by Mary Weber
Is he being serious? He didn’t help. He . . . Oh. He doesn’t know. He was already knocked out when Draewulf pulled free of Eogan’s body. “You didn’t help me free him. You nearly had me kill everyone.”
“Funny how quickly you turn to blaming when you were initially the one begging for it.”
“Myles, shut up.”
“All I’m saying—”
“All I’m saying is, you will shut up until I can murder you. And if you have to be near me beforehand, then make yourself useful and figure out what the queen wants with Eogan and how to get us out of here.”
His expression sours as he straightens and slicks a hand over his shiny black hair. “How should I know what the woman wantsss? She’s as unstable as her daughter. Only a fool would make enemies of us while an entire army is headed for her gatesss.”
“I’d say you’re all bleeding fools if you think insulting their queen right now will help our situation,” Kenan growls behind us.
I ignore him and look up at the female guard leading the way. “There was a man on our ship by the name of Lord Wellimton. What happened to him?”
“Anyone putting up a fight was kept bound.”
“And the two boys in the captains’ room?”
“I . . . believe they were taken with the others.”
A throaty sound tells me Kenan’s listening.
I slow and put my hand on his arm. “If either of those boys is harmed, I will take it more personally than you desire,” I say in a tight tone to the guard.
The woman says nothing. Just turns us down another glass corner to face a long flight of glistening stairs. They give the illusion they’re leading up to the night sky due to the clear domed ceiling over us with the stars filtering through. Like little solar flares.
Rasha probably spent her childhood studying those stars from this same spot.
That sudden thought nearly bowls me over. Bleeding hulls, I miss her. I blink hard and refuse to imagine where she is right now, what they’re doing to her. Just find a way to escape and rescue her, Nym.
Three flights of those shiny stairs deposit us just beneath that glass dome and at the top of one of the three corner crystal towers I glimpsed before our airship crashed. The short hallway is shaped like a square and empty of people or doors except for an opening at the end. It’s a room—the only one up here as far as I can tell—and while not by any means dungeon quality, it carries vague reminders of my slave quarters at owners’ numbers seven and nine. Two sparse beds. Three candle lanterns. And a cold floor to be shared by too many of us.
Except it is beyond impeccably clean, and three of the walls are made of see-through glass.
I sway a moment as I enter at the sense of dizziness it brings—being this high up and able to look out on the lit-up crystal city below from multiple angles at once is overwhelming. Only the wall with the door I’m stepping through is made of wood. The rest are peering over the courtyards and lights and outer ramparts and giant-statued gates that lead to the massive forest beyond.
I frown as I steady myself and move closer for a clearer look at the night-shadowed landscape. Is it me or does something seem off about those gates?
Before I can figure out what, Myles’s swearing draws me back to the room. A male Cashlin guard and two female Luminescents who’ve prodded Myles through the doorway have ruffled his suit in the process. They say nothing about his insults—just deposit him in the room’s center before they shut the door and then line up against the wall.
“That’s it?” Lady Isobel scoffs at the Cashlin male guard and two ladies with us before she slinks down onto one of the cushioned cots. She spreads her voluptuous self out like a fox, so even with her hands still tied behind her back she looks powerful.
I watch the way she sizes up the guard and shake my head. What are they thinking, leaving only three soldiers alone with all of us? Leaving them alone with her?
I glance over at the male guard. With a slight build and blond hair, he reminds me of the Faelen schoolchildren I played with my eighth year, albeit with a far less innocent glint in his eye. He’s about nineteen, I’d guess, and he’s smirking back at Isobel.
“Oh-good-father-of-Bron, this confinement better not take long,” Kenan mutters beside me.
“How about removing these binders?” Lady Isobel holds out her wrists to the male guard and slides a smile across her face that I suspect is the same one she used to seduce Eogan when they were younger.
My stomach sours. She and Eogan may be the same age and same height and have been raised near-inseparably for years, but that’s where the similarities end.
The guard switches to a charming smile of his own but doesn’t move.
“Humph. I see where your Princess Rasha gets her manners,” Isobel says.
The besotted one glances at the Luminescent nearest me. I catch a cautious look between them.
“Do you know her?” I ask them casually. “Princess Rasha? You’re all about her age, I suspect.”
The male guard shoots another look at his Luminescent counterpart before he turns to say firmly, “The princess is a friend to all her people.”
Liar. She had few friends, as I recall. I stare straight at him. But maybe he could’ve been one of them. I wonder . . .
The Luminescent close by ruffles her purple flowing robe and clears her throat. When I turn to look, she’s glaring at me. Interesting. I scan the ceiling with its clear glass surface, then peer out the window again at the gates below.
“She believed in this cause,” I say.
“Except I seem to recall her suggesting her dear queen mum wanted Draewulf alive as much as I did.” Myles’s voice snakes over from where he’s plopped himself down on the other bed opposite Isobel. He prances his long fingers across the cover. “Which isss rather odd when you think about it. Now, why would Queen Laiha want the shape-shifter alive, do you suppose? And be willing to possibly sacrifice her own daughter now?”
The guard’s face shadows, and I swear it’s like a red filter snaps down over the Luminescents’ pupils. One makes a clicking noise with her tongue while their male counterpart refuses to answer.
I glare at Myles. Thanks a lot.
He shrugs and smiles acidly as if to say it’s true.
“Nice try, Elemental, but he wouldn’t have given you any information anyway.” Lady Isobel rolls over on her bed. She yawns and scans their Luminescent faces before flipping her raven-black hair away from her high cheekbones. “The people of this culture are not encouraged to think for themselves. No wonder their princess wanted out.”
“You should not say such things,” the male guard says. But the tightening of his jaw indicates Lady Isobel’s words struck something. I turn to Eogan’s former fiancée and catch her watching me. She tips her head and simpers cleverly, “They study intentions. I study emotions.”
“So you’ll know which one to hit first when you turn his heart to stone,” Myles says.
Except I can’t tell whether he’s insulting or admiring her. Or trying to get a rise out of the guards. My guess is the latter two.
I turn back to the male Cashlin. “All I’m saying is Rasha and a whole lot of people could use our help right now. Especially if your queen dies.”
The guard ignores me, and the second Luminescent speaks for the first time. “Are any of you in here the airship’s captains?”
What?
Myles snorts and peers away.
“They did not survive,” Kenan says quickly, not looking at any of us. His gaze flickers down, and instantly the Luminescent’s eyes flash red. I’ve been around Rasha lon
g enough to know that in that one movement of Kenan’s gaze dropping, the Luminescent saw what she needed.
None of us are the captains.
Kenan’s son is.
“We will inform the Inters.”
“The Inters?” Myles sits up. “Now that’sss interesting.”
“Who are they?” Kenan demands.
Myles hardly even looks at him, just turns to stare strangely at the gates. I follow his eyes to the large lantern-lit crystal sides topped with the two enormous carved statues. Does he see what’s off about them? I scan the whole section briefly and frown again because I still can’t place my finger on it. I go back to listening for what in hulls Inters are.
“Questioners. Seekersss. The Cashlin version of an interrogator, I believe.”
The female Luminescents move to the door and, after saying something to the male guard, stride out. He follows to shut it behind them before turning to face Kenan’s large body that is suddenly lunging for him with a bellow. The guard holds out a slender wrist and slaps Kenan on the side of the neck, and the giant man slumps to the floor.
The Cashlin then flips around and slips toward the bed Lady Isobel’s on. She barely has time to sit up before he touches her. Lady Isobel’s smile stays frozen in place as her body goes limp on the bed.
What the—?
The guard turns and presses the same wrist onto Myles’s neck, causing him to drop from his half-risen state.
His movements are graceful. Delicate and quick. Like a dancer.
An evil dancer.
I lurch backward just as he comes for me too, jumping away toward the far glass wall.
He slides a foot toward me and lifts his hand. “Oh, come now, it won’t be that bad.”
“What’d you do to them?”
“Just keeping all of you from being any more disruptive.”
He dances closer.
Too close. I kick him in the family jewels, yank down a weak bolt of lightning over the glass in warning, and flip toward the wall by the door. “Is that how you people keep the peace? Drugging? Killing?”
His hand pauses in midair.
“Do you like to use it on Rasha as well?” I say, my breath coming fast.
“We would never . . .” His face goes blank before it crinkles into a frown. “How well did you know the princess?”
“Didn’t you hear your queen? Her daughter and I are friends.” I eye his hand and notice the tiny, almost imperceptible glass circle on his wrist. Keeping my distance, I tip my head toward it. “What are you doing to us?”
“This?” He hardly glances at the wristlet. “It knocks you out.”
“I gathered that.” But I’d much prefer to stay conscious, thank you. “How long will its effect last on them?” I jut my head toward the three he’s attacked.
“Long enough. But that doesn’t matter. What are you planning to do about the princess?”
“Rescue her. Which is more than I can say for her own mother.” I keep my stare on that wristlet catching the candlelight and refracting it on the wall. “So how about you don’t use that on me and we discuss what Rasha would rather you and I be doing to save her.”
He shrugs. “The Luminescents in the hall will know if I’ve not used it. Besides, it’ll be better this way. Less painful.”
I choke. “What will be less painful?”
He doesn’t answer, just lashes forward as I clench my hand into a fist and call down the nighttime sky. A crack of lightning goes off somewhere nearby and I start toward the window, but next thing I know I’m sliding to the floor in front of it as the awareness hits that the skin on my neck feels prickly.
Firelights flicker in the distance, illuminating the dark kingdom beyond the window and Castle. Such lovely lights, I think. Like fireflies. Like the firefly trees at home in Faelen . . .
The lights in the room seem to be dimming. The yellow glow from candles fading odd-like, and the guard is standing over me.
“What . . . do with us?” My lips feel thick as my head hits the floor.
“Interrogate you,” he says just as a door opens and the red hue of the Luminescents’ glowing eyes fills the hall.
CHAPTER 6
DRIP DROP GOES THE SNOW, LIKE LITTLE LACE BUDS TWIRLING ONTO THE garden. The wind is swirling, humming, scattering the puffs beyond the breath-fogged window. “Look at the flakes, Father.”
“Aye.” He ducks his head near mine. “Lady Weather’s jealous. She’s trying to match your hair. Just like she’s tryin’ to match your harmonious voice.” He tweaks a white lock near my ear, and I glance up at his pockmarked face and dark curls cut short by Mum’s dainty hands.
I frown. “But I don’t want it white. I want hair the same as yours.”
He pauses, then pulls me onto his lap. It’s the first time I’ve mentioned such a thing, even though I’ve tried to stain my long locks dark with Fendres dirt many times when he and Mum weren’t looking. “Now, why’d you want to have a plain mess like this?” He brushes his curls up so they frizz out over his head like a burberry bush. “You want to look like a bolcrane? Is that it?” And before I can move, he’s curling his hands into pretend claws and tickling my sides. I scream and jump away to find my small wooden sword carved by those hands.
“All right, then! If I can’t eat you, I’ll go after your mum!” he roars, scampering on all fours toward the soft-faced angel currently knitting a Solstice gift in front of the fire.
He snarls until she bats him back with her needle. “Tegan! You’ll make me drop a stitch and then the poor child will catch cold.” She laughs.
“It’s all right. I’ll save you, Mum.” I plant myself in front of her to face my father.
“Save her? Impossible! You can’t defeat me!” He swipes the air with his taut, thick arms.
“I don’t want to defeat you!” I giggle and toss my blade aside to throw my hands around his neck. “I want to tame you so I can ride on your back!”
He stops and stares at me a moment before leveling his face to mine. And plants a kiss on my pale nose. “That’s my girl,” he whispers, scooping me into the rich scent of his earthen skin. “Never destroy what simply needs taming, Nymia. Mercy grows hearts more than bitterness.” He presses his hand against my heart. “Like this one in here.”
I pucker my lips. “How do you know, Father?”
“How? Because I have you. My gift of mercy who’s grown this old heart right big. Good thing, too, ’cuz your mum’s cooking isn’t much for growing the stomach.”
“I heard that,” Mum murmurs.
“A gift?” I frown.
“Sure.” He tucks back another lock of my hair and settles a stare at me. “When you were born, you survived, though you weren’t supposed to.” His smile is soft. “I like to believe it was for your mum and me. For our hearts.” He sits up straight and clears his throat. “Now, how ’bout we sing something beautiful for your mum, eh?”
Except . . .
Except three hours later I open my eyes to discover that he was wrong because mercy cares little for the heart of a five-year-old girl. Nor does it do anything to douse the fires or death screams of her parents as she rouses to the awareness that she’s standing out in the blood-drenched snow, watching her home cave in. In the freezing mist, and ash, and horrific dark.
Always that dark. Even more terrifying than any of the nights with the human monsters that would follow.
Deep. Freezing.
Suffocating the song voice I’d all but forgotten.
Always whispering, “You survived. Even when yo
u weren’t supposed to.”
I survived.
But wasn’t supposed to.
I gasp awake, only to choke and reach for my face—and find tears there at the ache of a memory long forgotten. My dad’s face. My mum’s hands. Our last night together as a family before their deaths.
Except we weren’t a real family according to Eogan. Not by blood relation, anyway.
I cough and wince at the red lights splitting through the fog of my mind. And overhead—that sound of rain. It’s hitting the glossed-over glass walls and ceiling with a harsh tap tap tapping.
I curl my fingers to force it to stop, but it just keeps going. Harder, louder than before. Pounding into my brain as if it can punch holes to get in through my skull and gain access.
Access to what?
Images of my owners, one, two, three, flash before my eyes. I blink as the memories of beatings and mocking voices play in fast increments through my head. “You’ll do as I say or Draewulf will come to eat your brains.” My first owner’s words flip around, drawing up recollections of washing his clothes. Then his son’s.
I shudder, and somewhere within my chest a cry pushes up and out at these faces I cannot bear. These people who destroyed me.
These people whom I then destroyed.
“Make it stop. I don’t want to remember,” I hear my voice gasping over and over. “Please make it stop.”
Something pricks my neck and the drumming raindrop voices fade, along with my mind.
I’M IN EOGAN’S BRON CASTLE NOW, SPEAKING WITH SIR GOWON. EXCEPT he’s not listening to me. He’s refusing to understand that Eogan has been taken over by Draewulf. I reach my fingers for his waist-shirt and twist. “What does the Elegy 96 say?”
He grips a hand over mine. “You’ll kindly unhand me.”
I step closer. Squeeze harder. The hissing from the wraiths outside the room grows louder. “What does it say?” I demand. “What does Eogan think has begun?” Suddenly my arms are crawling and my veins, my chest . . .