“Was that really her?” I ask, surprised at how soft my tone is.
His head bent, he lifts only his eyelids to glance up at me. “Was that really who?”
“Gwynn. Back in the Station. I mean, of course it was her, but she wasn’t like that before.” I shudder at the thought of it, at the crazed hunger in her eyes as she accepted the claw from Tyrus.
“I used to think it couldn’t have been her doing all those things I saw her do. But she was right there alongside Tyrus, Ambry. Following his orders with that same power lust, just like the rest of his lackeys.”
Doubt furrows my brow. I try to picture her like that, prancing at Tyrus’s side, drinking in commands, but it can’t be true.
But you saw it yourself. She stabbed a claw into you.
I stamp away the unwelcome thoughts. “No, that wasn’t Gwynn. Tyrus has some kind of hold over her.”
Ren scratches his eyebrow and hesitates for far too long. “I know you want to think the best of her, but—”
I refuse to believe it. I can’t believe it. “She was my friend, Ren. If we can just get to her, we can free her from whatever manipulation he has her under.”
“She’s not the person you knew.”
The pity in his tone grates at me. I’m already shaking my head before he finishes. “Friendship like ours can’t change over a few drops of tears.”
Ren holds up his hands in fake surrender. “Whatever you say.”
I huff in frustration, wanting to change the subject. I gesture to the rundown ceiling. “So this is the main headquarters? For Black Vault?”
“I’ve only been here once before,” Ren says, glancing around the room. “I was stationed in Jienke, and they always came to me.”
While I want to press him for our exact location and its distance from the Triad Palace, Tyrus Blinnsdale’s main point of operation, a different thought emerges. I lie against the floor, breathing, staring at the crumbling paneling in the ceiling. Sweat sticks my shirt to my lower back.
“How did you even get in with them in the first place?” I ask.
“By accident. Devin and I had gone in one night and…” He shakes his head, seeming to think better of saying whatever he was about to say. “We got in with IDs like you and Gwynn did. And then I overheard a couple gatekeepers talking while I got a magitat—”
“You what?” I stop my inspection of the ceiling and stare at my brother. “I want to see it.”
Ren runs a hand over his shaved head. I take in the maturity in his nose, the line of his jaw, the intelligence in his eyes. They’re the same as they’ve always been, but something is different about him. He was Tyrus’s prisoner. Here I am telling him about what I’ve done since we parted, but I’m sure he’s seen his share of horrors as well.
I rise from the floor as he hikes up the sleeve of his shirt. A silver circle stamps the roundest part of his muscle, and several triangular symbols intertwine within.
“It was for protection,” he says. “The ink Cadie used fused with my magic, making it so the wizard’s spell didn’t affect me quite as strongly as it used to.”
“Has it worn off now?” I ask. “It’s been a while since you got it.”
“Just about. It used to be black. See how much the colors have faded?”
“Does that mean you’ll go back to how you were before?” Emotionless?
“Not if I can help it,” says Ren. He rises and rests a hand on the exposed plaster surrounding the dirty window. Nail holes peg along around the rectangle. The window had a frame once. I wonder who tore it off.
Ren glances over his shoulder at me. “What about you, what’s your trick? You have magic, Ambry,” he adds when I give him a puzzled look.
“I Torrented,” I say, almost defensively.
“Sure you did.”
My mouth drops, and I expect a glint of his usual big brotherly teasing. But instead he analyzes me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“All of us here at Black Vault have had to do some kind of intervention to get our emotions back. Drugs. Magitats. Talismans. What’s your line? Last I checked, you’re still feeling things.”
“Oh, I—” I cut off for a moment. Solomus Straylark gave me the same questions the last time I saw the wizard. “I’ve wondered the same thing. A lot, actually,” I add. “I was hoping someone here at Black Vault could tell me why.”
It still makes no sense. Everyone I’ve ever known who has Torrented lost their emotions in trade of their magical abilities. Why did mine not fizzle away like the others I’ve witnessed?
I begin jabbing the air, just to vent some of this pent-up energy. Who knew six weeks ago that I’d be here in Valadir, not only channeling a constant stream of magic while having my emotions, but using that magic to fuel the energy behind combat moves I never dreamed I’d learn?
All thanks to a boy I let get captured. A boy with green eyes, with scars marking all the places I love best about him.
“I have to get to him before something terrible happens,” I say inwardly, imagining Tyrus’s face and my fist landing directly in its center.
“You still haven’t told me much about him,” Ren says as he begins bouncing on his toes as well. His fists go up in defense, and he directs a jab toward my face, which I block.
“I don’t know what to tell you, honestly. I don’t know where I stand with Talon.” Not now that I know he’s Feihrian, the race of born warriors and betrothed to a Feihrian maiden. “But I have to rescue him, Ren. If Gwynn was right, Tyrus is planning on executing Talon any day now.”
“And that won’t be a small event, that’s for sure.”
I dance around, whirling to kick Ren in the side. He ducks and rolls. Where Talon would have landed lithely on his feet, ready for more sparring, Ren knocks into the side of the cot and rises clumsily to his knees.
“What do you mean?” I ask as he regains his feet.
Ren wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand. “I spent a lot of time in Tyrus’s company. I literally belonged to him, so of course he thought he could trust me with things. Hatred is too moderate of a word for how Tyrus feels about that kid.”
“I know Talon said he betrayed the Arcaians somehow,” I say, careful not to reveal too much. Talon was so reticent about telling me, it seems wrong to say it aloud now.
I stop for a drink from the water the Black Vaulters left for us at the door. The breakfast dishes are empty—they still haven’t come to retrieve them. I take a long sip of the warm, stale water, and breathe. In an instant, magic slithers forward, frothing at my fingertips. It’s cooped up just like I am, ready to be released.
“I still can’t believe you can do that,” says Ren. He takes my arm and holds it before his face. The silver tangles its way along, ricocheting light in his eyes.
He lifts his hand as well, frowning at it in concentration. Nothing happens. After an exhale, he tries again
“I know you released me from Tyrus,” he says, brows gathered in frustration as his hand continues to float in the air. “I…felt it. But are you sure you restored my magic?”
I rest my head against the wall. “It’s the Prone. You can’t use yours in here.”
“Then why can you? You still haven’t told me how you found yours. We all tried for years to get you to Torrent.”
I turn away and go back to the window. Sunlight casts an orange haze across the spread of burlap tents in the distance, just within Valadir’s city gates. The Arcaians have destroyed even more of the city than I realized. Remnants of the businesses and homes that once stood here have been thrusted in piles along the gates and streets, making way for the mass of soldiers who pace below.
They create ranks as wide as the streets, pacing in haphazard lines and rhythms, some shuffling, some with heads lolling. Which one of those soldiers below managed to best Talon, I wonder?
“It was Talon,” I say. “Talon helped me.”
The memory drives into the deepest parts of me, a current touching all the fear
of that night, the feverish urgency, the heartache and utter shock at finding Talon had joined me after all. The Arcs must have been expecting him. They must have been prepared. I saw Talon go up against Tyrus himself once, as well as multiple soldiers at one time. There’s no way they could have taken him easily.
If only I could see the Triad Palace from here. Too many buildings block the way, but that’s where I’m certain Talon is being held. There must be dungeons in a palace like that. And once Tyrus had Talon, he would keep him as secure as possible.
Citizens dressed casually in contrast to the sea of khaki uniforms below intermingle, trudging with drawn expressions, hung-down heads and a placid Unresponse. I watch a soldier laugh as he casts a long whip at several stragglers. Red marks lick their way up a woman’s back through her white shirt as she attempts to push herself up from the sidewalk.
Unwittingly, my fist pounds the window as the whip hits its mark once more. A man in a red shirt this time.
The man winces and falls to the ground, and like the woman in white, he picks himself back up again without a hint of fury or any threat of a backlash, his face flaccid and expressionless. They’ve already lost their emotions; now they don’t even have their magic.
“I know,” says Ren. “It’s bad. It was bad when I was down there.”
“What are they doing with them all? Why not let these people go, like before?” My voice rises. I know I should be quieter, but anger simmers in my chest. And besides, it might be good to draw some attention in here. We need to get out already.
“What do you mean?” Ren asks, joining me at the window.
“When Talon and I came into the city, people were meandering around like vagabonds. They had their magic taken and had been evicted from the city. But now the Arcs aren’t letting these guys go. How come?”
“Because you destroyed their Station. The Arcs don’t want to rebuild it themselves, I’m guessing. Not after all they went through to build it in the first place. Why not use their new slaves?”
My mouth lowers in disgust.
“I’m not kidding, Ambry,” he goes on. “When an Arc takes your magic, you literally have no choices any more. If they want you to do something, you have to do it.”
Have they taken Talon’s magic? Are they subjecting him to terrible things as we speak?
“I can’t stay here, Ren. Especially if what you say is true, I have to get Talon out of there.”
“I know.” My brother’s voice is low, and far too understanding.
I jet a streak of magic toward the canteen in the door. It fills instantly, spearing up to ignite the electric light above our heads with several pops and flickers. The teardrop beneath my chest heats with use, and I grip it tightly.
A muffled voice comes from behind the door, and Ren grasps my biceps, drawing me to the room’s center.
“Come on,” he says, jabbing a fist at my shoulder.
I hurry to fake-spar him once more, knowing he’s right.
The man who’s been bringing us our food steps in. His bulky shoulders threaten to topple him over, along with the muscles bulging along his torso and arms. The first time I saw him, I recognized him as the bouncer from that first night at Black Vault when I went with Gwynn weeks ago. Dark-skinned, he wears a thick metal bracelet, and rings spear along his eyebrow.
“Micro,” says Ren, pausing, breathing hard.
Micro folds his arms, making his large muscles lump from within his tank top. “Dircey’s here,” he says. “She wants to talk to you.”
A woman walks in. She’s short and slim, her face sharp and angled as though its edges have been honed with a barber’s knife. She wears a baggy t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and skin-tight jeans tucked into floppy ankle-boots. Beneath a knit cap, her jet black hair is streaked with white and braided down one shoulder so the two colors swirl together. Magitats color down her left arm.
Micro stands stiffly by the door like he never takes his bodyguard suit off, and Dircey strolls in and sinks down on Ren’s cot.
“I’d say it’s good to see you again, Ren, but I’m not so sure that would be true,” she says.
Ren and I swap another look. He obviously knows these people, but he says nothing in reply. Instead, we sit across from her on my cot.
“So.” She leans forward and rests her elbows across her knees. Her voice is scratchy and low. If sandpaper could speak, it would sound like Dircey. “Little sister. Let me get this straight. Tyrus had control of my keeper. He got Ren to spill the location of our base in Jienke. And you just waltzed in there and… undid everything?”
Her eyes level into me, hammering down my gaze. I meet her stare for stare.
“Yeah. That’s about right.”
Her tongue rolls against the inside of her cheek, jutting it out for a moment. She glances back at Micro, who maintains his steady posture, then to Ren beside me.
Dircey straightens and gives a couple of lazy blinks. “You want to tell me how you supposedly undid the claw? Because last I checked that’s impossible.”
I rub my thigh, remembering all too well the feel of the metal nail digging through my flesh, gnawing hungrily, parting my muscle on its way to the bone, almost as if it came to life the minute Gwynn sank it in. Dircey’s right to be skeptical. Once an Arcaian soldier uses his Xian claw to remove your magic, there’s no way to get it back.
The Prone is on. Ren hasn’t been able to use his magic at all since we were stuffed in here. But I inhale and call mine.
Cold cloaks my bones with an icy chill. And though the magic capers beneath the surface, chomping at the bit, aching to be released, I contain it to wrap around my hands like tinsel.
Micro barges forward, but Dircey stands and stops him with an outstretched arm. Flecks of light shimmer and reflect in each of their eyes.
“That’s impossible,” she says. “No one can use magic in this room. We don’t just have it rigged with a Prone—our goods can get around those. We sealed the door with Talc powder. Even I can’t use magic in here.”
“Dircey.” Her name tastes weird to my tongue. Dear-See. “I could have done this at any time,” I say, offering my glittering hands to her. “The fact that I’m holding off should be proof enough. You can trust me.”
I let the magic extinguish, and a breeze rushes through the room like a breath.
Arms still folded, Dircey glares at me. Her gaze calculates, examining the two of us. Without a word, she stalks toward Ren. And while she stands a head shorter than he does, she demands the attention.
“You know what’s at stake for us here.”
“I’d never jeopardize anyone, Dirce. You have to know that.”
“Yeah, but you did, Ren. They found us. Ayso got injured, and we lost Kent. We had no warning.”
“I’m sorry,” says Ren. “If I could fix it—take it back somehow—I would. You don’t understand, Tyrus—”
“How can I just let you go?” Dircey interrupts, her voice deadly soft. “I should kill you for this. Kill you both.”
“Let me prove myself,” Ren pleads. I don’t like the unease in his voice. He knows more of what they’ll do to us than I do. I prep my magic, ready to fend off whatever they attempt.
Dircey retreats, arms folded across her chest. She reaches for the doorknob, thrusting the door open and gesturing to the hall.
“Move,” she orders. “But you try anything, Csille, and I won’t hesitate to take you down.”
Ren leads the way out. It’s not a hallway, like I expect. It’s a main foyer, like that in the waiting room of an extravagant office building. The walls are faded and peeling, chunks of plaster missing as though nibbled away by local city wildlife. A few of the ceiling rectangles are missing as well, forming an odd checkerboard.
Light breaks through multiple windows surrounding the space, and off to the side are what must have been elevators. A stairway set off by two columns is now covered in graffiti. No one sits in the mismatched chairs placed here and there, no one to see o
r greet us.
“If what you say is true, prove it. Channel your magic out here,” says Dircey to Ren. “Set that chair…” She points to a chair with thin metal legs and a red plastic back near the door we just exited. “…beside the stairs.” She points to the stairwell.
Ren closes his eyes and inhales. Sparks begin at his elbows, and I marvel at the confidence in my brother’s shoulders as he spears the stream toward the chair, lifting it and using two hands to modify its situation.
Dircey’s mouth works, and she watches through half-lowered lids. Micro stands beside her as if waiting for her call. Hands glittering, Ren bares his teeth, crumpling to his knees as the chair crashes down on the tile.
“That’s convenient,” says Dircey with a doubtful grunt. She nudges him with her boot. “You never lost it, did you?”
Ren’s face blanches. “Dircey, I swear—”
“Show me the scar!”
Ren pants, kneeling on the floor before her. My hand travels to the sore point on my own thigh where the wide, three-pointed wound still mars my skin. A scar left by a Xian claw isn’t something that can be replicated easily, not with the way the purplish bruise surrounding it never fades.
Inhaling, Ren adjust himself to sit and reaches for the hemline of his pants. He hikes the left pant leg up to his mid-thigh, revealing the triangular patch of purpled skin surrounding three whitish bumps where the skeletal prongs punctured him.
“Satisfied?” he says. “I didn’t betray you.”
Dircey analyzes the scar for several moments before returning her attention to the chair Ren just moved with magic. She’s lost in thought for several moments.
“I didn’t think it was possible,” she says.
“Neither did I,” says Ren, panting, staring at his hands. He slouches back, capturing his breath. Not having used his magic for a couple of months, I imagine it must be that much more taxing.
Dircey steps toward us, dusting her hands. My heart pounds, pleading it’s enough for her. Please, angels, let it be enough.
Such a Daring Endeavor Page 3
