I scream myself awake. Cold. Wet. Caught. My teeth clatter and someone throws a second bucket of water over my head.
I cry out again. My skin seems to freeze over my bones.
“Ah, there you are,” Radath’s voice croons just inside the reach of a hanging orb’s blue glow. He overturns his bucket at the edge of the light and sits.
I wish I could remain unconscious. Everything hurts: my ribs and stomach, my back, and especially my shoulders and arms. My hands are shackled securely to the wall. There isn’t a length of chain or anything between it and my silver manacles; I can’t adjust my position at all.
“You need to start talking,” Radath says. “You can start by explaining what you were doing last night.”
I’m so damn cold it’s a struggle to pull my thoughts together. I squeeze my eyes shut, open them, and search the shadows of my prison. How did I get here? How much does Radath know?
“Where did you get this?” Radath asks. He’s holding something in his hand. A dagger, the one Raen gave me.
“I want to talk to Taltrayn.” I try to keep my voice steady, but I’m shivering too much.
Radath laughs. “Of course you do.”
Something moves in my peripheral vision. A tiny glimmer of hope rises in me. It’s snuffed out an instant later when Micid, not Kyol, steps into the light.
Radath follows my line of sight. “I’ve brought along my ther’rothi. He asked to meet you.”
The fae’s gaze oozes over me. I’m already shivering, but a deeper tremble runs through my body.
“Micid is a rare breed,” Radath continues. “Possibly unique. Show her what you do.”
The ther’rothi’s lips stretch into a smile one moment before he disappears. I press back against the wall, afraid of what he’ll do, but he reappears a few seconds later in the exact same spot. That’s when confusion sinks in. Radath said Micid wanted to meet me, but we already met. And I already know what he can do. Why the demonstration?
Radath chuckles. “Does it bother you? Not being able to see him? I learned of his magic a few years ago and agreed to keep it secret—only the king and I know what he can do. In exchange, he works for me when I need him.”
Someone’s not keeping it a secret, but I’m not about to correct the lord general.
Radath leans forward, drops his voice to a whisper. “I also ignore his little trips to tjandel.”
Tjandel. I recognize the word. Micid said he visited there.
“Unfamiliar with the place?” Radath inquires. He wants me to ask about it. I won’t.
“It’s a . . . What do your people call it? A whorehouse. Yes. It’s a whorehouse in an unsavory district on the edge of Corrist. It’s outside the silver walls, so its clientele can fissure in and out without being seen. I know of many nobles who have tasted the delights there. All would deny it, but not Micid. Micid is addicted to the whores. Addicted, in fact, to their chaos lusters.”
It feels like Radath just dumped a third bucket of icy water over my head.
“Most of the whores are there willingly,” he says, his voice saccharine. “Some of them aren’t. They don’t all have the Sight, and Micid has a fetish for humans who scream and thrash beneath him. He likes them slightly insane, grasping and clawing at the invisible demon they believe to be inside them. Since you do have the Sight, you’ll understand what’s happening, but I’m sure he wouldn’t be opposed to breaking you in. You’d scream for him, wouldn’t you, McKenzie?”
Micid watches me with a small, sadistic smile.
Then, suddenly, Radath gets to the point. “There were two others with you last night. Who were they?”
He doesn’t know about Naito and Evan. Thank God. They must have escaped. At least I accomplished something last night. I sit straighter, trying to ease the bite of the shackles into my wrists.
Radath lifts the poisoned dagger. Carefully, he slides its blade under a damp lock of my hair, lifting it out of my face. He wants me to be scared of him—I am—but I won’t tell him about the humans. It won’t save me; it will only condemn Kyol.
Radath grips the left side of my neck in one big hand, laying the dagger flat against the other side, right over the puckered scar Aren left on my skin. His hand tightens, constricting my airway. “Who were they?”
I have to tell him something, something that will appease him and buy me time.
“Rebels,” I choke out. “I was supposed to get them inside the palace.”
Radath’s grip loosens. Micid, smirking at the edge of the orb’s glow, lifts an eyebrow. He doesn’t deny my claim, though. He really doesn’t want the lord general to know we met before.
“And what were these rebels supposed to do,” Radath asks, “once they came inside?”
I scrape up the courage to pin him with a glare. “They were supposed to kill you.”
Radath chuckles. “I’m as untouchable as the king, McKenzie.”
A door creaks open. “Lord General.”
I let out a shaky breath. Kyol’s found me.
“I told Atroth I would handle her,” Radath says without turning.
“I will handle her,” Kyol says. I’m not sure if his coldness is directed at Radath or at me.
“You already had an opportunity to make her cooperate,” Radath says, switching to Fae. “You failed. She’s no longer your pet.”
“You may discuss that with Atroth. He wishes to speak with you.”
The lord general glares at me without rising. I don’t think he’s going to leave. He doesn’t take orders from Kyol, and he seems to enjoy having me chained to this wall. My interactions with him over the years have been few, but I never thought he’d treat me like this. Of course, I never thought I’d give him reason to.
Radath’s shoulders slump. Then, with obvious reluctance, he stands, turning to Kyol. “She’s betrayed our king, swordmaster. Atroth expects her to be punished. I expect you to pry out the rest of her secrets. Understood?”
“Understood.” Kyol’s expression gives away nothing.
Radath gestures to Micid. The ther’rothi leaves my cell first. Radath follows.
He smiles, then lets the door thunk shut behind him.
For a long time, Kyol doesn’t move. A thousand different apologies make their way to my tongue. They die before they pass my lips. I’d do it over again to save Naito and Evan.
“How could you be so foolish?” Kyol demands. I flinch at his tone. “They were safe, McKenzie! You were safe!”
He strides beneath the orb, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I couldn’t stay here, Kyol.”
“So you were going back to him!”
“I—” My voice cracks. My chin quivers. I bite my lower lip, refusing to cry.
“McKenzie.” His voice is pained now. He drops to his knees in front of me, his face drawn and shoulders hunched as if he’s just lost a war.
My heart twists in my chest. Still, I swallow back an apology. Instead, I softly ask, “Can you get me out of here?”
He scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know.”
I don’t really have a right to ask it of him. I got myself into this mess; he should make me get out of it.
“Sidhe.” He cups my cheek in his hand and leans his forehead against mine. We stay like that for a long time, him warm, strong, and steady; me cold, wet, and shivering. I feel raw, like my emotions have been stripped away, layer by layer, leaving my soul pink with abrasions. Even the edarratae seem dull and distant.
“If you want out of here, McKenzie, you have to give me something. Atroth won’t consider releasing you without information on the rebels.”
I can’t help the Court anymore. The rebellion might have done things I don’t like, but the Court’s manipulated and used me. Radath’s ordered humans executed, and I’m certain he gave my name to the vigilantes hoping they would kill me. The king’s done nothing to stop the lord general. Kyol’s done nothing to stop his king.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
He touches the center stone and then nods to himself. “This will buy your freedom.”
Oh, God.
“No, Kyol, you can’t!”
“Shh, kaesha.” He places his fingers over my mouth. “It’s the only way to save you.”
I yank against my shackles. “No, wait. Listen. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ll do whatever you want, but please—please—don’t do this. Don’t trade my life for his.”
His face is expressionless as he rises; only his eyes betray how much I’m hurting him.
“You’ll hate me for this, won’t you?” he asks.
I nod because I don’t trust my voice. Aren trusted me with his life. He was confident I wouldn’t betray him. If the Court fae show up at the anchor-stone’s location, he’ll think I care nothing for him.
Kyol slips the necklace inside his pocket. “I’m sorry, McKenzie. For everything.”
TWENTY-THREE
THE BLUE-WHITE ORB hanging from the ceiling is the only thing keeping back whatever I hear scurrying in the darkness. It doesn’t keep back my nightmares, though. Some of them are old, recurring ones; others are brand-new. Every time my eyes close, I pray that when I open them, I’ll discover these last few weeks have been a dream. The king’s war will be uncomplicated, the rebels will be clearly bad, the Court will be clearly good. But the world doesn’t work that way. War is never so simple.
Plus, I’d never have met Aren. His kiss doesn’t seem like a manipulation anymore. All his gentle moments, the way he’s looked at me . . . Maybe he really does care for me.
The scrape of a sliding latch echoes in the darkness. The door cracks open. The door shuts. In the darkness, I hear someone suck in a breath.
Please, don’t let it be Micid.
A shadow moves to the edge of the orb’s glow. The toes of two scuffed boots break the circle. The fae advances another step, then another. Light rises slowly up a pair of black pants pulled tight around muscled thighs to a hand gripping the hilt of a sword, to a strong, broad chest, then to an angry face framed by wild, disheveled hair.
“Aren,” I whisper. No, no, no.
His jaw clenches. My chest constricts.
I shake my head. “No, Aren. Please. I didn’t give Kyol the necklace, I swear.”
His scowl fades as he strides beneath the hanging orb and then he kneels beside me. He cradles my face between his palms. “Sidhe, you’re freezing.”
Heat pours into me. I don’t know if it’s from my edarratae, from his magic, or just from being near him again. It doesn’t matter. It feels good. He feels good.
That’s when it registers he still has his sword. No way would the Court allow him to remain armed.
“Kyol didn’t . . . ?”
He smoothes back my damp hair. “You’re going to be okay, McKenzie. I’m getting you out of here.”
I look beyond his shoulder. Kyol stands just visible at the edge of the orb’s glow.
“He . . .” My throat closes up. “He brought you to me?”
Grim, Aren nods once. Without turning to the sword-master, he demands, “The key.”
When Kyol doesn’t move, Aren stiffens. Slowly, he stands. His hand moves back to the hilt of his sword. “The key, Taltrayn.”
“Radath has the only key.”
A moment passes where nobody moves, nobody even seems to breathe. When Aren’s gaze shifts back to me, my stomach sinks. If I’m reading his expression correctly, he’s horrified.
He turns back to the sword-master. “You’re going to make me do this?”
“You can heal her,” Kyol says without a flicker of emotion.
Aren’s shoulders sag—just for a second—then he kneels once again.
“Aren?” I search his face, trying to figure out what they’re talking about.
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “This is going to hurt, McKenzie. I have to heat the metal, make it malleable so I can pull it off. I’ll heal the burns as soon as you’re free.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. Then I remember Tom. I remember how he screamed when Aren touched him. I remember the smell of his burnt flesh and the blisters on his arms when Aren took his hands away.
“No. No fucking way. Are you crazy?”
“I’ll do it as quickly as possible.”
“No.” I pin my gaze on Kyol. “Don’t you have bolt cutters or something?”
Kyol doesn’t so much as twitch.
“Listen,” Aren says. “You can’t scream, McKenzie. Taltrayn has a fae loyal to him guarding the door, but other fae are on patrol. Here.” He unfastens his belt and lifts it toward my mouth. “Bite down on this.”
I shake my head.
“You can do this,” he says. “You have to.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I don’t want to, but Aren would never suggest it if there was any other way. And Kyol would never let him hurt me.
I hiss a breath out between my teeth. “I guess it’s better than chopping my hands off.”
Aren smiles as if everything’s going to be okay. I give him a skeptical glare as I take the belt between my teeth.
He reaches up to wrap his hands around my shackles. The metal warms. After shivering in this cell for so long, I almost welcome the heat. Not for long, though. The intensity increases, gradually at first. Then all at once it hurts.
My nerves short-circuit. The metal feels so hot it’s cold. Then I hear something sizzle, smell an acrid burning. I jerk against the silver searing my wrists, but I can’t break free. Biting down on the leather between my teeth, I squeeze my eyes shut. I scream, but it’s too high in my throat to become a sound.
It’s too much. I slam the back of my head against the stone wall as my wrists melt. I slam it again and again and again.
I’m barely aware of Aren prying the manacles off, of him wrapping his hands around my wrists. Nausea churns through my stomach because it feels like he’s touching sinew and bone. I can’t possibly have any flesh left.
“Shh,” Aren soothes, sending his magic into me. “It’s over. You’re okay now.”
The fire slowly subsides. My wrists grow cold, then numb, then warm again as Aren’s touch stirs my edarratae.
He takes the belt from my mouth, hugs me to his chest, and weaves his hand through my hair to cup the back of my head. He flares his magic again, heals whatever injury I caused banging against the wall. I tremble in his arms until he tilts back and wipes tears from my face. His eyes beg forgiveness.
I suck in a ragged breath and try to pull myself together. There’s nothing to forgive. He did what he had to do to free me.
Lightly, he brushes his fingertips over my wrist. “See? No scars.”
I look down to my pink but smooth skin, and my lips curve into a weak smile.
“Ah, there it is,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I haven’t seen that in a while.”
I manage a short laugh. My eyes meet his again and . . . Oh.
I catch my breath. A curl of sun-blond hair falls across his brow, crossing a faint white scar I’ve never noticed before. His silver eyes, with that glint I always found infuriating, shimmer with something more than his typical tease. I’m suddenly aware of my lips, of them parting as they remember the taste and feel of his.
He smiles, then raises my hand to his mouth and kisses my healed wrist. “We need to go. Can you stand?”
“I think so,” I say.
He fastens his belt around his waist and then helps me to my feet. As soon as I’m up, the extent of my exhaustion hits. The last time I ate was breakfast at Shane’s. It’s been at least twenty-four hours since then. I’m weak and Aren has to do most of the work, setting me on my feet and keeping his arms around m
y waist until my knees decide to hold me. It takes a while. My body is tight and sore from shivering and my skin feels like it’s been worked over with sandpaper. My wrists are the most sensitive. They don’t exactly hurt, but I’m aware of where they were burnt.
“You okay?” Aren asks, his breath warm on my neck. I nod, and we turn toward the door, toward Kyol.
Kyol. He didn’t give the necklace to his king.
I can’t move, and not just because Aren’s arm is around my waist, holding me tight to his side. Kyol has been everything to me for so long. He’s the one I’ve always turned to, the one I’ve relied on, and I’m hurting him. The pain is so obvious in his eyes.
His lips tighten. His gaze slips from me to Aren. “You remember the path through the wards?” Aren nods. “The guards at the eastern entrance aren’t mine, but they’re inexperienced. I presume you can handle them.”
“Of course,” Aren replies.
“They need to be left alive to report to Radath.”
Aren nods again. He tries to move forward, but I don’t budge. Kyol can’t mean to . . .
He does.
“You’re not leaving.” My words are more an accusation than a question. Kyol’s face is as unreadable as ever.
I throw off Aren’s arm and cross the room. The hell if I’m going to let him become a martyr because of me. “You can’t stay. Radath will kill you.”
“McKenzie,” Aren whispers a warning. He hurries to the door, presses his ear against it.
“Shh.” Kyol places his fingers over my lips. I slap his hand away.
“Why won’t you leave?”
The most minuscule wince breaks through his mask. “The war isn’t over.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Kyol.”
“McKenzie, I—”
“You said you would leave.”
“I can’t, kaesh—”
“Why!”
“Because I couldn’t live with myself!” he roars.
I flinch back and a sharp, almost debilitating pain lances through my chest. Is he so ashamed of his feelings? All these years, I thought only the king’s decree kept us apart. I didn’t think he despised himself for loving me.
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