In the hall outside his door footsteps picked up as the lunch hour grew near. The whole staff of the palace must be bending their backs to accommodate the sudden influx of Thratia’s entourage. The longer he lay here, the sooner someone important would come and find him. Thratia, Aella, Auntie Honding. He tried to imagine which one it would be, or who would send a servant first to collect him, and decided to the pits with waiting around for that.
Detan threw the blankets off himself and swung his feet to the ground. He yanked his boots on and tugged his charcoal jacket straight, running a hand through his hair to set it to rights.
He opened the door, and damn near tripped over Misol.
“Come to invite me to tea?” he asked.
She looked naked without her spear, hands folded defensively across her ribs. At least his auntie had put her foot down about Thratia’s people running around the house while openly armed.
“Aella wants you.”
“And do you just hop right up and do whatever she asks?”
She cocked her head to the side. “She’s my boss.”
“She’s your jailer.”
Misol bared her teeth at him, but said nothing.
“Make no mistake, she’s mine, too.”
“Thought that was Thratia.”
“Had to tell where one begins and the other ends.”
“Honding,” Misol’s voice took on a hard edge. “Are you going to make this difficult for me, or will you shut your trap and come along?”
“I’ll come, but I can make no guarantees about the state of my trap.”
“Marvelous.” She stalked off down the hall. Detan pattered along like a good little prisoner, chafing at being ordered about in what was meant to be his own house. Never mind that being in control of anything at the moment was an illusion. He still had his ego to think of, after all.
Misol led the way to a wing of the palace generally reserved for the most important guests his family hosted, and Detan grew more annoyed with each step he took. Sure, Thratia deserved to be put up with a bit of polish, but Aella? That little monstress was likely to leave a few bloodstains on his auntie’s nicest carpets. She was more suited to a dungeon than a suite.
He recalled the narrow tower Thratia had purpose built in her compound for his arrival, and winced. Maybe it was better that his auntie treated her like a normal guest. At least a regular room was less likely to give him a case of the shivers.
And wow, had his auntie ever put Aella up in splendor. Each step they took Detan noted the change in decor, and dredged up old memories of this wing. If Misol wasn’t lost, Aella’d been tucked away in one of the nicest rooms in the place. Probably even nicer than what his auntie had handed over to Ranalae, and that made him grin. If Aella was being over-honored, at least Ranalae was being insulted in the process.
Misol knocked once on a door at the end of the hall and swung it open before waiting for a response. Detan’s power fled him, a numb, wooly feeling indicative of Aella’s will taking its place. He stepped hesitantly into the room, wondering what fresh nightmare Aella had created to test him now, and choked on a scream.
Aella sat in a high-backed chair at a small round table, glancing over the gilded rim of a teacup to the woman who sat beside her. Ranalae. Their postures were mirrored, elegant and firm, but while Aella glanced to Ranalae, that woman’s gaze was locked tight on Detan. At their feet, Callia huddled, the silver chain which Aella used to guide her puddled between her shoulder blades.
Detan turned, heart thundering, but Misol barred his way, her sturdy frame filling the doorway. She caught his eye, held it, and there was something like regret in her expression. Whole fucking lot of good her regret would do for him now.
“Leaving so soon?” Ranalae mused.
Detan breathed slowly, deeply, straightened himself, and turned to face them both. “What do you want from me?”
Ranalae inclined her head to an empty seat at the prim little table. “Sit.”
Hers was not a voice he was accustomed to disobeying. He sat.
Chapter Thirty-Six
During Aransa’s fall, the streets had gone quiet as grainmice, the people locked away inside their homes until the bulk of the conflict was over. Hond Steading was handling things a bit… differently. People crowded the streets, drinking and reveling, throwing rude gestures at the ships that shadowed their sky and singing even ruder songs to toast their new ruling couple. Ripka found she much rather preferred Hond Steading’s method of coping. At least with all the confusion on the streets, their little party was less conspicuous.
“You’re certain this woman is the contact?” she asked Dranik.
He threw her an insulted glance. “The other night…” He cleared his throat. “Yes. That is who we brought the last one to.”
The last, and the first, as far as Dranik’s group was concerned. But how many other deviants had Thratia’s network scraped up and delivered into the songstress’s hands?
“The woman who sings at the Ashfall Lounge?” she pressed again. Dranik let loose an irritated sigh.
“Yes, the very same.”
Enard kept stealing glances at her, sensing her agitation. She debated telling them what she knew, that the woman who sang at the Ashfall Lounge was Laella, the young Valathean girl that had come to Hond Steading on Pelkaia’s ship.
She was supposed to be one of Pelkaia’s rescues, a noble girl who came into her deviant ability in her late teens and hid them well enough, until rumors began to leak and Pelkaia came knocking. She was adept at her craft, one of Pelkaia’s fastest learners, but Pelkaia’s prejudices against Valatheans weren’t an easy thing to hide. Even in the short time Ripka had been aboard the Larkspur, the tension between those two had been palpable.
“Care to share your troubles?” Tibal asked. She flinched. While she’d felt Enard’s curiosity, she’d been oblivious to Tibal’s sly observations.
“Just questions,” she said by way of explanation.
“Maybe you should let us help you chew them over.”
That was fair enough. Tibal had proved she could trust him, and she doubted Dranik would understand half of the implications. “The Songstress is Laella Eradin.”
“Whoa,” Tibal said. “You sure?”
“Saw her myself.”
“When was this?” Enard asked.
“I looped around the back of the Lounge to shake the watchers after Dranik set them chasing us. She was on the back patio, half in costume, smoking.”
Tibal whistled low. “Pelkaia’s got herself a leak.”
“Or Thratia’s network has already been compromised.”
“Who are these people?” Dranik asked.
“Deviants working to get other deviants to safety.” Ripka flicked her gaze to Sasalai, whose brows were raised high in curiosity. She’d stopped dragging her feet, and leaned more easily on the cane Tibal kept tucked carefully under the woman’s arm. She should be terrified, but she appeared a strange combination of pissed off and intrigued. Ripka thought she’d like the woman, under different circumstances.
“And this Laella person works for Pelkaia?” Dranik frowned so deeply in thought that Ripka imagined his lips might slip clear off his face.
“Honestly? At this point, I have no idea. But we’re about to find out.”
The Ashfall Lounge was empty for the evening. A little light filtered through the upstairs windows, seeping out around the edges of pulled curtains. Someone was home, someone who was making it pretty clear they didn’t want any company.
“Rules say we go around back and knock the pattern,” Dranik said.
Enard gestured the way. “After you then, sir.”
Dranik quirked a brow at his use of “sir”, but crossed the distance anyway, leading them through the burnt-out remains that gave the theater its sense of danger. He knocked three times, a rather boring pattern in Ripka’s opinion, and they waited tense as rockcats.
The door swung open, and the Songstress stood there in h
er full get-up, wig and all, but now that Ripka knew what she was looking for the girl couldn’t hide her face.
Laella drew a deep drag from her cigarillo, flicked ash to the floor, and gave the party on her doorstep a long, appraising look. After a moment, she sighed and shook her head.
“I should have known this would happen after you saw me on the patio. Can’t let a mystery lie still, can you, Captain?”
“‘Fraid not,” Ripka said.
“Well, you’d all better come in and have a chat. Is this the deviant?” She tipped her chin to the gagged grandmother.
“No, this is how I treat all my friends.”
Tibal snorted behind her, and Laella narrowed her eyes. “You spent too much time with that Honding man. Now get in, before you’re seen, will you?”
Ripka didn’t much like the idea of entering Laella’s lair without knowing the girl’s motives, but she could hardly quibble with her logic.
“After you,” she said, and Laella rolled her eyes as she spun around, leading them all into the dreary half-light of the theater’s back rooms.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
An empty third cup waited by Detan’s seat at the table, and he was proud his hands did not shake as he poured the pricklebrush tea into it. Misol stationed herself by the door, a threatening phantom, her hands loose at her sides though he could make out no weapon on her body. Not that she needed one. Detan wasn’t exactly handy with, well, his hands, and Aella had his sel-sensitivity locked down tight. That lockdown, more so than the presence of Ranalae, made his skin crawl. Whatever was about to happen here, Aella wanted to be certain Detan couldn’t fight it. Which was pretty rude of her, considering all the time she’d put into honing his abilities.
“It is such a pleasure to see you again, my lord. I hope your time in the Scorched has treated you well?” Ranalae smiled at him over the rim of her cup, all polite formality. Detan wanted to smash her smug face into the table between them, but he forced a cheery smile and put on his hapless-lord persona. He was not about to let her beat him at his own game.
“I find the wide-open skies suit me better than tower walls.”
She flashed him a toothy grin. “Such a pity. I had hoped you might come to enjoy my little tower. We were just beginning to know one another, before you took an early leave of my hospitality.”
Detan raised his cup to her. “Your hospitality, it must be said, has improved some since those days.”
“Oh, dear boy, I think you’ll find it hasn’t. Aella has been telling me so much about the progress you’ve made.”
He shot the girl a sharp glance. “Traitor.”
She rolled her small shoulders. “Oh please, you can’t be that forgetful. I am, as I’ve told you, only interested in what I might learn.”
“Your little friend here was preparing to vivisect me, last I saw her.”
Aella frowned delicately. “Well, we can’t have that. You’re no use to anyone dead.”
“Certain conclusions can be drawn from corpses,” Ranalae corrected with the same casualness as if she were discussing the weather. “But I find your methods thus far fascinating. This injection of Callia’s devising, what does it do for the deviant?”
Detan cleared his throat. “The deviant is right here, you know. You could ask him.”
Aella inclined her head. “The injection does not work for me. His experience may be more valuable than my observations.”
Aella had tried the injections, and they did not work. It took all his long-practiced control to hide his shock. At least he hadn’t been Callia’s first test subject. Pits only knew what went on between those two before they’d apprehended him, and Aella clearly held no love for her adopted mother, as the withered form at her feet attested.
Aella’s self-assurance, her cool distance and easy taunts. If Callia had done to Aella half of what Ranalae had done to him, then… Then he could not find it within himself to blame her for the way she treated Callia.
“Well?” Ranalae prompted. “If you are here, then explain. What does the injection do for you?”
“Increases my irritation with pushy bitches.”
That was probably not the smartest thing he’d ever said. Aella coughed to hide a strangled chuckle, but Ranalae was too busy glaring needles through Detan’s eyes to notice.
“Manners, please, my lord.”
“Manners?” He stared at the teacup in his hand, at the crisp line of his sleeves’ cuffs, so thoughtfully lined in flame-orange. He might be used to playing a part, to putting on a face and dancing to the tune. But usually he set the tune. And this… This twisted mirror of a tea party was just too much.
There was no thought to his impulse. He crushed the teacup in his hands, felt the satisfying give of the polished material shatter beneath his fingers. Hot tea spilled over them, trickled down his palm and forearm, scalding, blending with the blood small lacerations drew forth from his hand.
“Fuck your manners.”
Misol moved, but for once in his life Detan was faster. He grabbed the table by its lip and flipped it while he burst to his feet.
“Restrain him,” Aella snapped as she stood and brushed streaks of spilt tea from her robes.
“Stop,” Detan growled. Misol hesitated, hands up, ready to grapple him into submission. But Detan wasn’t moving toward either woman. He made his body language peaceful, inert. Let the anger in his expression do what he needed it to do to let the women who surrounded him know he was having none of their shit.
“Enough of this pageantry. You brought me here for a reason, Aella, brought me here to meet with this – this monster – to what purpose? Let’s get this horror show over with, and you two both stop pretending you’re anything but the twisted specks of humanity you really are.”
“Well,” Ranalae tsked. She stepped away from the flipped table and stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the damage to her room’s decor with a mild pout of annoyance. She had the look of a woman whose pet had just pissed on the rug. “I thought you had learned control.”
“Control and patience aren’t always bedfellows.”
“Clearly.” Aella shook her head and picked her way around the wreckage to pat a whimpering Callia on the head. The gentle stroking of the desiccated woman’s hair made Detan’s stomach lurch. “We had better begin, then, since the subject is so eager.”
Despite his bravado, Detan’s mouth went dry. “Does Thratia know about this?”
Ranalae said, “My dear, she does not care.”
Selium he could not sense while Aella kept him locked down poured from Ranalae’s sleeves, a neat little trick that he suspected was part of the latest Valathean fashion. He stepped back as the cloud billowed toward him, the raw glimmer temporarily blinding him.
“When did he last have his injection?” Ranalae asked. He could only see pieces of her now, a flesh of arm, a curve of a cheek, through the swathe of selium coalescing around him. He wanted to scream, to swat it back, but he knew that they wanted him to fight. Knew that, to test his control, they were going to make him suffer. Damned evil thing, having your deviant sensitivity tied to your anger. He wished his mother would have lived long enough to tell him how she dealt with their burden.
“Right before we left for Hond Steading. I wanted to test how long the effects would last, and his ability without regular maintenance.”
“Hmm, interesting. You have the capability to make more with you?”
“Of course. I have a fresh vial on me, in fact.”
“Wonderful.”
He could scarcely hear them over the thundering of his heart. The realization came to him, rather belatedly, that he had not had much direct interaction with Ranalae in the Bone Tower. He had no idea what her sel-sensitivity was like – deviant, or imperial standard. If she were deviant, than the sel getting close and personal with him now was real bad news.
He opened his mouth to protest, to ramble, to stall whatever was about to happen, and choked as sel poured down his th
roat.
“Ah, there we go,” Ranalae said. “Knew he couldn’t keep from speaking for long. Are you prepared?”
“I am.”
“Trigger Callia now, please?”
“Certainly.”
Detan clawed the air in front of him, indistinct wisps of selium tickling the fine hairs on his hands, the aching cuts in his palm fading now as his mind burst with panic. They would not kill him here, he told himself. Not intentionally.
But all his calming techniques had been stripped from him – his deep breaths, his distracting banter. His coping methods crumbled around him and he wanted to scream but the breath just wouldn’t come and he fell to one knee, eyes bulging, clawing at the ground as if he could dig his way to clear air. Nails bent back, cuts opened wider, a little pool of slick blood spread beneath his hands and he’d be pits-cursed if he wouldn’t rather be drowning in that than sel and he tried, tried so damn hard, to open his senses. To grasp the sel being shoved inside him and rip it out and bore it straight through Ranalae’s thrice-cursed eyes and oh holy fuck he was going to die here bug-eyed and useless and what was the fucking point after all–
Callia’s ability hit him.
Perversion. That was what she was. Long before Aella’s poisons had reduced her to a withered husk of a woman, Callia’s deviant ability had been the corruption of everything good – an extension of herself, if Aella’s theory of deviancy was true – and the poison had only concentrated that vileness.
He roiled with it. Every muscle in his body twitched and shuddered and clenched and cramped as his body fought against what Callia did to the selium inside him. It was not changed, not fundamentally, and he kept on telling himself that but all his body knew was that the selium inside him was now poison – rot and bile and decay – and he had to get it out.
His throat spasmed as he tried to scream though he had no air to do it with. Limbs he only vaguely recognized as his own twitched and writhed on the floor he’d bloodied.
He was dying and he knew it and something inside him broke.
A fire in his veins. Fire that was not his, had never really been his, that simply coexisted with him because it had no choice, burned within him hotter than anything he’d ever felt in his entire life. Some distant part of him wondered if this was the fire that had eaten his mother up – not bonewither, not after all – and was silenced. The fire would not die with him. It wanted release, and Detan was a whole pits-lot stronger than anyone had ever expected.
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