“We don’t need to go to Lorn.” Naito drops the cell phone and then slams his heel into it. “We can make her talk.”
“She’ll lie,” Aren says. He pushes me into the wall.
“We’ll take her to Lorn,” Sethan says again. He walks to the sink and turns off the water. “I won’t risk her sending us into a trap.”
Naito’s jaw clenches. “Lorn won’t help without something in return.”
Kelia rests her hand on his arm. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Naito—”
He pins her with a glare. “You’re not going without me.”
Kelia’s lips thin, but she doesn’t protest again.
THIRTEEN
ICE FISTS AROUND me, squeezing, cracking, then shattering apart when we emerge from the gated-fissure. I suck sweet, crisp air into my lungs and waver unbalanced while I adjust to the Realm’s atmosphere.
Lena releases my arm. That’s how I know Aren hates me: he ordered her to bring me to this place. It’s dark except for a thread-thin tendril of light peeking around what I assume is this building’s door. I step back and my heel hits something . . . a wall. I lay my hands flat against rough wood planks. The structure feels small and crowded. I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of a village or city. Fae speak on the other side of the wall. Their voices aren’t stationary. They’re moving along a street, probably dodging around the carts I hear bumping over cobblestones.
The room brightens when Lena sends her magic into the glass sphere hanging from the ceiling. The blue-white light shines on wooden crates and barrels. Between me and a stack of cloth sacks, shadows from our fissure dance. They bend. They lengthen and shrink. My hand itches to draw them out. I think we’re in a coastal city, but without pen and paper, I can’t be sure which way is up or left or right. If I could just make one line, one tiny scratch on a page, I’d be able to orient myself.
“Put that on,” Lena orders, gesturing to the cloak in my arms. She thrust it into my hands just before she pulled me into the fissure. I’m no longer wearing my ruined jeans and bloodstained nightie. Kelia gave me fae-made clothes before we left Georgia—clinging beige pants made of soft leather, an embroidered blue top, and black, knee-high boots that match Lena’s. It’s cold here, so I’m actually grateful for the addition of the cloak, but I refuse to follow Lena’s command without at least a little resistance.
When I don’t immediately do what she says, she arches a perfect eyebrow. “Aren won’t be upset if I hurt you.”
“He was upset when you broke my arm,” I point out, even though I know things have changed between us.
She shrugs a shoulder. “Only because he wanted you to willingly read the shadows for us.”
My stomach knots. I shouldn’t let her bother me. She’s just confirming what I already know: Aren’s been manipulating me, using his edarratae to tease and tempt me to his side of the war.
The silver in her eyes seems to brighten. “Oh, it worked, didn’t it? At least a little?”
I use the cloak as a distraction, unfurling it more aggressively than necessary. I don’t like her seeing a crack in my loyalty to the Court.
“He was certain he had you after the vigilantes’ attack,” she continues. “But when you made those phone calls . . . Well, Aren’s patient, but he can pretend for only so long.”
I find the top of the cloak and swing it on. Forcing myself to keep my composure, I meet Lena’s eyes. “Don’t we have somewhere to be?”
Sethan would have been a much better escort, but at the last moment, Aren told him it wasn’t safe to come. I’m not sure if Lena is here because they need an extra sword or if she’s needed for some other reason. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t see a way out of this mess.
Lena has no trouble returning my gaze. She crosses her arms, taps a finger idly on her elbow, then says, “Rumor has it you’re in love with the sword-master.”
If I look away, it will be an admission of guilt. Somehow, I manage to return her stare, though I don’t think I’m breathing anymore. I’m cold, as cold as if I’m passing through the In-Between. I’m not used to people knowing how I feel about Kyol. I’ve spent the last ten years hiding it from the Court.
“So it’s true.” Lena shakes her head in mock pity. “The Court bought your allegiance with a kiss. Or was it more than that? No, Taltrayn would never lie with you, not unless his king ordered it, and there was no need to when you were purchased so cheaply.”
I blink. I think she just called me a whore. Anger sparks deep in my chest, but before I can do or say something I’ll undoubtedly regret, my skin tingles. I press flat against the wall as a fissure splits the air. A second later, Kelia and Naito emerge from the light. I try to focus on the shadows even though I know I won’t be able to read them without sketching a map, but Naito distracts me. I rarely encounter other humans in the Realm, so it’s odd seeing the white chaos lusters on anyone’s skin except my own.
The storage room’s door opens. Aren slips inside and shuts it quickly. He looks at Kelia. “Is he still here?”
“Yes. Near the herev,” she says. I don’t recognize the last word.
“How far from the gate?”
Kelia’s brow wrinkles as if she’s concentrating. I assume they’re talking about Lorn. I also have to assume she can sense where he is. That’s odd. And disturbing.
I watch an edarratae skitter across Naito’s clenched jaw. His movements are jerky, angry, as he pulls the flaps of his cloak around him. Well, huh. My suspicion must be correct. Unless Kelia possesses some type of magical ability I’ve never heard of, the only way she could sense another fae’s location is if she has a life-bond with him.
“Near enough,” Kelia says.
“Good,” Aren says in English. “That will make things simpler. You and Naito will lead the way. McKenzie and I will follow. Lena, you’ll stay five to ten paces back. Don’t look like you’re with us. If anything goes wrong, fissure out. Understood?”
His gaze travels over them as they each agree. He doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction since he entered.
He gestures toward the door. “Go.”
Naito dons his hood and follows Kelia out. Lena leaves next. Aren’s going to have to say something now. He’s at least going to have to acknowledge my existence because I’m not walking out of here without more information.
“Who’s Lorn?” I ask.
He stares at the crates stacked against the wall. “Pull on your hood.”
“Where are we?”
“Somewhere you shouldn’t be seen. Your hood, McKenzie.”
“Are you worried the king’s soldiers will recognize me?”
He finally turns. If my back wasn’t already pressed against the wall, I’d retreat from those eyes. They’re angry, miserable, and judging all at once. I don’t breathe as his gaze follows what I assume is a chaos luster across my face. Another one flashes across my hand.
Aren steps toward me. His expression doesn’t soften, but his lips part slightly as if he’s about to say something. He takes a second step, then another. He’s within an arm’s length. I can feel the heat of his body, smell cedar and cinnamon.
He jerks my hood over my head. “Keep your skin covered.”
Aren’s seriousness scares the shit out of me. I force myself to breathe again and try to slow my heart rate. “Where exactly are we?”
He grips my arm through the cloak. “We’re in Lyechaban.”
“Lyechaban!” So much for slowing my heart rate; it triples its pace. “Are you crazy?”
He harrumphs. “Indeed.”
“These people will kill me, Aren.”
“I strongly advise against an escape attempt.” He pulls my hood lower, puts an arm around my shoulders, then forces me out the door.
I’ll draw attention if I struggle, so I stay pressed against his side. I wish my edarratae could be hidden by illusion, but that magic doesn’t work on human
s so when a stout wind lifts the edges of my cloak and threatens to pull off my hood, I cling to the woollike material, desperate to hold it in place. I’m careful to keep my hands unseen, and to walk casually, to look like I belong in the Realm and this city when I very much do not. There are certain places where humans aren’t welcome in this world. Then there are places like Lyechaban.
I try not to let the memory surface. I try to focus on the shacks lining either side of the road, on Kelia and Naito, who lead the way east, toward the briny scent of the ocean. We’re in a poorer district of the city. You can always tell by the amount of silver on the buildings. These are made of wood and brittle stone and none are painted with a coat of silver.
A fae crosses my path. His booted feet pass within my hooded vision. I lean into Aren. The one and only time I was in this city, a full guard of Kyol’s swordsmen escorted me. Lyechaban is the capital of Derrdyn, one of the provinces that did not vote King Atroth to the throne. It’s always been—not a lawless place, but a place with its own laws. After Kyol rescued me from Thrain, Lord General Radath learned Lyechaban’s magistrate and his council were sheltering the false-blood. Since I was young and new to shadow-reading, I wasn’t the first reader they sent in. I came after two others were . . .
No. I won’t think of that.
Aren’s arm tightens on my shoulders as he guides me around a corner. Beneath my cloak, I can see little of the city. I feel it, though. It always takes time to adjust to being in the Realm. Being in the Realm in Lyechaban takes even longer. Every movement I make feels so human and so wrong here. It’s hard to convince myself I don’t stick out in this cloak, but it’s not like I’m walking down a street in my world. Capes and cloaks are common here, especially with such a cold wind blowing. I blend in. Probably.
We take another right turn. Aren keeps me between him and the buildings lining the road. I try to calm my heart rate and force my feet to continue at Aren’s pace. It’s artificially slow for a fae, but it’s all I can do to keep up, especially when I have to be careful of my steps. The streets of Lyechaban are full of potholes and gaps.
Fortunately, this street is better than the last. Plus there’s silver on the front doors of some homes and shops.
Ahead I hear rather than see the street becoming more crowded. I want to run, but we’re deep within a city that is smashed between the Realm’s tallest mountain range and the Kerrel Ocean. The gate is my only way out of here. How is Aren planning to take me through it? It’ll be regulated by inspectors and surrounded by Lyechabanians.
Oh, God. Maybe he’s not planning to take me through it. Maybe he’s planning to leave me here after we talk to Lorn. Maybe he’s planning to turn me over to the locals.
Panic settles like a heavy weight on my chest.
No. Don’t overreact, McKenzie. Naito’s here. Aren has to have a plan to get him out of the city.
But I can’t shake off the fear slithering over my skin, especially not when I recognize the structure at this twist in the road. A high silver fence adorned with intricate metalwork, effigies depicting the Tar Sidhe, surrounds the building. Black spikes make it look more like a medieval church than a political house. This is where the city’s soldiers will take me if I’m found. If the Lyechaban citizens find me first, they’ll skip the formality of an appearance before the magistrate and take me directly to the city center. Like criminals sentenced to the stocks in my world a century ago, I’ll be put on display in the middle of the marketplace.
What if a human is on display there now?
My steps falter, stop. Someone bumps into me from behind. I tense, but they mutter an apology in Fae and keep moving.
The warmth of Aren’s arm encircles me again. He speaks through my hood into my ear. “Keep moving.”
He forces me forward a step. Two steps. I want to beg him to go another way. I can imagine rounding this corner and entering the city center. The last time I was here, two people were bound back-to-back to a pole on the central dais. I was halfway across the marketplace before I recognized them as human. I thought for sure they were dead. Then one of them twitched.
Aren leans down to peer into my hood. “McKenzie. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t—” I stop because I realize I’m speaking in English and I can’t think of the words in Fae.
Get a grip, McKenzie. It’s just a memory. No one will be on the dais. Every human who’s ever entered the Realm knows better than to come to Lyechaban, and I’m not a coward. I can walk through a freaking marketplace without losing my composure.
“Nothing.” I start forward again. Aren remains close by my side. With his arm around my shoulders, I know he feels my body tense as we round the corner. I know he feels when I let out my breath a moment later. Not that I’ve relaxed. No skinned humans are on display on the dais, but the marketplace is crammed with Lyechabanians, or whatever the hell they call themselves.
Honestly, I’m not sure how I do it. I must brush up against a dozen different fae as we squeeze through the thickest part of the crowd. Even though I keep my skin covered, I’m terrified my edarratae will somehow leap through my cloak and into them. They won’t be able to ignore the heated kiss of the lightning if that happens. I won’t be able to run.
By the time we leave the marketplace, I’m shaking and sweating. I can’t get any closer to Aren without him carrying me.
“We’re almost there,” he speaks through my hood again.
Is he trying to comfort me? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.
I throw him a glare he doesn’t see. He hangs on to my arm as if he’s afraid I’m about to run. Idiot. I’m not suicidal. In this city, I’m as good as chained to his side.
Aren leads me to where Kelia and Naito wait in front of a modest, two-story structure made of tewar, a pale red stone abundant on the east coast of the Realm. At first, I don’t note anything special about the place. Its nondescript, flat façade blends in with the others on the street. The only difference between it and the buildings on either side is the glittery coat of silver painted over its walls.
Lena joins us at the door. No one says a word as she steps forward and taps the wooden planks with her fingertips. I don’t notice the magical ward until its soft hum fades away at her touch, alerting whoever’s inside that they have a visitor. I oscillate between feeling claustrophobic and overexposed in my cloak. It seems to take forever for someone to come to the door. When a fae finally cracks it open, he levels a crossbow at Aren’s chest and wears a scowl effective enough to make me retreat a pace. Aren grabs my arm, keeping me from fleeing farther. At least he isn’t thrusting me in front of him. On the other hand, death by crossbow appeals to me more than death by the hands of the Lyechaban citizens.
“We’re here to speak with Lorn,” Lena says.
“He knows I’m here, Versh,” Kelia adds.
A hint of amusement touches the fae’s silver eyes. “Kelia,” he drawls. “You’ve been absent for months. It’s good to see you again.”
“Let us in.”
A smile curves his lips. He nods toward me and Naito. “I need to see their faces first.”
“You know Naito,” Kelia says. “You can see McKenzie inside.”
Versh’s eyebrows rise just perceptibly, causing a current of unease to run through me.
“A moment,” he says and closes the door.
Aren’s grip tightens on my arm. “He recognizes McKenzie’s name. He shouldn’t.”
Kelia says something about Lorn. I don’t understand all her words, but I think she’s saying he has friends or servants or sources throughout the Realm. Aren’s expression makes it clear he doesn’t accept that explanation. Apparently, it took a lot of digging for the rebels to learn my name. Aside from Atroth, Radath, Kyol, and a few other trusted members of the king’s Inner Court, no one knows who I am. No one’s supposed to, at least.
Versh returns after a few minutes. He opens the door wide enough for us to enter. As we step inside, he says, “Only Kelia a
nd the son of Jorreb need to disarm.”
If fae had the guts to use tech as outdated as a record player, it would have screeched to a halt just then. Never mind that Versh spoke in English; he’s deliberately insulting every one of us but Aren and Kelia. Not asking a guest to disarm when they enter your home is akin to giving them the finger. They’re saying you have so little skill with your weapons you could never be a threat to them. Since I’m human and honestly can’t fight worth a damn, the snub doesn’t bother me. It bothers Lena, though, and from his stance, I think Naito might even be insulted.
“Nom Sidhe,” Kelia curses. Without disarming, she brushes by Versh. “Lorn! Lorn!”
Versh lets her go and waits while Aren unbuckles his weapons belt and hangs it on something that looks like an extravagant coatrack. The rack is the only piece of furniture in sight besides a couch with a broken back in the large room to the right of the entryway. It’s pushed up against a wall that is covered in . . . graffiti, I guess. Fae symbols are scrawled from the baseboard up almost to the—
I duck my head. There are at least two fae armed with crossbows peering down at us from the balcony. Even if they aren’t Lyechabanians, I’m not eager to let them see my edarratae.
“This way,” Versh says. He leads us toward the corridor Kelia vanished into. We take one right-hand turn and then Versh leads us down a narrow staircase. I have trouble seeing in the dim light, but I move toward the blue-white sphere hanging ahead. Four armed fae sit in the room at the bottom of the stairs. They don’t say a word as we follow Versh through another doorway, but I feel their eyes watching us. Watching me.
I hear Kelia before I see her. She’s ripping into a fae seated casually on the edge of a red wood desk. He’s not bothered by her lecture. Neither are the two guards holding their crossbows at ease in the room’s back corners.
Unlike the graffitied walls and dilapidated condition of the front of this building, the basement is painted a deep burgundy and has plush white carpet underfoot. A number of silverframed paintings hang on the walls. I recognize the Sidhe Cabred in one, the Silver Palace’s sculpture garden in another.
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