by Jeff Wheeler
“Yes. My brother is also here and will be coming inside shortly. Can I have a key to our room, please?”
“Of course!” He was polished in his manners and very cheerful. “Your accommodations have all been paid in advance, I see. You are welcome to enjoy the breakfast feast at your leisure, though I imagine you are weary from your journey. I will have a manservant escort you to your room at once.” He snapped his finger, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen who’d been lounging against the back wall sprang into action. He was given the key to the room and instructions to take Cettie there.
As Cettie followed him to the room, she quickly became lost in the grandeur of the place, the veins of marble in the walls and the winding, though comfortably wide, hallways. All the decorations and cleanliness of the place didn’t put her at ease. She kept her senses alert, seeking anything that might be out of place, but that was difficult because she felt so out of place. She wore another woman’s smile, her stained dress concealed by the ring’s magic.
The manservant brought her to a set of wide, carpeted stairs, which could have easily fit a dozen people across. They climbed until Cettie’s legs began to ache. They passed a few people along the way, guests who’d already arisen, but Cettie greeted none of them unless she was greeted first. It fascinated her to see such an array of clothing and manners. Though she’d been taught to recognize and wear the various court fashions, it felt different to see them in person.
At last the manservant led her to her room, only differentiated from the identical doors lining the corridor due to the number engraved on the brass placard. The manservant inserted the key, twisted it, and opened the door. She gestured for him to go in first, still innately cautious.
The decor was just as lavish as she’d expect. There were two separate rooms, each with a large bed and an intricately carved dresser, connected by a common sitting room, plus a balcony and a changing room. She reached out with her power to sense the presence of anyone else in the room. Nothing. The young manservant familiarized her with the arrangements, tied open the curtain to expose the view of the gardens below, and then bowed to her.
“Will you bring my brother up here when he arrives?” she asked.
“I will, ma’am. It would be my pleasure.” Then he left her.
She was alone.
Even though she was in an enormous hotel, surrounded on all sides, she felt a small thrill of being alone. Alone with her thoughts. Alone with her demons.
No one had told her what to do next. She had no current orders to follow.
Without planning it, she made her way onto the small balcony. She could see the underside of the hurricane above, its planks starting to glow with the rising of the sun. She looked down at the gardens, taking in the whorl-like pattern made from the green foliage below. It was vaguely reminiscent of the kystrel’s design.
She knew that Rand was no longer in the garden. She could sense him in the lobby, feeling at ease and a little smug at how much information he was getting from the unguarded officers.
As she stared out the window, she was reminded of Fog Willows and her view from the keeper’s chamber in the tower. It caused her heart to constrict. Had Lady Maren really taken a lover? She remembered Clive Francis, her mother’s old flame, but an affair with such an ill-chosen man didn’t seem in keeping with Lady Maren’s character. And yet . . . why would Rand lie about it so offhandedly? And then there was Adam and Anna. That was less of a surprise, though she still felt an angry twist of disappointment in her heart. Anna had loved Adam for years, since they were children, but Adam’s interest had always been in Cettie. It seemed a little out of character for him to dote on her now.
But then, didn’t people often act out of character? Wasn’t that exactly what she was doing? Cettie Pratt who had grown up in the Fells and become the keeper of Fog Willows would blush at Cettie the poisoner.
In the quiet, in her aloneness, she began to grieve again for all she had lost.
Then she sensed a wave of concern coming from Rand, concern because her emotions were spilling subtly into him. Curse the kystrel and the bond it had created! She’d been foolish to believe she was alone. She wouldn’t ever be alone anymore.
Leaving the balcony, she shut the door behind her and fell onto one of the beds. Why dwell on the past? She couldn’t change it. Why be miserable for decisions that had been forced on her? Yet . . . yet . . . hadn’t she chosen them ultimately? And wasn’t it regret that constantly chafed her heart?
What could she do about it?
Nothing. If she attempted to flee, they’d catch her. She had no resources, no friends. No way of communicating with others without revealing herself to her captors. She was utterly helpless to free herself.
And even if she did?
The authorities would kill her because of the hetaera brand.
Rand had their luggage brought up from the tempest, just two small chests they’d taken from the tempest’s previous occupants to support the ruse that they were normal guests. There was nothing to do but wait for further instructions, and so they walked the grounds together, listened to the small chamber orchestra play fanciful sonatas from Pree, and enjoyed the lavish meals provided. Cettie ate sparingly, as she’d been trained to do at the poisoner school.
Their conversations were ordinary, but she could sense his rekindled attraction for her. Behind his cheerful small talk, she sensed that he truly cared about her. That he desired her even. His struggle to conceal those feelings from her convinced her there was something behind them.
And yet part of her didn’t trust it. That invisible ring she’d discovered on his hand had surfaced in her thoughts again and again. Was it to conceal his clothing? Or his face? He felt like the man she’d known from Gimmerton Sough, but was he really who he claimed to be? It was difficult keeping her distrust at bay. It festered like a tiny splinter.
They parted after dinner. He’d promised to play cards with the soldiers he’d met earlier, and she retreated to their rooms. A fire had been built in the small fireplace in the den, rendering the room pleasantly warm, and lit candles dotted the surfaces. Discarding the illusion of being Joanna Patchett, she sat on a small settee and stared into the flames, dreading and looking forward to when Rand would arrive.
She could hear him speak with the other officers, feel his building impatience to be alone with her. The knowledge of how he felt made her insides squirm.
Finally, only an hour or so after they’d parted, she felt him coming up the stairs. She felt him walking down the hall. She even felt him pause at the door, preparing himself to face her.
When he entered the den, she didn’t look at him, her eyes still fixed on the flames. She could make him feel anything she wanted. It was a powerful realization. She could wring his heart until he wept. She could make him desperate. Whispers urged her to use the power that way. To make him loyal to only her. Devoted even. Obsessed. The thoughts droned like bees in her mind.
He waited by the door. “Why are you toying with me?” he asked huskily. A wave of vulnerability washed over her. His vulnerability.
She glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
After shutting the door, he walked closer. “I think you know what I mean. Why are we fighting our feelings? It’s madness.”
She looked away again. “I want you to take off your ring.”
“What?” He sounded surprised.
“I know you’re wearing one.”
“What does it matter?” he said, and she felt his sudden wariness. He did not want to remove his ring. She felt his resistance forcefully.
“It matters to me,” Cettie said. “I want to see who you really are.”
“What do you mean, who I really am? You know who I am, Cettie.” He came around to stand before her. She had to admit that she was attracted to him. He looked desperate, his cheek twitching with emotion. “You know my very soul.”
“Do I?” she answered softly. “Take off the ring, then.”
He s
hook his head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t . . . or you won’t?”
He gritted his teeth. “It’s not that simple, Cettie. I cannot take it off. I . . .” His voice choked off on those last words. She sensed a strange magic weaving in the air. Her ghosts were warring inside her now, trying to make her forget what she’d asked.
“Give me your hand,” she said, offering her palm.
The flames in the fire flared higher, startling her. The emotions battling inside him grew more panicked. He didn’t want to obey her, but she was compelling him to through the kystrel he wore. She saw the sheen of sweat appear on his brow.
Then he dropped on his knees before her. “Stop torturing me!” he gasped, putting a hand on her knee. “Can’t you see that we are one? I feel everything that you feel. Stop using the kystrel against me!”
“I’m not,” Cettie said, shaking her head. Part of her longed to cup his face. To kiss him. And yet, she also longed to push him away. Her thoughts began to flutter, darkness encroaching on them. It was her ghosts, the ones who lived inside her. “Just take it off,” she said, shaking her head, trying to hear past the buzzing in her ears.
“I can’t,” he groaned. She felt he was telling the truth. He wanted to obey her, but there was an even stronger force that kept him from doing it.
She put her hand atop his. She could feel the ring on his finger. Invisible. Quivering with power.
Blackness began to shroud her vision. She blinked quickly. She was losing herself again. It hadn’t happened often since she’d worn the kystrel. Only when she tried to assert herself strongly against the Myriad Ones’ impulses. Was there any point in fighting them if it caused her to lose what little control she had?
She felt Rand’s other hand move higher up her leg. He was breathing so fast, so passionately. His mouth was just inches from hers.
All she had to do was lean forward . . .
She’d felt passion for this man for years. She was in a hotel in a foreign world. What did it matter after all the horrible things she had done?
But it did matter. She knew it down to her core. If she gave herself to this man, she would be giving up more than her body. It would create an inextricable union between them.
But it felt . . . so good.
Her mind was pounding with pain. Why not? Why not submit to her fate?
A whisper penetrated her mind.
Because you do not decide what is right and what is wrong.
It pierced the deepest part of her mind, penetrated the farthest corners of her heart. She knew the voice. She’d heard it before. It was the voice of the Mysteries, which she’d never expected to hear again. Yet it had come to her at the most critical moment.
You do not decide what is right and what is wrong.
The echo of it burned inside her with a conviction that shattered all doubt. No person, Cettie or otherwise, could define truth. It existed, independent of belief. Inviolate. Immovable.
Her hand was still atop Rand’s as he continued to reach up her leg. He was leaning over her now. Something felt wrong. Inside her mind, she heard shrieking.
Cettie grabbed his wrist, squeezing his hand to keep it from continuing its upward journey. Then, with her other hand, she grabbed for his finger and torqued it up. Her own feelings were bound to his. What hurt she caused him also happened to her. The sudden pain shocked them both.
But it gave her just enough of an opening to wrench the ring off his finger. When she did, she felt a strange gushing sensation as the Myriad Ones left her body. She staggered from the shock of it, feeling hollow yet full—left alone with her thoughts for the first time in a long, long while. But there was no time to marvel over it. No time to steep in the joy of freedom.
The illusion had melted away. It wasn’t Rand Patchett standing before her.
It was a man she’d never seen, his face a mass of knotted flesh. It was a hideous face ravaged by scars. She saw his eyes flare with rage.
“W-who are you?” Cettie gasped.
CHAPTER NINE
THE TRUTH WILL OUT
Cettie sensed a surge of rage through their connected bond just before the kishion’s forearm lunged forward to crush her throat. That was all the warning she needed. Just in time, she caught his arm and kicked him solidly in the stomach, knocking him backward. But her defense only kept him away for a moment before he lunged at her again, trying to tackle her against the couch. She had no doubt that he would do anything to hurt her. There was no time for her to contemplate his new face. No time to do anything but fight.
Cettie dived out of the way, finding the hotel den too cramped for her usual maneuvers. She banged her shins against a small table, giving him an opening to grab her wrist and attempt to force her arm behind her back. She thrust an elbow into his cheek, and they both crashed to the floor. He freed her arm, but in the next instant a pillow crushed against her face, hard enough to smother her. She managed to control her fear, her racing pulse. In fact, she blasted him with the sensation of being smothered, making him feel that he was the one without air. The deception worked, and Cettie bucked and twisted until her hand found his throat, then his chin, then his eye.
The pillow came away, and she wrestled herself free. They were both panting at this point, having smashed each other against most of the furniture in the room. She got to her knees and found him hovering over her. Without hesitating, she struck at his groin with her fist. He blocked the blow and chopped his hand down against the side of her neck. The blow nearly knocked her out, but her training saved her. She leaped up, uncoiling like a spring, and attacked him with both hands in a Bhikhu technique.
He toppled over the back of the couch, and Cettie retreated, hand behind her back, twisting one of her poisoner rings to expose the needle.
The reprieve was brief.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” he demanded, his face shining with sweat. She felt his anger, his frustration, his inner shame at the scars on his face. “Do you think there is anywhere you could run?”
“Who are you?” she said, breathing fast. “You’re not Rand Patchett.”
He flung a tray at her head, but she’d seen a glimpse of his intent before the action and ducked. He vaulted over the couch, landing a kick to her middle. She flew backward, but didn’t stay down. When he lunged at her again, she tried to prick his arm with the needle ring, but he grabbed her forearm and sent her spinning to the floor. As she landed, she rolled, breaking free of his grasp, and hooked her foot behind his leg and swiveled. He came tumbling down as well. She struck him in the face once, twice—then he grabbed her hair and yanked, making her gasp with pain.
“Stop fighting me, Cettie!” he snarled at her.
She tried smacking him across the face with her ring hand, but he blocked it, knowing full well what a poisoner could do. He wrested her hand away, squeezing her fingers painfully, until she managed to get her teeth on his hand and bite hard. He let go, only to grab her around the middle, hoist her off her feet, and throw her across the room.
Her back screamed with pain, and she slumped to the floor. Cettie decided to lay still, to pretend that she was unconscious. It was a risk, because he could sense her feelings, but she did her best to guard her mind. Her back ached. Her hair veiled part of her face. Her ears listened for sounds of movement. He was breathing quickly, wiping his face. They were both sweating.
“Why, Cettie? Why?” he muttered to himself. She heard him approach.
She’d never felt so vulnerable before. Had he drawn a knife? Or a pistol? Had their battle alerted any of the hotel staff?
Cettie feigned a moan and tried, in a lethargic way, to sit up.
“No, no, no,” he said, dropping down near her.
Cettie opened her eyes and slammed her hand against his, piercing him with the poisoned needle.
Shock filled him.
He began to lift the pistol he was holding with his other hand. Cettie grabbed his wrist and fought to push it away from her head
. She could not. He was still strong, and she watched his finger begin to flex on the trigger. The barrel was pointed right at her face.
She felt his inner conflict. He was supposed to kill her. That’s what he’d been told to do if she tried to leave. Yet he couldn’t. He cared about her. The feelings were not faked—they were real. She looked past the scars into the eyes, the eyes that were still his, despite the illusion.
“Don’t,” she begged, still wrestling against him.
And then he slumped to the floor, the toxin finally paralyzing his muscles.
Cettie bound him to one of the armchairs. His wrists and ankles were secured with cords she’d made from the excess furniture and curtains. She’d disarmed him as well, removing the various pistols and blades he’d kept on his body. She pocketed a pistol and a dagger for herself. Then, while the toxin raged inside him, she brought out her poisoner bag and prepared a dose of nightshade. Too much would kill him. The right amount would make him tell her what she wanted to know and rob him of his memories of the confession.
While tying him up, she’d tried to remove her kystrel from his neck, but the medallion had sent a powerful shock through her. She tried again, and this time managed to get it off his neck. A wave of pain, intense and unyielding, washed over her, and only receded when she put the medallion around her own neck—an imperfect solution, to be sure, but at least it was no longer in his possession. Her arm still tingled from the ordeal. Though she didn’t want to wear it, not anymore, she couldn’t face the pain of attempting to remove it again.
She could sense the kishion’s stupor through the magic, but he was aware of his surroundings still. The poisonous agent affected the nerves but didn’t make him unconscious.
After her preparations were done, she studied his face while waiting for the poison to wear off. His face was covered in a series of healed scars from burns and cuts. As if a bomb had exploded in front of him. Parts of his dark hair had been ignited as well, leaving gaps and splotches of waxy skin. The wounds were mostly on his right side. From the other perspective, she saw little evidence of it, except for a few small crisscrossing scars. His hands and neck had also been burned. The scars covered much of his body.