The Sharpest Blade ml-3

by Sandy Williams

  “Where is he?” Lena demands. I know she’s talking to me even though she doesn’t turn. She’s asked me this question a dozen times now, and finally, I can give her a different answer.

  “He’s on his way,” I say.

  Not for the first time, Trev gives me an odd look. He knows we’re talking about Kyol. I don’t think he’s figured out we have a life-bond yet, but he will soon if Lena doesn’t watch what she says. I’m not sure she cares if he knows, though. That either shows how much she trusts him—or it shows that she’s not aware of his existence.

  When the door to the chamber opens, Lena turns. Kyol descends the narrow staircase that leads up to the King’s Hall. When the blue-white light from the magically lit orbs illuminates his face, his expression is as calm and stoic as ever. But I know how furious he is, and not just because I can feel his rage vibrating across the bond. It’s his eyes. The edges of his irises are so dark, they’re almost black, and they’re a shade of silver that reminds me of a hurricane coming to shore.

  My headache—the one that’s been lingering since Kyol learned about Lena’s ledger burning—increases tenfold when he looks at her now.

  “What were you thinking?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but his words cut through the air, echoing in the small chamber. I have to give Lena props. She doesn’t so much as flinch when his gaze bores into her.

  “I was thinking,” she says, emphasizing the last word, “that I needed to gain the people’s support.”

  I shift uncomfortably. That’s kind of close to what I told her to do earlier, but I absolutely did not suggest the ledger burning.

  “The people’s support will come when the high nobles approve your reign.”

  “Which will never happen if I don’t act,” she bites out. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Taltrayn, but they aren’t exactly rallying behind me.”

  “They can’t rally behind you if you’re dead.”

  “Your concern is touching, but it’s unneeded.”

  “Lena,” Kyol grates out. His hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, and I realize his patience is running thin. That’s impressive considering he’s the most calm and tolerant man I know. “Your actions started a riot.”

  She crosses her arms. “My actions started a celebration.”

  “They’ve lost their minds out there. People will be hurt. There are fires to put out.”

  “And those fires will be put out.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he says.

  Lena turns to Aren, who’s silently watching the exchange the same as Trev and I are.

  “You approve,” she says.

  A crooked, haphazard smile leaps to his lips. “You know I do.”

  “See,” Lena says to Kyol, and a mix of emotions twists through him: anger, annoyance, and a good dose of protectiveness, too. That last one surprises me. It hasn’t passed through our bond in that quantity except when it was focused on me, and I think some part of him might . . . admire Lena for what she’s done. He doesn’t exactly approve, of course, but she took action. She did something for the people, for the Realm.

  “You have to consult us before you do something like this,” Kyol says.

  “I consulted McKenzie.”

  When Kyol slowly levels his gaze on me, my eyes widen.

  I shake my head. “I just helped her carry the ledgers.”

  “Ease up, Taltrayn,” Aren says, sliding off the table. “The people are happy, and Lena is safe and unscathed.”

  When Kyol looks at Aren, the tension in the chamber doubles. I doubt the two men have spoken more than a dozen words to each other since Kyol formed the life-bond with me. They were enemies for years, and I’m fairly certain any respect they feel for each other now is begrudging at best. Neither man would be upset if the other happened to die and enter the ether.

  Something tickles in the back of my mind. The two guards who survived Atroth’s death. How did Lord Hison find out about them?

  I shut that line of thought down quickly, ashamed it ever entered my head in the first place. Aren wouldn’t let that information slip out just to off his competition. I’ve told him a million times that he doesn’t have to worry about Kyol.

  On the other hand, death is the only way to sever a life-bond.

  “Not unscathed,” Kyol says quietly, concern moving through him once again.

  “Not unscathed?” Aren repeats, tilting his head to study Lena.

  Lena’s gaze remains icy as she stares at Kyol.

  “You’re not putting your full weight on your left leg,” he says. “And you haven’t removed your cloak. A knife wound, I presume.”

  I frown down at Lena’s leg. It’s mostly hidden beneath her cloak. How he can tell she’s not putting weight on it, I don’t know.

  “Lena,” Aren scolds as he crosses the room.

  “It’s barely a scratch.”

  “A scratch deep enough that you feel the need to hide it,” Kyol says.

  Aren takes her cloak off. Her left hip is stained red, and when he lifts the bottom of her shirt, the cut he reveals is definitely not just a scratch. It’s a gash that runs from just above her hip bone to her lower back. Her very low back.

  Aren shakes his head. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “She didn’t want you touching her ass,” I mumble under my breath.

  Under my breath is, apparently, loud and clear enough for the fae to understand. Their heads whip my way. Lena looks annoyed, Aren lets out a laugh, and even Trev has a small smile on his face.

  Not Kyol, though. His expression is still stony, but the tension I feel in him abates some.

  “It’s not life-threatening,” Lena says, giving me a glare before she turns her attention back to Aren. “Someone else’s injury might be, and you’re exhausting yourself.”

  “My magic is fine,” he says.

  “You’re not fine,” she counters. “When was the last time you slept?”

  His expression hardens. “When was the last time you did?”

  Her silence makes his point for him. No one’s getting enough rest. Well, except me. I had three weeks to recover from the invasion of the palace and the fight to retain it.

  Aren moves closer to press his palm against her hip. She stares over his shoulder as he heals her. Looking at Trev maybe? He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He lifts an eyebrow, but I’m not sure she’s really seeing him.

  Aren slides his hand under the waistband of her pants, all but cupping her ass. Am I jealous of her injury when he does that? Yep. Maybe I should have let myself get pushed around more.

  “Trev,” Lena says. His other eyebrow goes up. “I want you to speak to the commanders of each of the wall watches. They’re to reassign three swordsmen from each rotation to you. I’m placing you in charge of guarding the provincial gates. They need to be regulated again. Now. You’ll have those swordsmen and half my guard under your command.”

  Aren’s gaze locks on her as he slides his hand out of her pants. I look at Kyol, whose fury has suddenly and explosively rekindled. He’s staring at Lena and standing so rigidly still, I’m afraid he might shatter if someone so much as sneezes.

  Even Trev looks surprised at her command, but he nods in acknowledgment and starts for the staircase.

  “Disregard that order,” Kyol says.

  Lena stiffens. She focuses on her lord general, her chin jutting out half a millimeter, and says, “Go now, Trev.”

  “No.” The word rumbles out of Kyol.

  Trev’s boot is on the first step that leads out of the room. He looks at me as if I can give him guidance. Guidance on whose order to follow or guidance on whether or not he should be worried about Kyol killing her, I don’t know. I can’t help him anyway, so I just shrug.

  Aren steps to Lena’s side. He seems relaxed, but his hand is resting a little too casually on his sword hilt. He’s not exactly happy about Lena’s plan, but he’ll back her up on it.

  “You’re exhausted,” Ky
ol says. “Jorreb is exhausted. Every fae who serves under you is exhausted, and yet, you want to further thin our forces in Corrist? Are you determined to lose the palace, my queen?”

  “I’m determined to officially become ‘your queen,’” she says. “And I’m determined to reinstate order. The merchants have been begging me to send swordsmen to the provincial gates. They’ll support me in this decision.”

  “It can’t be done. Not now.”

  “It will be done, now,” she says.

  Kyol paces away from her, his hand rising to rub his forehead. His control on his emotions is slipping. That almost never happens. Even if we didn’t have a life-bond, I wouldn’t want to be nearby when he goes off. With the life-bond . . . My headache is going to get so much worse.

  Kyol drops his hand as he turns back to Lena. “Do you have any idea what the palace guard is doing now? They’re searching every corner, corridor, and closet looking for anyone who’s not supposed to be here. The southern doors were open six minutes, Lena. Six minutes. My men fought off the crowd while we tried to get those doors shut. Some fae made it inside, and while my men think we found them all, they’re not certain. So they search. They search when they could be resting, and you want me to tell them they must work longer hours now? That they must command and control the same amount of ground with fewer swords at their sides?”

  “You will make this work, Taltrayn,” she says, and in that moment, I want to tell her to back off. She’s giving Kyol an impossible task, and he already has so much responsibility on his shoulders. But I can feel his resistance bending.

  “Go on, Trev,” Aren says quietly.

  “You support this decision?” Kyol’s voice is tightly controlled, but his words sound more like an accusation than a question.

  “I support her completely,” he says with a cavalier shrug. He’s relaxed and confident, standing there by Lena’s side. The consummate rebel.

  Kyol’s hands tighten into fists. One second passes. Then another. Finally, he gives Lena a single nod.

  When he turns to leave, I close my eyes. He’s going to take on this responsibility for her. She knew he would. I guess I did, too. I just hope this decision of hers doesn’t cost him his life. I hope it doesn’t cost all our lives.

  FIFTEEN

  WITHIN THE HOUR, I conscript a fae to fissure me back to Vegas. I need to get in touch with Lee and Paige. It’s been almost five days since I heard from Lee, and I left Paige a dozen messages a little over forty-eight hours ago. Surely, one of them has called me back by now.

  But that’s not the only reason I leave the Realm. I have to go. Kyol is so exhausted and frustrated, he’s not able to keep his mental wall in place. I’m trying to keep my emotions from him, too, and the constant concentration is wearing me down. My head is absolutely killing me.

  The throbbing abates as soon as I return to my world.

  “Thank you!” I practically yell to the night sky. My fae escort’s eyes widen as he slowly nods. He murmurs a “you’re welcome” before he disappears.

  My reaction might have been a little much, but it’s a relief, being able to think again.

  Sliding my keys out of my pocket, I walk to my car. A TOW AWAY sticker has been slapped on my driver’s side window. My car has been parked on the side of the road near the gate for two days. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t been towed yet. I tear the sticker off, then grab my cell phone out of the central console as I slide behind the wheel.

  The phone is dead, so I don’t get a ding telling me I have messages until after I start the car and the phone has charged for a few minutes. I put it on speaker and hit PLAY.

  The first eight voice mails are from Paige. She’s just returning my call at first, but she sounds more and more agitated with each message. By the time I reach message number seven, she’s moved past being annoyed and is verging on worried. I’m pulling into my apartment when I get to Paige’s last message. Her voice takes on a completely different tone. She tells me we need to talk in person, and it’s about Caelar and the false-blood.

  The voice mail ends abruptly, and I slam on my brakes, barely stopping before I hit the bumper of the car parked in the spot in front of me.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I feel Kyol focus on me, but I can’t help my reaction. This is so not what I wanted to hear. If “Caelar” and “false-blood” are used in the same sentence, I want it to be because Caelar has killed or captured the other fae. Or because he’s discovered the false-blood’s identity. Or his hideout. Or something that will help us get rid of him.

  But no, I’m jumping to conclusions again. Paige didn’t say they were working together. Maybe Caelar does just have information on the false-blood. Maybe he wants to sell it. Why he’d want to sell it to us, though, I have no idea.

  I dial Paige as I get out of the car and walk to my apartment. Predictably, I get her voice mail. I leave a message telling her to call me back. I should be around for the next day or so.

  After I lock my front door, I head to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip, then step beneath the water, not waiting for it to get warm. The icy stream pelts my face and shoulders, but I grit my teeth and watch the plastic floor turn brown as dirt and grime wash down my skin. I’m hoping the cold shower erases my mind for a few minutes. I’m tired of Kyol knowing how I feel, and I’m sick of worrying about losing Aren.

  But when I block both of them from my mind, my other concerns crowd in on me. Like the fact that all my voice mails were from Paige. None from Lee. None from Shane. The latter bothers me more than not hearing from Lee. If Shane was alive, there would have been some sign of him by now. But it’s so hard for me to convince myself that he’s dead. I need proof. I need to know that he’s not being held hostage by the remnants.

  Or by Lorn or the false-blood.

  By the time the shower heats to something warmer than tepid, the water is almost clear. I pull my towel off the metal hanger. I don’t have a bath mat, so I step onto my jeans so I don’t slip on the wet linoleum. Something digs into my heel. I look down.

  And see Kyol’s name-cord half-hanging out of my pocket.

  I draw in a breath, reach down, and pick it up. It’s made of onyx and audrin, a pale stone native to the Realm. I’ve never seen Kyol wear it, but I had every intention of returning it to him when I took it from my apartment in Houston. I’m glad I can still give it back to him, but the way Aren slapped it into my palm . . .

  I throw my towel against the wall, wishing it were heavy enough to slam or break something. It’s not. It falls so quietly to the floor it might as well flutter.

  I kick it into the corner, where my soiled clothes are. Three days until I lose Aren. I’m beginning to think that he might really let that time go by. That hurts. And it makes me feel like I’m a fool.

  Swallowing back my emotions, I jerk on clean undies, a pair of cargo pants, and a black T-shirt. I stuff the name-cord in a pocket, swearing an oath to myself that I will return it to Kyol the next time I see him, then I grab a comb and pull it through my wet hair. I’m conquering the tangles one by one when tension explodes through my life-bond. I grab the edge of the sink, bracing for whatever is coming next, but Kyol gets control of his emotions and the situation he’s in. He’s not safe, and he’s worried. Cautious. He’s trying to settle down the celebrating mob, most likely. Has it grown more violent? Has it turned against—

  Pound.

  I spin toward my bedroom, ripping the comb free to clutch it in front of me like a dagger. The sound came from my front door. Or maybe it was a neighbor’s door? Someone could have dropped something on the floor above me.

  Pound!

  That definitely came from my door. It’s not exactly a knock, but it’s not quite hard enough to say that someone’s trying to break in.

  Eyeing the peephole, I cautiously take a step forward.

  “McKenzie.”

  I freeze. The voice is muffled through the door, but it sounds strained. And it sounds familiar. />
  I peek through the peephole. No one’s out there. At least, no one’s standing directly in front of the door.

  Pound. Pound.

  “McKenzie.”

  I back up, frowning. Surely, that’s not who it sounds like.

  I unlock the door, turn the knob, then pull it open. Lorn falls inside.

  My hands slip under his arms just before his knees hit the floor.

  “Jesus, Lorn.” He’s freaking heavy, and he’s . . . wet?

  I move him away from me, leaning his back against the doorframe. My breath catches in my lungs. Lorn’s badly hurt. His face is a mask of red, and one bloodied hand is holding his stomach. I can’t see how bad that wound is—I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it—but his clothes are shredded, his knuckles and hands cut, and his edarratae don’t look healthy.

  “What happened?” I ask, standing to flick off my light switch. I start to pull him inside my apartment—all I need is a neighbor seeing me crouched down and talking to my doorframe—but he grabs my arm.

  “No—” He chokes on the word, and his lungs rattle. “No. I didn’t quite outlast the interrogation.”

  A chill sweeps over my skin. “Interrogation?”

  “We need to leave,” he says.

  Kyol’s thoughts have turned toward me. I don’t want to distract him, so I fight to keep my emotions stable. That’s not easy, considering this is the fae I accused of intensifying the war between the rebels and Atroth’s fae so that he could make a profit. He was imprisoned because of me. He has every reason to want to cause me trouble.

  But he’s sitting here half-dead on my doorstep. I can’t just turn him away.

  “Why do we need to leave, Lorn?”

  “The false-blood found me,” he says, his eyes closing in a grimace. “The meeting didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.”

  “The false-blood? You met him? You know who he is?”