by Mary Weber
The room they’ve taken Eogan to is less than thirty paces down the first staircase. Kenan releases Eogan to a third Cashlin right as I reach them at the doorway. We’ve just entered when a disturbance behind us catches Kenan’s attention. He wheels around, causing me to nearly slam into him.
His expression narrows.
Is she jesting? I turn to tell Lady Isobel to go to—
“I’m told this one is yours.” The guard striding toward us is oozing disapproval as he holds Kel by the collar of his black-and-red Bron airship captain’s uniform. “He insisted on being brought to you after he’d been adequately questioned.”
The tiny seven-year-old’s giant, white-toothed grin and the guard’s limp say Kel did more than insist.
“Thank you. I’ll take him from here.” When the man moves away, Kenan growls at his son, “I’m pleased you’re alive, but you shouldn’t have joined us.”
“Yes, Father, but . . .”
I shove past them and head into the room, leaving them to sort out their family disagreement beneath the watchful eyes of the Luminescent guards hovering around them.
Crisp white and golden linens curtain the entire room, spreading over more glass walls and the room’s single furniture item—a bed. Just like the rest of the palace, the scent of icy death permeates the air, causing my stomach to roll.
The guards place Eogan facedown on the small cot. Oh litches.
I hurry over to the foot of it and try to hold back my horror as the cut on Eogan’s upper back oozes more blood in dark, ribboned streams across his shoulders and neck. It stains the impeccably bright bedsheets.
“Give me a rag,” one of the Cashlins is saying, and when she glances up at her companions, her eyes are glowing red. “And a needle. And get the Prestere.”
The room erupts into controlled chaos. One person moves to obey and another cuts off the rest of Eogan’s cloak and tunic.
“Miss, we need you to leave.”
I blink. What?
It’s the young Cashlin male. I frown.
“We have to work on him, but in order to do so, we need as much room as possible. And as little . . .” He glances down at my hands that are somehow both clenched into fists, and I know he’s sensing my fear. My anger. He’s hearing the atmosphere outside rattling a storm bigger than anything they’re used to.
I peer over at Kenan who’s striding in with Kel. The boy looks subdued, but the expression on the large man’s face says he’ll tear anyone limb from limb if they try to remove him from his king.
“Miss . . .”
I turn back to the guard. “I’ll stay out of the way, but I’m not leaving him.”
I’ve been away from him too long, fought too hard to be banished from his side when we don’t even know what’s wrong or how in hulls to help him. I back against the wall as Kel shuffles over to join me. He stands very official and stiff-like with his little hands behind his back and his black-eyed gaze solemn.
The Cashlin purses his lips, then nods, and somehow we both know he understands and that there’s not enough time to argue anyway. A moment longer and the Luminescents are huddling around Eogan, blocking my view while I’m striving to hear any hint of him breathing. Is he breathing? Litches, Eogan, please be breathing.
Beside me, Kel is speaking again to his father, conveying something that has his whole little face strained. “I tried, Father. I couldn’t help him.”
Kenan nods at me. “He speaks of the child Soren—the other captain. He’s dead.”
What? I glance at Kel. I will unleash a hailstorm on every Luminescent in this wretched place if they killed a child. “What happened?”
“When the ship crashed, it . . . it broke his neck, I think.”
I sink beside him. “Kel, I’m—”
His onyx face blushes furiously and he scowls. “I’m not a baby.”
I rise just as quickly. “Of course you’re not. But I’m sad about this.”
The furrowed lines in his brow ease slowly, until he nods once and slips his hand into mine while his father steps over to the bed.
One minute drags by.
Two minutes.
Five minutes of me standing there with bated lungs, swearing internally over the lives we’ve lost and at the life in front of us that I’m scared we’re losing. Blast, Eogan, fight this or I will kill you myself.
Suddenly Queen Laiha’s words float through my foggy head. “You’ll need to hurry if you want to save him.”
I squint. What exactly had she meant? I look up at the Luminescents surrounding him. Was she speaking of Eogan? Are we wasting our time?
Does she know how to save him?
Kenan emerges from the bustle of bodies and approaches. His onyx face has sallowed.
My heart deflates. “Is he—?”
A tight shake of his head. “He’s still here. For now.”
“I need to speak to the queen,” I say in a low tone. “I’m going to find her. Don’t leave his side until I return.” I don’t wait for his reply before releasing Kel and stepping toward the door. But I’ve not even tugged on the fancy etched glass when a man my height, dressed in a long purple robe and smelling of floral cinnamon, pushes it open and nearly collides into me.
“Pardon,” I snap.
He ignores me and shuffles in, mumbling something incoherent and bringing me to frown as I turn to see the Luminescents and Cashlins moving away in order for the short purple man to stand solely over Eogan.
Still mumbling, he inspects Eogan, until after a moment I draw closer to inspect him too. The blood is cleaned up, but it only makes the bruising appear stronger, deeper, as if the bones in Eogan’s back have been broken. My stomach turns to sand. Was he suffering while we were speaking earlier? Was that his hesitation? His nervousness?
“Can you help him?” I ask the purple man.
The mumbling fool ignores me and sets a basket on the bed, from which he pulls a clear glass jar filled with an orange substance. There’s a slight popping sound as he lifts the lid, and then he swipes his fingers into the thick orange cream and spreads it along the length of the gash on the back of Eogan’s neck. When the liquid touches the layers of torn muscle and skin, they sizzle and let off a sharp, acrid smell that fills the room.
I step forward. “What in hul—?” But Kenan is beside me, grabbing my arm.
“Wait,” he says, even as his mouth stays in a snarl. He watches the proceedings like a hawk.
The foul scent continues to pervade the air, but the sizzling along Eogan’s upper back settles down. The Luminescents seem just as entranced by the scene as I am, and while they’re watching it, I slide my hand out and grab one of the smaller blades left on the edge of the bed. It still has blood on it and I slip it between my dress skirts.
Kenan eyes me with approval, and I promptly refocus my mind on Eogan in case any of the Luminescents happen to switch their attention to me and my thoughts.
As quickly as he started, the mumbling man stops and returns the jar to his basket while the guards collect their rags and sewing threads and cutting blades and silently stride past us to exit the room.
The man, whom I presume is the Prestere, or physician, is the last to step away for the door.
I plant myself in front of him. “I need to see the queen.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me, just brushes right past.
I grasp his purple robe. “Did you hear me? We can’t save him here—I need to speak to the queen.”
He murmurs something unintelligible and yanks open the door. He pauses midstep
. Then he leans forward, picks something up from the floor, and straightens. The sound of rustling parchment says he’s opening a slip of paper. He turns back to us and holds it up. “Did you drop this?” His voice is the sound of rough rocks clacking together.
In the entryway light, the paper looks the color of blood. Or perhaps to my overwrought mind everything looks like blood. I stroll over for a closer inspection, shaking my head as I draw near. “No.”
For the first time the man’s gaze sweeps up and holds my own. The intimation behind it stops me cold.
“What?”
He flips the thing over in his hands and sniffs it once. He peers at it again, eyes tightening into a glare.
“Good hulls, man, what is it?” Kenan says behind me.
In answer the man holds up the paper with its scrawled inscription for me to see.
I read it once, quietly. Then again, aloud so Kenan can hear, as my head implodes from anger. I shut my eyes to keep from tipping over in the spinning room. The message searing itself against the inside of my eyelids.
“I’ll see you soon, pet.”
It must have been on Eogan. I flip around to stare at him. Draewulf must have placed it in his overcoat pocket with the chance the shape-shifter would lose his hold and be forced from Eogan’s body.
Which means . . . Draewulf knew he might lose his hold.
My attempt to follow the man who is leaving the room is interrupted by a soft groan. Kenan’s already striding over to the bed. I cross the ten steps in half a second. Eogan’s back is moving with shallow breathing, even if his uncloaked skin is marred with that bruising and stitching and odd-looking burn marks from the orange paste.
I rest fingertips from my good hand on his shoulder and glance up at Kenan, who’s bending over the king’s face to peer at his closed eyes and the pulsing of his neck.
Eogan’s body jerks and stiffens. His hand jolts up and grasps Kenan’s arm, causing me to screech. He squeezes it until his knuckles pop.
“It’s just me, Eogan,” the guard growls. “Relax.”
The grip loosens immediately and Eogan’s muscles slacken. His eyes open far enough to glare at the large guard. “Get Nym, you oaf. Make sure she’s safe.”
“She’s right here. Now shut up and rest before you kill yourself.”
Eogan’s eyes close, although I highly doubt it’s in obedience. His head lolls to the side again, and only the continued rapid rise and fall of his sewn-up upper back keeps me sane. I bite my tongue and gulp. He’s still alive.
My hands tighten again into fists, and I’m rewarded by a responding peal of thunder.
Kenan looks over at me. “Not sure that’s helping.”
“It might,” Kel’s small voice pipes up. “Do it again!”
“Kel,” Kenan barks.
“It’s neat,” Kel mumbles.
“You’ll be silent or I will personally have the Luminescents lock you up again.”
“Yes, Father.”
I glance back at Kenan. “When do we know if he’ll be all right?”
He doesn’t answer, just shrugs and looks around until he finds a spot on the floor facing the door. He sits down, elbows on his knees with his bloody hands aloft, and rests his chin in the crook of his arm, the spirit of fatigue descending over him.
His eyes droop shut and a single drop of blood falls from his fingers to the glass tile, making a beaded design. I glance at Eogan, his lungs heaving his muscles up and down rhythmically. Then peer over at Kel who is silently watching his father.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Kenan says finally from the crook of his arm. “But from what I’ve gathered, whatever they’ve done won’t be permanent. He’s still dying.”
My fears exactly.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper and stride out to find the queen.
CHAPTER 10
THE HALL IS DEAD SILENT. THE HOST OF Luminescents that was here minutes ago is gone and there’s neither sound nor sign of anyone.
I tighten my grip on the confiscated blade at my side and peek back at Eogan’s room. Then, straightening my shoulders, I slink down the crystal hall to slip quick and quiet around one corner, then another, taking the passages and stairs leading away from this glassy wing of the Castle. Things begin to look more familiar toward the throne room we were brought to last night.
My head pounds dull with the rain drumming on the high ceiling that’s flickering rainbows and shadows in the candelabra lighting. Or maybe my head’s pounding from a lack of sleep and the loss of blood from my own chest, I don’t know—but whatever the cause, it’s beating louder and harder the closer I get. Stressing that something is very wrong.
When I reach the giant, closed, crystal throne-room doors, I stop. After a moment of no one appearing, I skirt past them and around the curved wall to a small corridor shooting off from the right.
A horn blasts. It’s distant and muffled, but in the silence it makes me jump. Two seconds later it repeats, and this time I’m already trying one door, two doors, three doors down the hall while shaking off the awareness that Rasha has walked this hall and touched these doors before. That she should be here now.
C’mon, Nym, focus.
Unfortunately, the doors are locked. Between my time at Adora’s house and Faelen’s Castle, I’ve a suspicion all royal rooms tend to be located in a similar layout. At least I hope they are. I aim for the last one located at the far end.
The door is unlocked, and pressing it brings me onto a platform attached to an arched bridge that spans over a giant domed room. Or rather, a garden enclosed in a room, with plants and flowers edging the circular walls and dripping from boxes hung in midair throughout the humid space. In the center, directly beneath the bridge and domed glass ceiling, a pond ripples with what appear to be five real, live snake-swans. They float and glide upon the blue surface, their necks writhing up and around, listening for any movement their blind eyes are unable to detect. I inspect them as the heat in here crushes against my lungs.
It’s suffocating. I pull my braid off my damp neck and, keeping my eye on those swans, cross the tiny arching bridge.
Not until I’m coming down the arch on the other side do I see the guard standing like a white statue. Blocking my way.
She assesses me with red-rimmed pupils.
“The queen,” I say.
The woman opens an intricately etched gate attached to the bridge and extends her arm to usher me down onto a curling stairwell. “She’s expecting you.”
I raise a brow, ignore the shiver curling up my throat, and stride forward as the guard shuts it behind me, and abruptly I’m walking down a circle of steps to the garden.
We emerge beside the lake and come face-to-face with her.
Queen Laiha.
She’s seated in the same wheeling chair as earlier, facing the lake, except this time the backdrop behind her is floral trees and an enormous window displaying a stormy landscape. Aside from the red glow emanating from her crimson eyes, she, along with the rest of the room, is bathed in a suffocating glare coming from the glass ceiling that tweaks the rain and sunlight as it shines in and magnifies it. Any other time I would’ve been mesmerized by such a trick.
Unfortunately for her, I don’t give a bleeding litch.
“You knew he was dying, and you still kept us.” My voice shakes in fury.
“Which is why I suggested in the throne room that you’d want to hurry.”
Is she jesting? “You’re the one who detained us and interrogated him.” I point my blade at her. I don’t care if she is Rasha’s mum. “Now tell me
how to fix him.”
Behind me I hear a clink of metal and my skin pricks as the guard pulls her own blade and holds it to my back. I stiffen.
The queen clears her throat and stares at me with a face that is neither stern nor overly caring. Merely . . . patient. “The Bron king can’t be fixed here.” She glances to the window. “My members have worked to shore up what little life he has left, but you’ll have to go quickly. Especially as even now the ships come. The horn has sounded.”
I don’t ask what ships because we both already know. “You tortured him while knowing he was dying.”
She shrugs her lips. “He was dying anyway, through no fault of my own. You’ve no doubt seen from the injury on his neck, his internal wounds are from Draewulf. My interrogation may have sped up their progress, but it was his use of his ability that prevented them from mending in the first place.”
What the blast is she talking about? Is she unhinged?
She lets out a tinkling laugh. “Most likely. But I did what I needed to for my people. Now I will allow you to do what you need to for yours. You are free to leave.”
Just like that? Is she daft? “Lovely. How do I save him?”
“You know the answer.”
I let the blade flash again and the one at my back pricks harder. I clench my teeth. “If I knew, I’d not be standing here asking.”
“The Valley of Origin, of course. I suggest you take the fastest of your airships.”
The Valley in Faelen?
“I assume you mean the ships you confiscated.”
“The two that were not destroyed in your crash—which took down a bit of my Castle, I remind you—are ready and waiting for your departure.”
I bite my lip. “You’re saying there’s someone in the Valley who can help him? Where will I find this person?”
“Not a person. Well, not in our definition of one, anyway.” She stares at me meaningfully as if I’m to understand this.
I don’t.
And I don’t have time for her riddles. “Tell me what it is then—”
