fight?”
Galius took the weapon and rose. Adora could see him trying to puzzle it out, but he was obviously as lost as she. “You are a man of honor,” Galius said.
“I am a cursed man with a pretty sword,” he said. “That is all.”
Galius saluted, then slashed wickedly.
Blevins shifted his stance. Steel clanged. Galius’ strike missed the big man’s arm by half an inch. Galius scissor-stepped to the side, his blade thrusting forward again.
Blevins moved, and yet he didn’t. His bulk shifted, but his feet stayed planted. Somehow Galius’ sword missed him again, whispering through the air.
Galius stepped back, a deep frown on his face. He unleashed a flurry of attacks, coming at Blevins from the side, then straight on, then overhead. Each time, Blevins’ sword was there, blocking, countering. Metal ground against metal, and Galius tried to push the big man off balance. Blevins sent the slender Highblade stumbling away with a violent shrug, then shuffled back a step, not making a sound. Adora could not believe her eyes.
“Who are you?” Galius asked, breathing hard.
“A loyal patron of The Floating Stone,” he repeated. Sweat trickled down his ruddy cheeks.
Galius came at him again, and Blevins moved back a step, then two. Galius’ blade flicked out, a blur. Adora thought Blevins must be cut a half dozen times, but his sword was always there, turning death aside.
Galius lunged, shifted, lunged again. Blevins’ foot bumped against the wall. With a happy cry, Galius thrust at the fat man’s enormous belly.
Again, Blevins deflected the strike. But the big man didn’t simply block this time. He surged forward, grabbing Galius’ sword hand again. He thrust the Highblade’s arm up, sinking the blade into a ceiling beam and hammering the hilt of his own sword into Galius’ face. Blood flew, and Galius sagged as if he’d been chopped off at the knees.
Blevins held the unconscious Highblade up by his fist, then tossed him to the floor. Galius’ sword wobbled back and forth in the ceiling where it had been embedded.
Blevins glanced at the wide-eyed Grei, then at Adora. Without a word, he held up his blade and looked critically along the edge. Satisfied, he sheathed it, and the hilt disappeared beneath his huge brown cloak.
He strode to Adora’s only chair and sat down, managing the sword with grace. Pulling a flask from his tunic, he removed the cork and took a swig.
“Who are you?” she whispered. Grei opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, as if Adora had asked his question.
“A loyal patron of The Floating Stone,” Blevins said. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“You just bested the finest swordsman in Fairmist. Only an Imperial Highblade can use a sword like that.”
“And how would you know that, barmaid?” Blevins asked, regarding her through squinty eyes. He took another drink.
A cold wisp of fear curled around her heart. By the Faia, had he been sent to find her?
“Who are you?” she murmured again.
“A worthy question. I’ve tried hard to be somebody else. But I couldn’t let go of the sword, could I? And if a swordsman cannot put down his sword, he will use it again. As sure as the sun will rise.”
Adora’s voice caught in her throat, and she couldn’t speak. She knew that sword now. She took an involuntary step back.
He gave her a sour smile, then nodded. “Yes.” He took another drink from his flask, wiping his lips with his hand. “A man looks different without a s
oul. And you were very young then.” He leaned forward. The chair creaked as though it would snap, and he looked straight into her soul with his dead eyes. “Princess.”
Chapter 19
Adora
“Jorun Magnus!” Adora stepped back, aghast. Memories erupted within her: Jorun lingering to play with her when her parents had no time, showing her how to wield a dagger when her father had told her no. He had spoken soft words of guidance as she drew a bow for the first time. She had loved him as only an eleven-year-old girl could, had envisioned their wedding someday. A girl’s dreams. Because of Jorun Magnus, she had felt safe every time she closed her eyes.
Then the Debt of the Blessed came, and she had thrown her faith in him. When her father damned her to death, she had been unafraid because she knew Jorun would never allow it. Her parents might fail her, but Jorun never would. He would save her. He would fight the entire Thiaran Empire to save her. Instead, he had betrayed her. He had cast her aside as if she meant nothing.
“I am Jorun Magnus no longer,” Blevins said.
“Jorun Magnus the emperor’s champion?” Grei blurted.
“They said you died,” she whispered, unable to catch her breath. Even in Fairmist they had heard the report of the emperor’s champion slain after he had gone mad, cutting his way through the palace. The Ringblade Selicia had delivered the killing blow. “They killed you.”
“They killed you too,” he said.
She clenched her fist, dizzy. “You should have died. I wish you had died,” she said, nearly shouting. She shouldn’t be shouting.
Blevins had become part of the chair, unmoving.
“Let me get this straight,” Grei said. “You, Blevins, the drunk of The Floating Stone, are the Emperor’s champion?”
“Not anymore,” Blevins said. He took another drink from his flask.
Grei turned to Adora. She stood absolutely still as his gaze swept over her.
“And you,” he said. “You’re...” But he didn’t finish.
She turned away from Magnus. She didn’t need his protection. He was nothing to her now, just a drunk from the bar. Only Grei mattered. “I am Mialene Doragon,” she told him the truth. “Or I was.”
“Your father sent you to die?”
“I was the first Blessed,” she said.
Grei’s gaze softened, and she saw him putting it together.
“The Faia brought you here, away from the slinks,” he said. “That was why she was with you.”
“Yes,” she said. She glanced at Blevins, but the man was so still he might have been dead. His black eyes swallowed the light. “And I will tell you more, but not here.”
“She doesn’t trust me,” Blevins drawled.
“And how should I?” She glared at him. “Murderer. Traitor. Oathbreaker. You dragged a little girl to the slinks. A little girl you made feel special. She loved you, believed in you. With all of her young heart. You want trust? You deserve death!”
“A little girl...” Blevins murmured. “You speak of her as though she isn’t you,” he said.
“She isn’t. Not anymore,” Adora snapped.
“Hmmm,” he said.
She turned to Grei. “Come with me. The Highblades are searching every house. The delegate will have scoured Fairmist by the time the sun rises. We don’t have much time.”
“Less than you think,” Blevins said. “Selicia was at the palace.”
Cold prickled across Adora’s scalp. “Selicia?”
“Her, the delegate and a horde of Highblades, all of them looking at the great hole Grei made. The Ringmother is here for him.” Blevins watched Adora’s face and smiled grimly at her expression. “Yes,” He drew the word out as though he was following her train of thought. “Selicia is a whole different problem, isn’t she? The delegate is an idiot. And Highblade Ash is a fine swordsman, but he isn’t a hunter. He can be controlled, slowed by your charms. But Selicia doesn’t care about your heaving bosom or your long lashes. She can outrace a grellik, teach a cliffcat to stalk. She will find you, if she hasn’t already, and she’ll strike in the quiet before you draw a breath. That’s what Ringblades do.”
Adora refused to respond, but she checked the impulse to look over her shoulder. Ringblades lived in the shadows. She turned to Grei. “It’s time to know everything, just like I promised. I will take you to a Faia. You will learn about your newfound magic and what must be done with it. Come with me now.”
“Could we save Julin?” he asked. “Like the Faia saved you?”
She opened her mouth to speak, caught by Grei’s stern hope. The Order would tell her to lie to him, to tell him whatever it would take to make him go in the direction she needed him to go. Manipulation. Lies.
“No,” she said softly. “The slinks have already slain him. Julin is gone.”
“The Faia saved you,” he persisted.
“She did so immediately. Magnus had barely ridden away when she arrived. And you...”
“I’m not a Faia.”
“It is a lot to hope for,” she said.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Relief flooded through her.
“I’ll just stay here,” Blevins drawled.
“Stick a knife in your eye. Drown yourself in the river,” Adora said, kneeling to pull her clothes and her dagger from underneath the bed. “I don’t care.”
Grei politely turned his back. She let her sheet drop and pulled her tunic over her head, then belted on her skirt. Blevins stared at nothing, his dark eyes unreadable and unmoving.
“Come on, Grei.” He went out the door first, and she spared one last look at Blevins, sitting in the shadows of her little room, with the unconscious Galius sprawled across the floor like a rug. She felt she should say something scathing, something that would scar him. The timbers of her life had buckled when her father betrayed her, and only Jorun Magnus had held them up. When he had dumped her on the slinks’ slope and ridden away, he had crushed her spirit.
“Princess,” Blevins said. His voice was rough.
“What?” she said.
He sat like a statue.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, then in a lower tone meant only for himself. “Nothing matters.”
She slammed the door, and Grei stood waiting for her at the bottom of the landing. Grei, her salvation. Everyone’s salvation. The clock was dripping. It was time to begin their journey, side-by-side until the end.
As she descended, she saw Galius’ other two Highblades piled underneath the staircase. She looked at the sky. It seemed as black as Deepdark, but the sun was coming.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Fairmist Falls,” she said. “Maybe we could stop at the Blacktale Bridge? Finish our dance?” She gave him a little smile.
“Don’t expect flowers,” he said.
Her heart felt lighter, hearing him joke. She walked quickly into the darkness, heading east, staying close to the buildings and moving over the bridges swiftly. Grei knew the streets better than she did, but she had memorized this route, had committed it to memory months ago before she ever came to The Floating Stone. This was where she had been destined to lead him since the beginning. As they crossed one of the roped ferries, Grei spoke.
“Why the falls?” he asked as he pulled the rope in time with her. The river gurgled at the edge of the flat ferry. Long grass bent over the banks, trailing in the water.
“It is where the Faia lives,” she said. The ferry bumped the dock on the other side, and she leapt onto land once more. He landed next to her. “I’m taking you to her.”
“The one who saved you?”
“No. The Blue Faia.” She started up the cobblestone path that bordered the northern edge of the Wet Woods. To her left, the ground sloped down to the river. To her right, a grassy field pocked with little pools of standing water stretched up to the beginning of the Wet Woods. It was a relief to be outside the city. The Highblades were feverishly searching every house, but
they wouldn’t search the outlying areas, especially the Wet Woods, until morning.
He picked up a rock from the side of the path and tossed it speculatively into the air, caught it. “The magic starts as whispers, Adora, and singing voices, sometimes,” he said, pausing in the center of the path. “I thought the hushed voices had turned into the poem The Whisper Prince, but lately I’ve heard them underneath the poem, too. Did you know that?”
She paused.
“When I look into people,” he said quietly, staring at the rock, “It’s as though I’m listening to how their hearts speak. And everyone has their own language. Foreign to me. Indecipherable. Except as I stare at them, suddenly I can speak it.”
“What do the whispers say?” she asked.
“When someone opens to me, I hear their desires. Or no, more than that. I hear their identity. Who they believe they are. Who they want to be.” He shook his head, frowning. “I see them. Smell them. Taste them. All of my senses, but more than that. A different sense. A whole new way of understanding. If I concentrate hard, I know them the way they know themselves.”
He looked down at the rock in his hand. “This rock is whispering right now.” He looked around at the dark shapes of the trees. “The trees too, further away, harder to hear. The water in the air whispers. And the air itself.”
“What does the rock say?” she asked.
He held it closer to his face, pressed his lips together. “Strength. Hardness. Grit.” His brow furrowed and he gave a frustrated frown. “But it’s not that. It’s not really saying that. I never realized how poorly words capture what I’ve been hearing. The whispers aren’t words at all. They’re sensations. The rock is talking about what it is, over and over.” He held it out in front of him, and his eyes narrowed. “And I,” he said, his voice lowering, “can ask it to be something else.”
The rock suddenly went soft, so suddenly that Grei cupped his hands around it. Trickles of granite water slipped through his fingers. He whispered again and the stone went back to its original shape, only a little smaller.
“By the Faia,” she whispered. All her training, all the knowledge, and still it didn’t prepare her for seeing the impossible made real.
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