by Cara Witter
Sayvil matched pace with him, looking around as if watching for the men Kenton promised would be coming for them. And Kenton had to admit, it didn’t seem like they were being followed.
“We don’t know if he’s realized she’s missing yet,” Kenton said. “But we can’t afford to let him spy on us when he does. We’ll be fish in a gods-damned barrel.”
Sayvil shook her head. “You have no proof that he has her blood. For that matter, I haven’t seen any proof he’s a blood mage. Or that I’m a—”
“He’s right,” Daniella said from underneath the cloak. “I’ve seen blood magic used inside the castle. I don’t know for certain if my father has my blood, but if this has been going on since I was a child, I can’t say for certain that he doesn’t.” She swallowed, her voice edging on hysterical, and Kenton almost felt bad for her. After all, she hadn’t asked to be born to a tyrant.
“But I don’t think he can control me,” she added. “I’m different somehow.”
She certainly was. Different and unpredictable. “Sorry, Princess,” he said. “We can’t afford to take a chance.”
To his surprise, Daniella nodded. Kenton maintained his grip on her, all the while cursing her silently. Why couldn’t she behave like a monster? It would have made what had to be done much easier on all of them.
Sayvil stood within arm’s reach of Kenton, like she meant to protect Daniella. “What, then, do you propose we do?”
Kenton pulled them all into an alley next to a shoemaker’s shop, behind a trash heap smelling of leather and oil. “I have a friend trapped inside the castle,” he said. “Another Drim. Diamis will kill her, and if he gets us all, he’ll have the power he needs to release Maldorath.” Kenton took a breath, guessing how this next part would be received. “So we’re going to trade Daniella back to Diamis for my friend.”
“No,” Daniella begged. “No, please. You can’t send me back.”
Sayvil stood a pace away, back to the wall of the shoemaker’s shop, eyeing them both warily. He couldn’t blame her for not knowing what to make of them. He hardly knew what to make of the situation, and he’d had much longer to think about where he stood than she’d had.
“You’re a member of the resistance,” he said. “So you want to stop Diamis. Our best bet is to get you, me, and my friend away from this castle, alive. It’s much more important than anything your little rebellion might have accomplished tonight.”
“They were planning to kill him,” Sayvil said, though Kenton noticed she looked reluctant to defend their plan, especially after they’d failed.
“Yes,” Kenton said. “But killing him may not be enough.”
Daniella nodded again beneath the cloak.
She was agreeing with him. Again. That was an odd response to the idea of someone trying to kill your own father. Then again, everything about the girl was odd.
He focused on Sayvil. “It has to be done,” Kenton said. “We can imprison her without hurting her. He’s her father. He won’t hang her like he will the rest of us.”
Kenton made no move to cover Daniella’s mouth, and the girl said not a word to deny it, though he could feel her shaking, like an animal spooked by a thunderclap. So much of him wanted to believe she was just a girl who’d been horribly used.
But if she was right, and she couldn’t be controlled, then she must have killed his father of her own free will.
Either way, she was a threat.
Sayvil hesitated, rubbing her palms together and looking up at the moon peering between the buildings above. And Kenton thought for a horrifying moment that she might shine her light at him, blind him, and grab Daniella to escape.
But instead she simply looked back at him, her expression resolute. “She defected to the resistance,” Sayvil said. “I have no one’s word on the rest of this but yours, and I promised her protection. So we’ll take what precautions we must, but we’re not treating her like a hostage, and you’re not sending her anywhere.”
Kenton held his breath. They seemed to be teetering on an edge. One wrong word, and Sayvil would blind him with her power. He’d be unable to shield his eyes properly and still hold onto Daniella, and if he let the girl go, both women would no doubt run. Then he’d be hunting a bearer who had deemed him the enemy. She’d been hard enough to find when she wasn’t trying to avoid him.
But he also needed Perchaya back. He’d dragged her into this, and the world needed her alive. For any number of reasons, Kenton couldn’t leave her in Diamis’ hands.
“Do I get to have an opinion about this?” Daniella asked.
“Of course you do,” Sayvil said.
Daniella paused, perhaps waiting for Kenton to deny it, but he couldn’t frankly see how Daniella’s opinion was going to make matters worse.
“I don’t want to be a liability,” Daniella said. “I don’t want to get anyone killed. But I also don’t want to go back to my father, so maybe—maybe you could pretend to use me as a hostage and get me out of the city with you when you go?”
Kenton looked to Sayvil, who met his eyes. There were problems with that plan, of course, the biggest of which was how far Diamis’ resources outstripped theirs. Diamis would still be able to turn her against them at any time, and if he couldn’t, then she must be hiding things, dark things, things her mind might have willed itself not to remember.
But if they succeeded, once they were outside the city, he might be able to talk Sayvil away from her or otherwise get rid of the girl.
“Don’t feel like you have to help him,” Sayvil said, “just because he’s threatening you.”
Daniella shook her head as much as she could with Kenton holding her tight to his chest. “If you’re all going to stop him from releasing Maldorath, I—I want to help.”
“It’ll never work,” Kenton said. “Diamis has an army. Even with the losses he’s taken tonight, we’d never be able to recover a hostage without getting all of us caught.”
Sayvil paused. “What you’d need is a distraction for the soldiers.”
Kenton nodded. “Arranging one big enough, before they have a chance to execute Perchaya . . . orchestrating that would be difficult at best.”
Sayvil hesitated again, and Kenton studied her. She knew something.
“What?” he asked.
“The resistance,” she said. “Tonight’s wasn’t the only attack. There will be others in the coming days, other targets, other deaths.”
That was exactly the kind of distraction they needed. “And you know where, and when?”
“I know some,” Sayvil said. “The soonest is tomorrow night.”
Kenton smiled. Conducting an exchange at the same time Diamis found need to defend himself elsewhere could greatly tip the odds in their favor.
“I’ll give you the information,” Sayvil said. “And you can offer Daniella as a hostage at the proper place and time. But we get them both out—Daniella and your friend.”
He drew a deep breath. Daniella would have to be blindfolded and restrained to keep Diamis from watching them or making her a blood puppet and killing them all.
He’d never read of a target of blood control whimpering and sniveling and making promises to help, though he supposed a blood mage could make a puppet do so if it suited their purposes. Still, judging by the look on Sayvil’s face, Kenton could see that going along with this plan was the only way he’d be able to get her on his side.
So be it. “All right,” Kenton said. “Let’s work out the details.”
Twenty-five
Even after hours in the small, dank cell, Perchaya hadn’t grown accustomed to the smell. Urine, feces, stone, and sweat mingled in such a thick cloud that she hadn’t been able to hold back the re-emergence of the few bites of sausage she’d managed to eat before Toma marched her at blade-point to the castle.
The vomit hadn’t helped the smell of the dark cell
any, nor had it helped the stability of her quaking legs. She braced herself in the corner, grimacing at the feel of something vaguely wet between her fingers, not wanting to know what in the Five Lands could be on that stone.
A small patch of torchlight from the hallway shone through the small barred opening in the door, at about face level. Enough to keep the cell from total darkness, but not enough to illuminate the shadowed corners.
Drawing in a shuddering breath—through her mouth, because she was sure as all hells never going to breathe through her nose again—she closed her eyes and tried to steel herself for what was coming next.
The resistance had betrayed her, and through her, Kenton. Just because these people shared the same goal—even if just politically—didn’t mean they wouldn’t turn her over to save their own skin at a moment’s notice. It was as if she was only now remembering the thing she had learned when she was twelve years old. For all her moments of excitement at being part of something important, something bigger than her small farm life, the truth would always come back to this: her Drim blood meant she would always be hunted. She would always be considered vermin. A danger. A threat. She should never have wanted to be more than what she was. A farm girl in hiding, with a secret no one knew.
One who had never met Kenton.
Would she make that trade, even now?
She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of his dark eyes, of the sound of his breathing next to her at night, light enough that she knew he never went to sleep before she did.
Stupid, she chided herself. Thinking of a man when stuck in a dungeon and likely to die.
Still, the thought of him was comforting enough to calm her a bit.
By now, Kenton would have returned to Paulus, hopefully with the bearer of Arkista. Would the resistance members have been waiting there to ambush him?
No, Kenton was too clever for that. With the losses they’d taken tonight—Perchaya had heard the screams even as she was hauled down the dungeon stairs—they wouldn’t have enough men left to hold him.
If she was going to think of him at all, it should be to think of how to get out of here to find him. Or at the very least, how to get word to him of where she was.
Perchaya peered through the opening in the door out into the hallway. It was currently empty, though she’d seen a guard standing around the bend as she’d been brought down. He’d opened the cell door for the guard dragging her and likely been the one to lock it behind her. Probably he was still there by the stairs.
Should she call out to him? Maybe she could get him to talk, to get a hint at least of what was happening after the attack. Maybe if he got close enough to the door, to this opening, she could—
What? Spit at him? Call him a particularly hurtful name? If she had any training in Drim runes, perhaps there would be something she could do to protect herself, but Perchaya knew nothing. She had no weapons. They’d left the ring on her without even trying to remove it—leery of what it might do to them, she supposed—but she certainly couldn’t use that to her advantage. There was nothing she could see to use in the lit area of her cell, not so much as a loose stone bigger than a pebble. She wrinkled her nose at the darkened corners. In one, she thought she could make out the form of a pail from which much of the smell undoubtedly wafted.
If there was waste left in it, and she tossed it as soon as the door opened—
The thought cut off at the sound of boots on stone, and a voice. “My lord,” a man said.
“I need to see the prisoner immediately,” another male voice, slightly higher pitched than the first, replied. “On the Lord General’s orders.”
A pause, and Perchaya could almost hear the hesitation in the momentary silence. Then: “Of course, my lord.”
Keys clinked and Perchaya’s pulse quickened, her fists bunched around her skirts. The pail. She could get to the pail, at least. She took a few steps back toward the corner and reached down, keeping her eyes on the door.
She froze when she saw the figure in the door’s opening. She couldn’t make out much of the man’s face, back lit as he was by the hallway torch, other than some darker patches of skin on his cheeks and forehead. But she did see the purple cowl on his head, slanting down to a point just above his nose.
A Vorgalian.
A cautious hope tickled at the edges of her terror. The resistance in Andronim had been working with a couple of Vorgalians. Perhaps they had brought another with them and wanted to break out a prisoner that Diamis valued, just to anger him further.
It was a very slight possibility indeed, but enough of a hope that she straightened, though still kept back by the wall.
The key rattled in the lock and the door swung open, bathing the rest of the cell in light from a charm in his hand. A quick glance to either side showed that even in the darkened corners there was little more than the pail, a few clumps of dirty hay, and a thick pink tail disappearing into a tiny crack in the wall.
The mage was tall and thin, and as he turned to address the guard, she could see that the dark patches on his pale, angular cheeks were actually tattoos, thick swirling patterns that ran from his cheeks along his narrow jaw.
“Leave us,” the mage said.
The guard blinked, then looked at Perchaya and nodded. As the mage stepped into the cell, the guard closed the door behind them.
He didn’t, she noticed, lock the door.
If the mage was here to help, dismissing the guard would be wise, so he could tell her his intentions. But he also might want her alone for very different reasons.
He cocked his head, studying her for a moment. His gaze landed on the ring.
She didn’t bother to hide it. Clearly, he already knew she was a Drim, or accused of being one. She did, however, edge closer to the pail.
He raised an eyebrow, shifting the dark swirls above his eye. “I wouldn’t try to use that as a weapon. It will be a while yet before Diamis hangs you. I doubt you want to spend it covered in waste.”
The brittle hope broke apart in her chest, and she swallowed past a thick lump in her throat. “If he’s going to hang me, why would he send you? Surely you have better things to do.” Her voice barely wavered at all, and she took some tiny amount of pride in that, even as her legs trembled.
“Hold up the ring,” he said. “Let me see it.”
Perchaya hesitated, then did as he asked. No doubt he could force her to do so, anyway. If she cooperated, she might earn an opening later.
Though she hated how her hand shook as she showed it to him.
His mouth was a straight line across his face, expressionless, as he scrutinized the runes. “Protection,” he murmured. “But will it protect you from me?” His right hand pulled something metal from the pouch at his belt.
Then with a motion so swift she had no time to blink, let alone move, he grabbed her throat and slammed her back against the wall. Sharp pain and light burst in her vision as her head hit the stone, and she gasped, sucking in what breath she could through a throat constricted by his bruising fingers.
His face swam in the tears veiling her eyes, but she could feel him grabbing her hand with his free one, holding the ring up to the light. The charm was on the floor, now, his robes casting ominous shadows up onto the ceiling. She tried to flail and kick, but the grip on her neck tightened, and she focused all her dwindling strength on trying to claw her throat free.
Metal glinted in the light and she could see that the first finger of his hand was actually a claw—no, the finger was wearing a claw, a sharp, curved metal tip that had been fitted onto it. The claw bit into the underside of her wrist, and a painful heat flared through her arm as dark blood dripped down it and into a vial he’d concealed in his palm.
She struggled even harder at the sight, at the renewed pain, but the cell was dimming and her whole body was burning with the need for air, and the words a blood m
age oh gods a blood mage rang in her mind like the castle alarm bells.
And then the hand on her neck was gone and she dropped to the ground on legs that could no longer hold her, sucking in great gulps of breath, each one an agony and a relief.
When she could focus on the mage again—the blood mage, the blood mage who has my blood—she saw him tip the vial just enough to spill a dark red drop onto his finger. With that, he would be able to penetrate her mind, look through her eyes, even control her body and soul, if the stories were to be believed.
The mage rubbed the blood between his thumb and forefinger, his lips moving with wisps of words, guttural and dark and—
A flash of blue light surrounded her. Before she could react, his bloody fingers had her by the wrist, tugging on her ring, trying to pull it from her finger.
The ring, of course, held fast.
The mage threw her back against the wall again, backing up into the doorway. “Remove the ring.”
Why was he bothering to order her? If he had her blood, shouldn’t he be able to make her, of his own accord?
Then again, she wasn’t sure even a blood mage could remove it. “I can’t,” she said. “It doesn’t come off. If it did, I wouldn’t have been caught with it, would I?”
The mage looked at the ring with interest, something Perchaya never wanted to elicit in a blood mage. With one swift motion of his right hand, he capped the vial in his palm and placed both it and the metal finger-claw back into his pouch, then drew his hand into a fist.
He picked up the light charm again and swept out of the cell. “Send word to the Lord General,” the mage yelled. “He needs to see this.”
“Yes, my lord Lukos,” the guard called.
Boots against stone.
Perchaya collapsed into the corner again, her whole body shaking. Under the best of circumstances, she would have been intimidated by the presence of the infamous Lord General Diamis. But now, knowing what she knew—
Gods, Kenton had said that Diamis needed her dead, but what would he do with her before then?
