She knew none of them, nor what honor meant to any of them. But if they tried to cast anything on her, she’d not only have her magic, but arcanir to dispel it.
She emptied the pouch and placed the ring on her thumb, where it had once been before Shadow had abducted her all those months ago.
Accept it, with my love, he’d once said, and he’d swept her up, held her close, tipped her chin up to his mouth. She’d opened to him, come home in his arms, like a wave flowing in to shore.
Their love had broken, but he’d still given her this ring once more in Courdeval.
“It is very dear to you,” Telva said softly, in heavily accented Emaurrian.
“Once.” Rielle forced a smile.
“It still is.” Telva stared into nothing ahead of her with an intensity most people rarely achieved in their lifetime. An augur, maybe? “And always will be.”
She wore a different man’s ring on each of her hands—the Sodalis ring on her right thumb, and the engagement ring on her left ring finger. One she’d keep close for the rest of her life, and the other—just a memory.
She followed Telva’s gaze to her own undulating fingers. Just nerves, nothing more. She fisted her hands and looked ahead.
“It is no small defense you carry,” Telva whispered, “but the feel of it on your hand, its solace, has immeasurable value, too.” She fingered a beaded bracelet circling her wrist. “From my daughter,” she added with a smile, and Rielle couldn’t help but mirror the expression.
Telva had loved ones at home, too.
Remembering that—others supporting her and wishing her well—was a strength, too. She wasn’t the only one counting on her success and survival. Brennan, Jon, and Olivia did, too, as complicated as this tie between her performance and Emaurria was.
Laurentine’s people, and all those up and down the coast along the Shining Sea, needed her help.
All of Emaurria—to get the Divinity’s mages for Jon—needed her help.
And if Shadow’s allegations were true, many potential novices and their families counted on her as well.
So many relied on her, and she wouldn’t let them down. Not a chance.
Telva had the same, no doubt. Each one of them did.
“Good luck to you,” she said to Telva, and meant it.
“And to you.”
Al-Rhamani turned on his heel. “This is a competition,” he said in perfect Emaurrian, narrowing his eyes at each of them. “Each of you would do well to remember that. And keep quiet.”
“You can win a competition by your own merit,” Rielle shot back. “Or are you so unsure of your own skills?”
He scoffed, walking backward, when his step depressed a tile in the corridor.
Teetering, he reached for them as a clicking came from the walls.
She grabbed his arm and yanked him back, and they both tumbled to the floor as bolts shot from the walls ahead.
He rolled off her and gaped at the needle-sharp projectiles littering the area before them. “You—” He turned and gawked at her. “You saved my life.”
Breathing hard, she struggled to look away from the death trap. “I—”
She shrugged. It hadn’t occurred to her not to.
Telva knelt before the trap and picked up one of the bolts, then held it to the light of al-Rhamani’s candlelight spell. Light reflected off its razor-sharp, coated edge. Poison?
Al-Rhamani rose and offered her a hand.
“Thanks,” he bit out. As he pulled her to her feet, he added, “But it was incredibly stupid of you. Without lifting a finger, you could have faced one fewer mage in this competition.”
With a sigh, she replied, “You’re welcome.”
Telva led the way as the corridor took a sharp left turn.
Screams echoed from the distance.
Far ahead of them, Mac Carra leaned against the stone wall, massive arms crossed, looking down, wisps of copper hair in his face.
Below, there was nothing but total darkness—a pit, the ground open to an abyss.
“Help me! Mac Carra!” A man’s voice called from below. “I’ll withdraw! I’ll tell you your future!”
Mac Carra shook his head, grinning.
There—on the edge—two sets of fingers clinging desperately.
One set of fingers disappeared as she ran ahead of Telva, darting for them, and slid onto the gritty ground to catch a wrist with both hands.
The Kamerish master, Sen Taneie, looked up at her with dark eyes so like Leigh’s, dangling in a bottomless chasm.
“I’ve got you,” she said, even as her arms trembled.
“Don’t let go!” He reached for her wrist, again and again, trying to catch hold as his arm slipped from her weakening grasp. “I’ll withdraw—I swear it—just don’t let go!”
“An updraft,” she said, gesturing the spell as he slapped her hand in another attempt to grasp it. “Aeromancy. It’ll catch you!”
As she gestured the spell again, a grasp on her upper arm pulled her off her feet.
Screams—Sen—
Mac Carra raised her off the floor, slapping her hand as she frantically gestured the updraft.
“No,” he said firmly.
The scream faded and stopped.
She winced, a shudder weaving down her spine. Sen had—He was—
She clung to Mac Carra’s forearms, trying to pull up some of her weight. His eyes were ice, and after Sen, she—perhaps she was next.
If he let her go, she could cast an updraft, but not if he killed her first.
No, you don’t.
Mac Carra moved her over the pit as she gestured a freeze spell up his feet, meeting his eyes evenly as her ice climbed his legs.
His fingers swept a turn, and a living flame circled his feet, melting her spell with every step. Shaped vaguely like a human figure, it glided about him, burning bright.
Divine, she’d heard of elementals, but never seen one, ever, much less conjured.
But still, her freeze spell climbed his body.
“You’re bonny, little flower, but not too bright,” he said with a handsome grin, so unfit for this cruelty.
“Put her back,” Tariq said behind him, with Telva in a ready stance next to him.
Mac Carra rumbled a laugh, his cold eyes never leaving hers. “None of you are too bright.” The laughter in his too-vivid nightshade-green eyes faded. “But”—he looked her up and down, as no one had since Zahib—since Farrad had—“if I let you fall to your death now, fancy woman as you are, I’d always regret never having bedded you first.”
Let me fall. Just do it, and I’ll surprise you, boor. I’ll surprise you.
* * *
Brennan strode down the well-lit hall toward the garderobe, passing two stern-faced members of the Divine Guard. If he timed this correctly, they’d change shifts shortly, and he’d—
There. Incoming booted footsteps. As the guards exchanged words, Brennan passed the garderobe and tucked himself into another hall, dark, disused.
He kept to the wall, wrapped in its shadows, and followed his nose to mustier air. Past an alcove, he paused. That’s where it was coming from, somehow.
This could be his way in. Some sort of passage to the Archives.
Crouching, he looked for signs of entry. Disturbed dust, old footprints.
Knocking on the wall and listening to the acoustics would reveal more—along with himself, if anyone heard. There were no nearby fresh scents, but when it came to the Divinity, he couldn’t rule out trickery.
He straightened, searching the wall for any obvious mechanism, but there were no sconces or fixtures of any kind nearby. This section of the wall itself was stone, and he ran his palms over it, feeling for any particular piece with give.
Leaning in close, he breathed in deep, casting aside the stone, timber, old dust, slight hint of mold, mouse droppings, to focus on the barest hint of skin oils, human scents, concentrated on—
He pressed a section of stone with a few fingerti
ps marking its scent, and it gave way with a slight click, disarming a locking mechanism of some kind. The wall itself didn’t budge.
Spreading his fingers against it, he leaned forward, distributing his weight against different portions in turn until at last, one side pushed inward, stone grating against stone.
With any luck, not loudly enough to garner attention.
He moved it only enough to slip into the dark on the other side, the source of the mustiness he’d detected earlier. A hidden corridor, narrow, tight. No one could learn he’d found it, so he pushed the panel back into place as best he could, wincing as the stone grated once more.
His vision was excellent in the dark, for all the good it did him in such a tight passage. It seemed to wedge between rooms, and as he moved through it, small streams of candlelight occasionally needled through minuscule holes. Made for spies.
The corridor itself was barely wide enough for his frame, far better suited to his Wolf, but then he’d miss anything at his human form’s eye level. He suppressed a sigh.
The primary entrance to the Archives was through the Hensar, which meant finding the Hensar would help lead him to the vault’s location. From there, he’d find another way in—other than trying to go through the Divinity’s most elite agents.
The Hensar was in the northwest wing, so he’d have to make his way up and around as far as these corridors allowed—and before the first trial was over. Nine candidates would mean considerable time, but more than an hour? Two? Not likely.
With nothing but his nose and sense of direction, he picked his way silently through the dark as quickly as he dared, closing in on the northwest wing. He passed other locking mechanisms, other entry panels with fresher air and less dust, used more recently, perhaps. That could be used at any time.
Finally, around a corner, light flirted with shadow—a torch. And if there was a torch, someone had lit it… for use. Someone was here.
He couldn’t afford to be recognized. The next Duke of Maerleth Tainn, caught infiltrating the inner sanctum of the Divinity?
Wolf form. It would have to be wolf form.
He stripped off his overcoat, shirt, belt, trousers, boots, and braies, and left them tucked into a small alcove in the dark, then welcomed the Wolf. Hands became paws and fur spiked from his skin as the agony of the Change rippled through him; he doubled over, his claws striking stone as his human bones transformed to lupine.
The mustiness of dust and mold inundated his nostrils, and old blood stained into ancient stone. Distant voices echoed, muffled, tucked far into the labyrinth of rooms.
Time dwindled, and he had until the end of the first trial to find a way into the Archives. He eyed the illumination dancing on the floor from around the corner and warily approached to peek around.
A wider but empty corridor, lit with a single sconce.
Through the shadows, he crept closer, and that scent of old blood intensified. He slowed, his nose lowered to the floor, where traces of old spatter had set in. A little closer, and the traces became something more, a splatter, scrubbed with soap but not cleaned well enough.
And then before him—there, between the floor tiles, the slightest dip.
A trap door. Someone had met his end here.
Backing up, he sized up the distance, then took off at a run and leaped.
He landed, clear of it, and took to the shadows once more. Wherever these hidden passages led, it had to be somewhere worth going. There was no sense in trapping a path to somewhere unimportant.
Torches became more frequent the farther in he went, and among the grid of paths, there were even small chambers, places where there must have been centuries of secret meetings for all manner of dark schemes, quiet executions. And then—
Approaching voices. Steps. Human scents.
He froze, backed up toward a dark alcove, and tucked himself into its concealment.
Sileni voices, talking about the catacombs, about only seven candidates being able to emerge victorious—of the nine.
Beneath everything, deep in his core, the bond was still there. She was still there. Rielle would be one of the seven; she had to be.
If she ran into serious danger, she’d pull on the bond. She would.
There was no scent of magic to them. Non-mages. They had to have sigils and arcanir—perhaps to guard against mage intruders.
He liked his chances against mages. And he liked his chances against non-mages even more. If this was all the security the Divinity had to offer, he’d be in the Archives tonight, destroy any evidence of conspiracy with his father, and leave with all the proof he needed that the Divinity was made of lies and murder.
They approached. If they saw him, he’d leap for the throat of one, and then tackle the other—with any luck, before he could scream.
The guards passed him and turned a corner. Part of him looked after them wistfully; it had been too long since the Wolf had spilled blood.
But Rielle’s kept him sated every month.
The voices continued fading, and he proceeded toward the northwest wing, toward the Hensar. It had to be close; he’d been walking for nearly half an hour.
Deeper in, the corridors were well lit, the air fresher. More frequently used passages. The locking mechanisms appeared often, with their matching entry panels, the floor beneath them clean.
These had to be important rooms, occupied by guests who preferred to keep their comings and goings secret.
Soon he came upon a battened door. Situated between two statues on massive plinths—seven-headed serpents. Hydras. Mythical beasts with venomous breath, so poisonous that even their tracks were deadly.
The door itself was sturdy, ornate, etched with faces—masked, stony, even burning—tormented, grotesque, but… there was that same locking mechanism. From this side, pulled down, it would allow the door to be pulled open.
The floor before him was even. No stench of old blood. Not even any dust—it had to be used, or at least cleaned, regularly.
Distant voices carried down a nearby corridor.
Great Wolf’s ass.
He sized up the lock. Jumping the distance would be simple enough; he could bite down on the lock, then pull the door open and slip in.
If he was seen, he would be naught more than a wolf, some creature that had wandered in and now desperately searched for exit.
Now or never.
He jumped for the lock, caught it in his teeth—
Needling pain pricked him in a dozen places on his body, and his jaw released.
He dropped to the stone, muzzle and face burning, tingling, and the rest of him was on fire.
Shit.
Backing up on unsteady legs, he looked over his shoulder, wincing through the flame in his flesh, head swimming.
Fine needles protruded from his fur.
Shit, shit, shit.
One of his paws went numb, then quickly another, and his legs gave out under him. Pins and needles tingled in every part of him that hadn’t numbed.
But it began to deaden every part of his body.
He couldn’t hold the Change. Before his eyes, his paws yielded to his human hands.
He breathed harder—or tried to—but couldn’t fill his lungs.
His Change had broken.
The voices drew nearer.
Move, damn it. He willed his limbs to obey, but they refused, even as air became scarce, abandoning him and too stubborn to return. If he was caught here, especially in his human form—
Black spots stained his vision as he blinked sluggishly.
The swish of blades pulled from scabbards—
Booted footsteps closed in, fingers fisting in his hair, and his skin scraped against stone. Dragged. Somewhere.
A torch blurred by, and another.
“…naked… sick bastard…” one of them said.
Move… damn it… He tried to reach the hand fisted in his hair, or for the one looped under his shoulder, but his arm only dragged against the stone floor. Even
his fingers wouldn’t move.
Dark walls loomed, close together. One of the small chambers.
Quiet executions. He could have laughed, if only his vocal cords would respond. If only he weren’t about to be thrashed… or worse.
He was unceremoniously thrown onto his face, seeing the floor coming and unable to do anything about it.
It didn’t hurt, and these two guards were going to kill him.
Nox damn everything.
Those fingers clenched through his hair again, yanking his head up, and a blade glinted in the dim torchlight. Arcanir.
It swept under his chin and arced its sharp bite all the way across his neck.
Chapter 27
As Mac Carra’s flame elemental melted his feet free, he lowered her, his massive arm steady, and took a step back, ice cracking off his trousers. He set her on her knees before him, hard upon the stone floor, holding her still as he peered down at her. “You look rather fine just there.”
She gestured a flame cloak in place.
He yanked his hands back as she spelled a gust of aeromancy so strong it threw him onto his backside and extinguished his fire elemental.
Before he landed, she held an ice spike before his chest and grounded geomancy in the tiles beneath him. In a second, she could rip them away and see him fall through the floor.
“Touch me again, look at me like that again,” she said through clenched teeth, “and you will be a charred, blood-strewn paste.”
Tariq held a wind wall behind Mac Carra—he must have put it in place against the gust to protect himself and Telva.
Mac Carra’s fingers moved—
She shot the ice spike toward his chest as he conjured a shield to block it; then she raised the tiles into a stone wall between herself and Mac Carra, forcing the flame cloak to dispel.
Leaving him with Tariq and Telva.
Damn it. She stomped her foot.
She should dispel the geomancy, kill the boor, let Tariq and Telva through—
But she hadn’t come here to kill. She sighed, sweeping stray hair from her eyes.
Court of Shadows Page 26