The Shadow Reader ml-1

by Sandy Williams

  “Watch out!” I scream, swinging my gun up to aim, but Nalst is in my way.

  Two shots ring out. I spin in the direction Nakano shot, making sure he hasn’t hit any rebels.

  He has.

  Kelia cries out, sinking to her knees. She has armor under her camo, though. She’ll be okay. She’ll get up. She’ll . . .

  A wet stain grows across her breast.

  Oh, God.

  I run to her. I drop my gun, placing my hand over her heart to try to stop the bleeding. Her cuirass is in the way. The blood’s leaking out the gap on the side, too. It’s leaking everywhere, staining her clothes. I can’t put enough pressure on it.

  She cries out when I yank at her shirt, ripping it so I can get to the strings holding the jaedric together.

  “I’m sorry. I have to . . . God. I have to get this off you.”

  My hands shake. Blood tightens the knots at her side. I can’t get them undone.

  “Naito,” she chokes out.

  Shit. She’s going to die. She can’t wait. She needs help now.

  “Aren!” I yell.

  I scan the forest, spot him slaying a Court fae. He turns toward me the same instant Naito does.

  “Kelia!” Naito flies across the forest floor almost as quickly as Aren fissures here. He drops to his knees, takes his hand in hers. “Baby, hang on.”

  “Naito,” she whispers, focusing on his face.

  Aren takes out a knife, cuts through the bindings on her side. He flings the cuirass aside and places his hands over Kelia’s bullet wounds. His hands glow blue as he flares his magic. The tension floods out of Kelia’s body. An instant later, she vanishes.

  I stop breathing. No. She couldn’t have died. Aren was healing her. He was . . .

  A spasm wracks through Naito. An anguished scream rips from his throat.

  “No!” He reaches for her rising soul-shadow, clutching at the air as if he can keep it in this world. “No!”

  The white shadow dissipates.

  “No!”

  I back away. Kelia’s dead. Kyol’s gone. Fae are still dying around us. I don’t know if any rebels have made it to the Sidhe Tol. Don’t know how much longer until the reinforcements from the other attacks arrive.

  Naito screams again. His pain brings tears to my eyes.

  God, we shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t have come.

  I take another step back. My tears stream down my face, mixing with the rain.

  Another step back and I hit something. I put a hand behind me to balance against the tree, only it’s not a tree.

  I start to turn, but something wraps around me. Something invisible.

  The forest blurs, darkens, then reappears in a shade of blue. A hand covers my mouth. I can’t suck in enough air to scream.

  I shiver. Not from the icy grip of the In-Between but from the wet tongue that slowly licks up my neck.

  THIRTY

  I TWIST AND I thrash and I try to scream, but no one sees Micid drag me to the Sidhe Tol. No one hears his sick chuckle when he bites my ear, and the battle’s too loud, too chaotic, for anyone to notice the spray of water my kicking legs send up when Micid reaches into the stream and opens a gated-fissure. He presses an anchor-stone into my palm, covers my fist with his hand, then pulls me into the slash of white light.

  My rain-soaked clothing freezes to my skin. Pain stabs through me, stealing my breath and cramping my muscles—all my muscles: my stomach, my calves, my bruised back. Everything hurts.

  Then the In-Between vanishes and I stumble into the Realm. My lungs aren’t working right. The air filling them doesn’t seem to contain any oxygen. Shadows creep into my vision, blurring the gilded doors to the king’s hall. The shadows aren’t all from our fissure, though; most are from my fading consciousness. My knees buckle, but Micid’s hand tangles in my hair and he drags me through the open doorway.

  I recover enough to lock my knees, forcing Micid to stop walking. He slides his hand down the side of my neck, agitating my edarratae. When he puts his arm around my shoulders, I slam my elbow into his stomach.

  He hisses and grips the back of my neck in one hand, then places a knife against my throat with the other.

  “Bring her here, Micid,” Atroth says, rising from his throne. Four guards stand at the foot of the dais, hands ready on their swords, and more than a dozen archers stand with their backs against the room’s long walls. Arrows are already inserted into their crossbows. Everyone is silent and alert, ready in case any rebels make it through the Sidhe Tol.

  Micid places his mouth against my ear. “I will tame you when this is over.”

  His knife cuts into my skin as he leads me down the length of the blue carpet. I’m cold and shaking, but my clothes are just wet, not frozen like I thought, and the muscle cramps are gone now. Unfortunately, I’m all too aware of my thudding heart and the anxiety pooling in my stomach. If I wasn’t holding out hope to find some way out of this, I’d force Micid to slit my throat. I’d rather be dead than in his whorehouse.

  Atroth gazes at me as if I’m a child who’s disappointed a parent. When he walks down the platform’s steps, his four guards part to allow him through.

  “Put away the knife, Micid.”

  “Of course, my king.” He makes the blade disappear.

  I swipe my hand across my neck. It’s only bleeding a little—the shrapnel stuck in the back of my arm is a worse injury—but Atroth scowls, unties a blue sash from around his waist, then dabs at the shallow scratch. I don’t know why he bothers. My clothes are stained with Kelia’s blood.

  Kelia. She’s dead. Kyol probably is, too. And Aren?

  My gut twists. The fight at the Sidhe Tol wasn’t going well, and Aren didn’t see Micid take me. Naito and I told him about the ther’rothi, but will he realize what happened?

  Atroth folds the sash several times before he slides it into a pocket of his embroidered jacket.

  “You’ve become a problem, McKenzie.”

  “What do you want?” Somehow, I manage to sound angry, not scared and exhausted.

  Atroth’s eyebrows go up. “What do I want? McKenzie, you’ve done this to yourself. When we rescued you from the rebellion, I intended to carry on as usual. I’ve always thought you were smart, strong-willed. I never thought you’d allow yourself to be manipulated by a false-blood. What’s worse, you’ve used your chaos lusters to manipulate Taltrayn as well.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Micid gives me a shake, making me swallow my words.

  Atroth heaves out a sigh. “I suppose his actions are partly my fault, though. I knew how he felt about you, but I believed him when he swore he wouldn’t act on those feelings. Still, I shouldn’t have allowed you to work so closely together for so long a time.” He shakes his head as if he’s had this discussion with himself a thousand times before. “But I needed you protected, and Taltrayn was my sword-master. It made sense. You were effective together.”

  I scan the length of the throne room, looking for some way to save myself. There are too many archers between me and the door. I study their faces, hoping to see Taber or someone else who might be more loyal to Kyol than to Atroth, but I don’t recognize any of them.

  “Sidhe,” Atroth curses, regaining my attention. “You have no idea how difficult this is for me.”

  I focus on him and feel my eyes widen.

  “For you?” My voice is so soft, so cold, the nearest guards loosen their swords in their scabbards.

  The king frowns. “You don’t think I’m enjoying this, do you? I’ve known Taltrayn longer than you’ve been alive. I never wanted to hurt him. When my guards discovered you helping the rebels infiltrate my palace, I should have had you executed. I didn’t because Taltrayn begged me to spare your life.”

  “So you planned to give me to him instead?” I jab a finger toward Micid, who smiles in return.

  “Of course not,” Atroth says. “It was a threat only, for both you and Taltrayn. You knew more about the rebels than you to
ld us. I needed you to talk.”

  “I could take her now, my lord.”

  “No, Micid. She won’t become one of your whores.” He says this as if he’s doing me a favor, as if he’s the most reasonable and tolerant king to ever rule a world. He’s not. He’s obviously aware of the ther’rothi’s fetish. Atroth’s a bastard for ignoring it. Besides, Micid’s sick smile doesn’t waver. He still thinks he’ll have me.

  I shiver. When I cross my arms over my chest, the shrapnel embedded in the back of my left arm stabs deeper. I focus on that pain instead of the panic threatening to tangle my thoughts. Atroth hasn’t ordered his guards to kill me yet. There must be some way out of this.

  “I’m not the only reason Kyol helped the rebellion,” I say, trying to buy time. Aren will end up here eventually. If he’s alive. “He disagrees with the way you’re running this war. If you didn’t let Radath—”

  Atroth holds up his hand. “The rebels started this. I’m doing what I must to protect the Realm. Taltrayn understood this until you began whispering in his ear.”

  “I didn’t know what was going on until I was abducted.”

  “You still don’t know what’s going on. No. Don’t say anything else. I hate to let your talent go to waste, but I can’t trust you anymore.”

  “So you’re going to have me killed?” I say the words like they’re an accusation. I don’t know if he notices the way my voice cracks.

  “We’ll see,” he says, staring past me. When he drops into his silver throne, I turn.

  Lord General Radath enters via the huge gilded doors. A silver-threaded ceremonial cape is hooked to his jaedric cuirass. He may have briefly been at the fight at the Sidhe Tol, but he doesn’t have one smudge of dirt, one bead of sweat, or one speck of silver-dust on him. He couldn’t have engaged any of the fae or humans in Montana. He couldn’t have fought with . . .

  Kyol. My heart stutters when I see him. He’s bruised, bloodied, and bound, but he’s alive. He holds his head up and is composed as he strides behind Radath. Composed, until he sees me.

  His mask shatters and a look of helpless horror crosses his face. One of his two guards has to shove him forward. He stumbles, then quickly shutters his thoughts and focuses on the king.

  He’s alive. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, but his presence doesn’t mean I’ll make it out of this. It doesn’t mean either of us will.

  I glance back at the gilded doors, praying Aren and an entourage of rebels will charge through them, but I hate this, standing here waiting for somebody else to save me. I need to find a way to save myself.

  Radath ignores me and bows to Atroth. “The son of Taltrayn, my lord.”

  The king and his former sword-master lock eyes. The silence in the throne room is deafening, the atmosphere heavy. Even though Kyol’s hands are tied in front of him, Atroth’s guards shift their attention from me to him. I’m just a human. I’m not a threat; Kyol is.

  “My lord,” he says after a long moment. “She shouldn’t be here.”

  Atroth’s frown deepens. “She shouldn’t be here like this; you’re right. Neither should you. I’ve been lenient with you, Taltrayn. I allowed you to continue seeing her. I believed you when you said you had no hand in her escape. I trusted you, and you repay me with treason?”

  Kyol’s jaw clenches. “I lost her because of my loyalty to you.”

  “Lost her? To Jorreb?” Atroth’s temper cools. “Taltrayn . . . Kyol, you never should have lost your heart to a human. They’re fickle creatures. They don’t understand loyalty like we do, like you did before she bewitched you. McKenzie was with the rebels for a handful of weeks. She couldn’t possibly have felt the same way for you as you did for her, not if she’s given herself to another fae so soon.”

  Something in Atroth’s tone catches my attention. I glance from him to Kyol, then from Kyol to Radath. Kyol’s here. Kyol’s alive. If Atroth intends to kill him, why the hell is he taking so long? Why didn’t he order Radath to kill Kyol on sight?

  The only plausible answer is that Atroth doesn’t want to kill him. He’s searching for a reason to forgive his sword-master. If Kyol plays this right, he might be able to survive.

  Radath mutters something under his breath, then, more clearly, says, “My lord, this has gone on far too long. We should have executed him before. We should execute him now.”

  Atroth sits back in his throne, taps his fingers on the sleek, silver armrest. “He’s my friend, Radath.”

  “He’s a traitor. He has been for a while. We’ve only discovered his deceit recently, but he’s been working against me, against us, for years. If he hadn’t opposed every plan I had, we could have ended this war a thousand times over. You cannot trust—”

  Atroth holds up a hand. “Kyol, don’t you see she doesn’t care about you? Maybe she never has.”

  I keep my mouth shut because he might be able to survive this, but my heart’s pumping adrenaline through my veins and my mind is scrambling for an idea, some spark of enlightenment that might save both our lives.

  “If she lives, she’ll aid the remnants of the rebellion,” Atroth continues. “If we destroy it today, the next false-blood will find her. I won’t allow her to hunt down my officers. You can give her a quick death, Kyol.”

  Kyol’s gaze doesn’t waver from the king. I swallow, trying to wet my throat. I need to tell him it’s okay, there’s no reason for us both to die, but I’m too damn scared to force the words out.

  “I’m willing to forgive you if you do this,” Atroth says. “Everything can go back to the way it was.” He draws a dagger from his belt, holds it out toward his sword-master.

  “Did you ever love me?”

  Kyol’s words are so soft I barely hear them. I certainly have a hard time comprehending them. He’s listening to Atroth, doubting how I felt? I waited for him—for ten years, I waited. Does he think that’s normal behavior for a human? I can’t tell. His mask is in place. There’s not a glimmer of emotion in his silver eyes.

  “Take the dagger,” Atroth urges, sounding sympathetic.

  “Did you?” Kyol demands, facing me squarely. “Or did you use me, McKenzie? Did you meet Jorreb before he abducted you?”

  It feels as if the In-Between steals my breath away. My throat is raw when I manage to swallow. I shouldn’t have to deny his accusations. He should know me better than this.

  “Kyol,” Atroth says again.

  “I want to know,” he says. “I want her to tell me.”

  “I . . .”

  “They’re stalling.” Radath draws his sword. “My lord, it’s foolish to let him live one moment more.”

  Kyol’s expression doesn’t change, the muscles in his face don’t twitch at all except when he blinks, but something in that one action is more a wince than an involuntary movement. He is stalling.

  Atroth sighs. “You’ve sealed your fate, Taltrayn. Kneel.”

  “I’m sorry, kaesha.”

  Radath walks forward. My heart thumps when he raises his sword and . . .

  No, I can’t watch Kyol die.

  Time blurs. My thoughts tangle. The Realm grows small and distant and I’m no longer standing where I was. I’ve leapt onto Radath’s back. I’ve torn the piece of shrapnel from my arm. I’ve drawn it across the lord general’s throat.

  The metal is small, blood-soaked. My grip isn’t firm enough to really slice, so I bring it around again—

  Radath grabs my wrist and twists. Something cracks. Then something slams into my face.

  “McKenzie!”

  Two people, three, maybe a dozen scream my name. I can’t separate the voices or the shouts or the whistles of flying arrows.

  Blood drips from my face, splatters on the floor beside a leather boot, a leather boot that disappears. At first, I think my vision’s failing. Then the noise filling the throne room registers.

  “McKenzie!”

  I recognize Aren’s voice this time. He made it through the Sidhe Tol. He’s just inside the throne room
, hiding behind the body of a Court fae. Arrows bounce off the fae’s jaedric armor, but puncture his throat and arms. When he vanishes into the ether, Aren dives back out the doors.

  Half the fae follow him; the other half . . .

  The other half target Kyol, who’s managed to free himself from the ropes binding him. He holds a dagger—the one Atroth offered him moments before—to the king’s throat. The muscles in Kyol’s arm quiver, and my heart breaks at the bleakness in his eyes.

  “Taltrayn,” Radath grinds out, holding a hand to his bleeding neck. The lord general doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t have to, not with Micid moving . . . somewhere.

  I throw myself across the floor, searching for the ther’rothi. My elbow hits something. I swing my arm around, ensnaring what have to be Micid’s legs. He stumbles, falls.

  I scream when pain explodes through my injured wrist, but shouts from the other end of the throne room drown out my cry.

  Somehow, I’m underneath a still-invisible Micid. I lock my arms around what I think is his waist, then wrap my legs around, too, as a fae screams behind me. The sound of metal striking metal becomes a steady percussion. I catch a brief glimpse of Aren and a dozen rebels fighting Court fae.

  I lose sight of him, and I can’t see Kyol because Radath’s in the way. I can’t help either of them. All I can do is hang on to Micid. Hang on while he strangles me.

  Black shadows creep in from the corners of my vision. My body tingles, demanding that I unlock my arms from around Micid and pull his hands from around my neck, but still I hold on. If I let him go, I’m dead. Aren and Kyol and the rest of the rebels are dead. No one will see Micid’s attack.

  I can’t let go.

  I can’t . . . let go.

  I can’t . . .

  Something wet spills across my chest. Air snakes inside my lungs, just enough to allow me the strength to blindly swing my fist. It’s no use, though. Something heavy weighs me down, stealing my breath again.

  “McKenzie.”

  I desperately try to shove Micid away.

  “McKenzie, it’s me. It’s okay. He’s dead. The ther’rothi is dead.”

  I stop struggling. Sometime later—seconds, millennia—my vision clears. Aren smoothes damp hair back from my face. He kisses me and then hugs me tight. I say nothing when my body screams in protest.