by Ronie Kendig
“Is that why your heart rate just rose?” Poired whirled and stalked toward her, the black raqine slinking at his side, slipping in and out of the field of time. Drracien’s stomach churned at the thought of the girl being bitten as he had by the creature. The thing’s presence still made his shoulder ache. It was a leash of pain.
“If you knew anything,” Astadia said evenly, “you would know I am not good enough for him. I’m a killer, a murderer—just like you.”
“It is true we both are killers,” Drracien replied. “But the Nivari commander was quite full of himself. Arrogant.”
Impassive eyes came to his. “Arrogance is often confused with confidence.”
“All the same, he is very protective of his family and name,” Drracien continued. “He’d never take a murderer as his bound, nor lower his standards to look twice on her.” Although, why else would a man throw himself at the Void, which could kill him?
“Mm, true,” Poired purred, nearly smiling at the girl. “Was he entertained by you? The man might not take you as his bound, but did he take something else from you?”
Astadia fumed.
Surely she could see that withholding anything from the Dark One only meant more excruciating means of drawing out the answer. When her gaze flicked again to Drracien, he gave her the barest of nods, warning her to comply. For her own well-being.
That glower seemed set in stone on her face. “He wouldn’t look twice at me.”
“He hurled himself at the Void to save you.” Poired smiled. “That indicates he has feelings for you, which we can twist against him.”
“It indicates he is a better man than you. He cares for those he commands.”
Poired angled his head to the side. “You like this Northlander,” he crooned.
“I like predictable men who make my job easy.”
Poired sniffed. Then squared his shoulders. “What gifts have you?”
She scowled. “Are you deaf? Has Void walking addled your brain? I told you I don—” A cry squeaked through her throat, which she clutched, losing her balance and flipping. She was not one to cry or scream. But her face was turning colors. Astadia seemed to swim in the bubble. Nay—drown in that accursed thing. She was defiant enough to let herself die, too.
Drracien tensed, shifting his gaze from Poired, who stared intently at her, then back to the girl—his sister. He started forward.
“Have the Auspex brought in,” Poired said, his voice even, cold as he shifted away, Astadia coughing and spinning in the halo.
“The Auspex?!” Drracien’s voice pitched. “But—”
“Do it!”
Drracien considered defying him, concerned—no, scared what the Auspex would do to her. That thing was the eye of Sirdar. Which meant, Astadia would be exposed to him. And she was too good of a person to—
“Move! Now!”
A crack of heat smacked his head. Drracien stumbled back. Enraged, he fisted his hands and spun, but not before shooting another glance over his shoulder at the girl. His sister. It changed things. But Astadia had no gifts, so why allow Sirdar a look? Why risk her life?
Worry for her survival pushed him out the door. He stalked from the hall and narrowly avoided a snap of the black raqine’s massive jaws. Anger surged, but he dared not wrestle that vicious thing. He delivered the summons to the guard, who jogged off. Moments later, two incipients escorted the sickly looking Auspex, and Drracien led them into the chamber.
“Stretch her over the rune,” Poired ordered, pointing to the upside-down eye of gold inlaid in black marble.
Drracien watched, his stomach roiling as he remembered when he had been stretched out there. A part of him willed Astadia to discover a gift, break free. She did not deserve that agony, to have the blackness consume her soul as Sirdar violated her essence.
Lips pressed into a thin line, body trembling with barely controlled rage, Astadia shot daggers from her green eyes as the halo lessened, then closed.
In its place, a guard shoved her against the cold marble.
“Brilliant,” Poired said. “She’s absolutely brilliant. Rage roils off her, but she shows none of it.”
So he was proud of her.
The Auspex lumbered toward Astadia’s head, his milky white eyes turning a violent shade of purple as he reached her.
Drracien tensed.
With far too much pleasure and intrigue wafting through his face, Poired eased away from the tableau.
Why was he stepping back? Warning shot through Drracien. “Wha—” But the word died in his throat, and not of his own volition. He’d been silenced.
A black veil unfolded as the Auspex placed his hands on either side of Astadia’s face and held her still. She groaned, her body thrashing—yet not. Spittle foamed at the corners of her mouth. Veins bulged in her forehead. Her face turned violet.
What was he doing? Why were they not sic’ing the black raqine on her?
Angling his head this way and that, the Auspex was completely focused. Determined. Searching.
But for what?
Poired stroked his chin, watching as one might a boiling pot.
A howl from Astadia sifted the air.
Drracien fought his own control. Why he cared about her, he couldn’t explain, but he could not stand by while they tore her apart, ripped her identity from her, and replaced it with one that fit their agenda. Drracien knew a darkness dwelt in himself, but her . . . She might have been an assassin, but there was a goodness to her.
He started forward.
Poired swept him aside with a flick.
As soon as he detected the wielding restraint, Drracien yielded. It was the quickest way to get released. And almost immediately, the Dark One’s attention returned to the strange proceeding. He stalked back and forth. Knelt before her.
Astadia’s eyes rolled.
The Auspex began speaking in the ancient tongue. Chanting. A haunting sound from a creature who otherwise made little utterance. He shook his head right. Then left. Then back and forth.
A sharp whistle shot through the room.
Of a sudden, Drracien felt strange. Heaviness coated his limbs. A pervasive chill. His surroundings tilted and wobbled. Catching himself, he braced against the wall as a wave of dizziness crashed over him.
Poired gasped, staggered.
The Auspex shrieked. Threw himself back with a guttural cry. “Unnatural! Unnatural! ” He pointed a twisted finger and bared crooked teeth at Astadia. “Kill the Unnatural!”
Astadia dropped with a heavy thud. Her head bounced.
Poired was still staring, gaping, his knees buckling. Silvers and guards rushed to aid their commander. Others moved toward the Auspex, but grew wary of his flailing limbs.
Through the chaos, Drracien saw Poired. Rage flashed through his face. The Auspex wailed as if he’d been mortally wounded.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Drracien looked to Astadia, unmoving on the floor. Her fingers twitched. Not dead—unconscious. But the two others in this room were wilting. Weakness sucked at his bones. Legs felt like pudding.
Struggling, Poired scowled. His expression shifted into a hastening storm that took hold, dark and ominous.
Foreboding wormed through Drracien. In the space of one breath, he knew if Poired recovered, he would kill Astadia. Whatever she had done, whatever she was, whatever threat she posed, he would not let her live.
With Poired crowded by guards trying to help him, Drracien exercised his newfound ability. He flung open a tear in the Void, feeling it pull at him as he lunged at his sister. Lifted her. Spun and pitched her at the tear. Driving her the last several feet with a concussion of heat, Drracien collapsed. Breathing grew labored.
“No!” Poired shouted.
Even as the tear stitched back together and closed them away from her, Drracien felt himself flying through the air. He braced—counter-wielding and protecting himself from hitting a column. Deftly, he landed on his feet, but felt his knees buc
kling. His wielding fizzled. Like a fire with water on it. He jerked toward the Dark One, staring at him through a knotted brow.
“What did you do?” Poired howled.
“I saved you,” Drracien managed. Not a lie—he was shaken and thereby hoped his words held a glimmer of truth. “Could you not feel it?”
Chalky-white, Poired glowered, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “What?”
“The . . . the . . .” Drracien shook his head. “I don’t know what it was. I just felt it. Tell me you felt it, too. You collapsed. The Auspex—”
“Out!” Poired shouted to the guards. “Leave us!” He stumbled to a table with a decanter, pouring himself a stiff drink. Without word or threats, he dumped it back. Poured more.
Interesting. “Was I wrong?” Drracien joined him. “I . . . whatever happened, whatever she opened up, terrified me. I’ve never felt so weak, so . . . wrong. I just reacted.” If thinking, planning, and putting it into action counted as reacting. “I was afraid for myself. For you.” He looked at the Auspex. “What did he mean unnatural?”
Poired spun to the windows. “It’s not possible. She’s my child. I was promised. He promised.”
Drracien closed the space between them, knowing it was a dangerous move, but he must appear desperate. “What does it mean, Father?” The word was acid on his tongue.
Leaden eyes came to his. “That she must be destroyed.”
Drracien jolted. “She’s my sister, you said—”
“She’s nothing to you. She’s an Unnatural,” he said, his lip curling.
He’d not heard that before. It hadn’t been in the annals. “What does it mean?”
The Dark One’s shoulders sagged for a second, then lifted, bringing up that dreadful gaze. “She can drain our abilities.”
Realization dawned with terror. “That’s why I felt so weak.”
“And if she is allowed to live . . .” Poired stiffened, shook his head. “She must die.”
33
Chest still aching, Tili lay abed, rubbing the spot where the bolt had struck. It’d seared, leaving a marred mess and a deep bruise on his breastbone. But none of that ached more than seeing Astadia snatched before his eyes and not being able to save her.
A shadow dropped over the window, subtle since dawn had yet to split the dark chill of night. But having grown up in Nivar Hold, Tili recognized a raqine’s shadow when he saw one.
He pried himself from the bed and went to the window, watching as a raqine silently stole into the camp of Pathfinders. Odd. The beast alighted with stealth, then skulked toward a tent. Which raqine—
Draed.
He slid into the tent.
Tili held his breath as he watched.
From within, a startled shout went up.
Draed backed out, dragging Tokar into the open by his ankle. In his bedclothes.
The young captain shouted. “Release me! Stop!”
The Pathfinder camp roused to investigate the commotion, then broke into laughter as Draed deposited Tokar in a murky pond, splashing the muck.
With a roar of frustration and anger, Tokar slapped the murk. Shouted at the beast, at those still laughing at him. After another slap, he pulled himself up and slogged out, bedclothes clinging to his lanky frame. “You foul, accursed—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t . . .” Tili murmured, knowing how Zicri responded to things like that.
Sure enough, Draed angled his wings, then tilted one and whooshed the muck, throwing it into Tokar’s face. He then let out a deafening growl-howl, forcing Tokar back—stumbling. He plopped again into the mud.
Even Tili laughed this time. Why Draed had chosen Tokar, only Abiassa knew, but it seemed the two were well paired. Turning, Tili caught sight of movement on the far edge of the village, where the people had done their best with makeshift repairs of battered plaster structures and barns. A rider turned onto the main road, shouting.
Tili grabbed his trousers and donned them, then shoved his arms into his tunic. He snatched his long cloak and hurried from the room.
Graem was coming toward him but stopped. “Rider from Vid.”
“Aye.” Tili hustled down the stairs, and together they stormed to the main entrance. Gaining the doors, they heard the commotion in the bailey. The rider threw himself from the horse and jogged to meet them. “Sirs,” he breathed. “The Council is en route.”
Tili started at that. Why would they come here? “How long?”
“They should enter the gates by nightfall.”
“What of Poired?” Tili asked.
“No sight of him.”
With Drracien knowing their location, they could not go long without taking an attack by the Dark One.
• • •
Thiel used a small flint rock on the ropes that bound her feet together—aggravating her swollen ankle. She wondered now if it wasn’t truly broken, but maybe badly sprained. Still, the pain was too much. And she was done being a prisoner, even in a comfortably furnished tent . . . especially there. Cadeif had not drugged her again since that first night, had not touched her except in anger. But she would not wait in dread for his appetites to return.
She worked feverishly, knowing they would soon come to tie her to the horse as they set out yet again for another day-long ride. If she could just get free, she could—
Steps approached, hurriedly.
Thiel sawed faster.
The pace quickened.
So did her motion.
Feet appeared at the tent flap.
Thiel slid her feet and the half-destroyed rope to the side, out of view.
Raleng entered and came to crouch beside her, his hands roughly tugging at the rope around her ankles. She watched in fear. Froze when he hesitated at the frayed threads. But he neither made a comment nor a strike. Just finished untying her and stood back, that ever-present scowl dark on his face. “Up. Privy.”
“But I don’t have to—”
He grabbed her arm and hauled her up. Thiel yelped at the pain stabbing into her foot. She stumbled but found purchase as he dragged her out. She started left as had been their habit since encamping last night, but she barreled into his chest. He muttered an oath and spun her around.
“I thought I was using—”
“Quiet!” He gripped her harder and veered around the north side of camp. He pushed her behind a rock. “Go.”
Confused, Thiel stood there. Glanced around and stilled when she spied the nearly perfect path that wound through the wood away from the camp. Escape path. Straight to a dry riverbed. This was a trap. He wanted her to sprint away so he could put an arrow or two—or ten—into her back. Or he’d beat her till the sun went down, then drag her through camp behind a horse. She stumbled ahead, then paused. Anxiety wound through her. Thiel worried her lower lip, staring ahead, then looked behi—
A large frame filled her vision.
Thiel staggered. Her ankle wrenched again. She strangled a cry as she stumbled. A strong hand seized her. “Cadeif.”
“Hurry,” he growled.
“Leave me—”
He swung her toward himself, eyes fierce. “Listen to me,” he said. “Run. Run or they will kill you.”
Thiel drew in a thick breath, searching his sun-weathered face.
“They are breaking their word. So I will break mine before they can use you against me more,” Cadeif whispered. “They threatened you and my people to force me into this war, to do their bidding. At the battle, they will dangle you before the Twig, then slit your throat.”
Thiel widened her eyes.
“Now you understand.” Cadeif pitched her away and stomped off.
Stunned, she stared after him.
“Go, Etelide,” Cadeif urged, looking back. “Run.” He gestured toward the path. “Run and do not stop. Save your life!”
His warning sent her stumbling, running, ignoring the pain in her ankle. Faster. Faster. Down the trail. Down the dusty, dried-up riverbed.
A bolt struck the sand.
Glass shot up, daggers willing her to fall on their sharp edges.
Skidding to a halt, breath caught in her throat, she searched the trees for the wielding incipient.
Thiel spun and tried to run, but daggers thrust from the sand, forcing her into a frenetic, terrified dance to avoid being sliced. She twisted around, furious. “Cowards! Show yerselves!”
Instead of a black-cloaked incipient, a horse barreled into the riverbed. A sea of Sirdarians and incipients came wielding as they rode behind the Ematahri warrior. Her breath caught at the terrible face—Cadeif! Had he changed his mind?
He angled to the side, reaching for her.
She lunged at him, catching his arm and swinging up over the horse’s back. They’d done it a thousand times, training in the meadows. Now, it was life or death. She clung to him. Glanced back as more bolts chased them.
Their pace was hard, relentless. The ground seemed to shake with the pursuit of Sirdarians. Yet it seemed too great a sound for the small contingent on their heels. As they skirted a small ravine, one second Thiel felt the pounding rhythm of the horse jarring her, the next—nothing. Weightlessness. Sailing through the air. The world blurring into colors and violence. Wind. Dirt. Rocks. Horse. Man. Bolts.
The ground leapt at her. She shielded her head and face, her shoulder taking the first impact. Pain shot down her back. Arching her spine, she cried out. Awareness flared through her of the danger which had not stopped. The Sirdarians.
Flipped onto all fours, she stared through the dust and debris. Hair tangled in her face, dancing with her labored breaths. Thiel’s heart thundered as the dust settled at an agonizingly slow pace. The whinnying horse jerked itself back onto its hooves. Shot off in blind panic.
Cadeif. Where was Cadeif?
Thiel struggled to get a leg under her, blinking rapidly to find the enemy. Where were they? They’d be upon her any moment. On a knee, she eyed the mound to her right. The spot where the horse had landed. What she thought a mound was a body. Unmoving.
No! With a gasp, Thiel surged to her feet. “Cadeif!” She stumbled but finally got righted.
A spear of light shot in front of her. Narrowly missed him.