by Rose Reid
“Carnahan exaggerates,” Lyom answers, the hardness not gone from his tone. Not yet.
Haraya looks over her shoulder at me and her soft expression changes instantaneously.
“I should kill you myself.” she hisses but her threat is akin to a kitten warning a bear of its vengeance.
Lyom’s hand, still resting on her hip, gently pushes her a step back. Gentle. When has Lyom ever been gentle? I feel the rage, hot and wild, building up in my chest. I don’t have the right to be offended or jealous — I kissed him, not the other way around — but my emotions are already getting the better of me. It is all I can do to reign in my temper and stand tall. Because there is nothing else I can do, I will let Haraya see me as the fearless assassin I once was, uncaring and unaffected.
“Do that and it will be the death of you.” Lyom reminds her in a lower voice, reminding me just how many secrets King Dryden and his underlings are keeping.
“Does Carnahan exaggerate on everything?” Haraya questions, never taking her eyes off me.
Lyom frowns. “What do you mean?”
She nods to me. “He says you have formed an attachment to her. Is it true?”
I’m not sure whether she is asking me or Lyom but everything inside screams for me to tell her everything that has happened, just to rub it in her face. I want to tell her that he was distraught when his men found me in the Hook Gulch, half dead from the venom of a wytrian. I want to tell her that I made him laugh and smile and that I know his secret. I want to tell her that I kissed him wildly in his tent before both our worlds exploded into ash and fire. But I don’t. I have more decorum than that.
“No,” Lyom says, echoing my own morose thoughts.
She does not look away from me, eyes narrow slits, and I suddenly compare her to a cunning and treacherous snake, willing to do or say anything to convince someone of something, or at the very least get her way.
“Carnahan exaggerates,” she repeats, almost a question.
“Yes,” Lyom replies. “I have been told to take the assassin to the dungeons. If you’ll excuse me,”
He tries to step around her but her hand snakes around his arm. “I must speak with you first.” she says, her eyes moving to meet his again. Hers are so green, so convincing that I almost believe she really has something of value to say, but that does not squelch the undying desire to throw her to the ground.
“It is very important. Please, Lyom,” she says.
Lyom shakes his head. “After I deliver the assassin to the dungeons, I will come and attend to whatever you need.”
There is something in the way he says it that makes my whole heart lurch and drop at the same time.
“Lyom, it is about Prince Atwood.”
Haraya’s words give me pause and I feel my curiosity pique immediately. Before I can stop myself, I find myself asking, “What about Finn?” My question elicits a feigned look of horror from Haraya and a baffled one from Lyom, who promptly turns his attention back on his princess.
“Your Highness,” I hear the cool aloofness in his tone, hear him shutting her out, and I have the urge to sneer at her childishly. “I must attend to the king’s wishes, but —”
Haraya recognizes the change in his tone as well, eyes widening. “Don’t you dare, Lyom Livingstone. Do not go back to acting as though you do not care at all about me.”
“Princess —”
“No!” she shouts. “I know what I did to you was wrong and I am endlessly repentant —”
“You heard him.” I seethe. “He has to take me to the dungeons.”
Lyom whirls on me, eyes on fire. “You do not speak.”
His words don’t stun me. I think I was prepared for them. I was prepared for every hostile glare he could throw at me, every angered and stern word he could bark. So this time, I do not back down. Instead, I take a pace forward, coming toe-to-toe with the vengeful and feared Swordmaster.
“Fine,” I say back. “But know this. I have seen what you have seen; I know what you know. The man of darkness has spoken to me as well, and if his reaction is anything to go off of, you should be afraid of what I can do.”
Lyom stares me down but I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Haraya, go to your quarters and wait for me. Now.”
Haraya must sense the tension between us because she shoves past me and sashays around the corner, disappearing. Lyom tugs me an inch closer to him and pain shoots in jagged sparks up my wrists but I do not show it at all.
“You have seen Anguis?” he asks.
I frown. “Is that his name?”
A growl rumbles in Lyom’s chest. “What did he tell you?”
I smile at my newfound power. “Hmm,” I murmur, and it’s almost a laugh.
“Aerietta.” Lyom warns.
“So you do remember my name,” I hate how soft my voice now sounds, as if I can hardly believe he knows to call me anything but assassin.
Lyom’s gaze only narrows. “Did Anguis speak to you?”
I act as though I am considering telling him. “Who is he?”
Lyom’s hands grip my arms and he practically shakes me. “He is a murderer, Aerietta. He turned me … then killed me.”
I stare up into his eyes, trying to look past the cold hardness of them. Did I do that to him? Was he already this heartless before I killed his bride-to-be? Or did Anguis change him, making him this way? Part of me knows he has always been this way, that even when he was human — if he ever really was — he was just as he is now. Soulless.
“It would be easier for me to pity you if you did not love being what you are so much,” I reply.
Lyom’s hands tighten around my arms. “I hate this. I hate every second of it.” He bites out the words. “What did Anguis say to you?”
Lyom must know that my willingness is at its end because he turns around and pulls me by the arm down the hallway, at least having the decency not to drag me by my shackles, digging the spikes further into my bones.
I’m brought down to the dungeons, where Lyom walks me down one corridor then another. Guards and servicemen scatter out of his way as we move.
I’m taken to a corridor where there are no prisoners and a heavy metal door guards its entrance. Lyom hauls me into the cell, stepping in to unshackle me. His hands cover my own as he clicks the key into place, thumb grazing over the dried blood on my hands.
The cuffs drop into his hands but Lyom still stands there, either staring at my red-coated knuckles or the shackles in his palm. And when he looks up, I see emotion in his eyes. It is completely unreadable, the kind of Lyom emotion where you can’t quite tell what is stirring in his heart, but you know something is.
He is close enough that I see those silver flecks dancing in his otherwise-perfect eyes, smell the cedar and leather and smoke on his skin.
“Just once more,” he whispers, as if it is a thought meant only for himself.
I start to ask him what he means but my words are sliced off, my mouth captured by his. Electricity jumps through me, jolting my heart back to beating. It no longer matters that he is going to see Haraya after this or that he’ll pull away in a moment, leaving me to face whatever horrendous fate the king has in store for me.
His mouth glides over mine, hand coming up to twist in my hair, resting on the back of my neck. I want to savor every second of this, because the moment he pulls away, I’ll go back to wishing I’d never met him and doing everything in my power to make his job difficult.
He breathes heavily, fingers at the back of my neck tightening almost to the point of pain. I step closer, having to lean my head back all the way to reach his lips.
And then he stops. He pulls back barely an inch, hardly his last reaction. His forehead rests against mine for a long moment, our lips a hair’s width apart. Neither of us moves. Not for three more seconds. Then Lyom steps away from me, slams the dungeon door, and walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the cell, trapped not only by these walls, but my own thoughts.
&nb
sp; XXV
“The persons whom you cannot care for in a novel, because they are so bad, are the very same that you so dearly love in your life, because they are so good.”
— Anthony Trollope, The Eustace Diamonds
If there is to be said one thing of Aerietta Elony, it is to be that she takes torture well. Even when poison is shoved down my throat and knives are dragged down my arms, I manage to smile and spit upon the shoes of my torturers, who scramble backwards for fear I will contaminate them, as if I am some sort of bacteria.
The guards slam the doors of my cell shut after trying for the fifth time to slit my throat. They drag the body of the guard that held the knife down the corridor while I laugh at them all the way. It is fitting that though they try to kill me, their efforts are proved fruitless every time. Maybe they will let me live out my days in peace now. Strangely enough, I find I enjoy the silence of a cell. It gives one time to think, to consider one’s mistakes and shortcomings.
My arms have white bandages around them from where they split my skin with knives. I don’t know why they chose to treat the wounds, as opposed to letting them fester. Perhaps they decided they did not want to try their luck. Perhaps whoever did the cutting thought it would be best not to be the inadvertent cause of my death.
The guards have left the door to my corridor open, allowing the sounds from the rest of the dungeon to flow freely to me. Down the long corridor I can hear prisoners shouting, trying to get the attention of guards as they pass. I hear cups banging on the bars, men and women whistling tunes I’ve never heard before. When Lyom escorted me through these halls earlier, they’d spat on me, growled and snarled. I have never been in a prison before but shouldn’t the inmates band together against the guards? I was under the impression that I would make some sort of friends here. Instead I have only found more enemies.
I try my chains again. Still very much connected to the wall unfortunately. Sitting back down on the stone floor, I glance over my wrists, where cuts have been made to try to drain my body of its blood. It didn’t work. I bled until I was almost dead and the guards seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, then the two that slit my wrists turned as pale as the dead, quickly becoming so as they dropped to the stone ground, their heads making a sickening crack upon impact.
My wounds from them haven’t healed but they haven’t killed me either. Leaning back against the wall behind me, I set my hand on my leg, feeling the warmth from the infection beneath. The salve Carnahan applied to my leg will only last so long and when it fails to keep my wound disinfected, some sort of lethal infection will surely begin to take root. For now my body is fighting it off along with the aid of the salve but if I remain in this dungeon for several weeks longer … It will certainly not be my kind of fun.
The sound of squealing hinges alerts me to someone’s presence. Shoes click as the intruder walks down the halls of the dungeon, down my cell block. I hear a laugh somewhere close by — another captive of the crown, chuckling and making a rude gesture to whoever walks towards me. Their footing is light and paced evenly, as if the intruder has no care in the world. I would guess Lyom if it weren’t for the note of carelessness in the walker’s gait.
I stand and listen for a moment more before jumping and somersaulting across the ground, silently rolling to the stone wall across from me. I stand soundlessly, though my chains rattle. Keeping as quiet as possible, I stand with my back against the cold stone, the bars to my left, listening to the footsteps that approach.
I wait until they stop at my cell, then hear a relaxed sigh as if the intruder already knows where I am. I suppose they do, having seen that my chains lead to my very position.
“Strange,” comments a familiar voice. “I had been led to believe that Evodine Darlington was the daughter of a governor.”
I let out a breath, stepping away from the wall to face Prince Finn. His hair is meticulously groomed, face clean-shaven and he wears a sage green vest, making his chocolate eyes look as though they have some flecks of green in them.
“Not the daughter of a king.” Finn continues, giving me a challenging smirk. “But, that isn’t your name, is it, Aerietta?”
I applaud sarcastically, my chains jingling tunelessly. “Bravo, Prince Finn. Very classic of you. Waltz in mysteriously and surprise me by revealing that you know my true name. What is next? An intriguing proposal?”
Finn tilts his head slightly, blond hair falling down into his eyes before he brushes it back with his fingertips. “Something like that.” he replies. “More of a … notification of a proposal.”
“Well,” I say. “I haven’t anywhere else to be. Let’s hear your notification of a proposal.”
But Finn seems in no hurry, glancing over my cuts and bruises left by the guards. He shakes his head, tsking almost sarcastically. “My, my, you did let them mutilate you. Don’t worry; I’ll see to it they are all punished.”
“Will you now?” I inquire in a sardonic way, though my interest is piqued all the same and curiosity has me wondering what reason the prince of Belaroux has for finding me in the deep, dark dungeons.
“Of course,” Finn nods. “Nothing but the best for my queen.”
I raise a brow at him, not understanding. “You aren’t of Lydovier.”
Finn chuckles. “No, I’m not. I’m an Afterlighter. And before you ask, yes. I already knew who you were when I saw you in the Keep’s library.”
I stiffen only slightly. It would figure that the prince of Belaroux is an Afterlighter. I then remember that he was the one Princess Haraya fell in love with. I wonder if that was all a ruse. How much do the Afterlighters know? What do they know? Could they know about Lyom? About Anguis? Of course they know about the dark man; he dwells in the Forest, after all.
I realize this must have been what Haraya wanted to speak with Lyom about. She must have learned that he was an Afterlighter, or at the very least suspected it. Perhaps the king caught wind of something in his court and had her investigate. It would explain why her father was setting her up with a Belaroux prince. I would not put it past His Majesty to place his only child in harm’s way just to test a theory. It would seem King Cress and King Dryden are not so far apart.
Finn seems slightly taken aback. “You don’t look surprised, Aerietta.”
I level a glare at him. “Stranger things have happened.”
Finn shrugs. “I suppose so. You mean Lyom, then? And you surely know of the Boy’s existence.”
I nod. “Quay told me. You work for him?”
Finn seems to consider this for a moment, then shakes his head. “I work for no one but a cause. Quay is within our movement but he is not our leader. By far. He’s a human we have chosen to work alongside.”
“We?” I roll my eyes. “You seem to think I am going to be on your side when this all goes down — if it ever does.”
Finn chuckles. “Then will you side with the king? I find that hard to believe, seeing as how he first tried to kill you, then shoved you in a dungeon to be tortured.”
“I will be on no one’s side but my own.” I answer. “The moment I am out of here — and mark my words, Prince Finn, if that even is who you are, I will escape — I will head for the hills and find a place that no one will ever recognize me.”
Finn just nods. “Understandable. And yes, I truly am the prince of Belaroux. But as for running away, I intend to make a deal with you. Here comes my notification of my proposal. Are you ready?”
I roll my eyes. “Enough with the theatrics.”
Finn smirks. “I can promise you revenge on those that have wronged you and escape from the king’s wrath if you will help us.”
I watch him skeptically. “Help you how?”
“You heard Quay mention activation, yes? We need you to activate the boy.”
I sense something else there, an ulterior movie. “That’s it?”
“Unless you’re offering more?” implies Finn.
I snort. “Not likely.” My gaze skims over him curiousl
y. “What are you? A warlock? Fae?”
Finn’s smile is all mischievous. “You’ll see.”
At that time, the door down the hall squeals open but I don’t want to take my attention of Finn for fear he will disappear like one of the magical Afterlighters. I keep a watchful eye on him even as he smirks.
“We have company. Do me a favor?” Finn asks.
“Hmm?”
“Smile at me like I’ve said something charming.” he tells me, grinning like an absolute idiot.
That alone makes me laugh, though it is at his stupidity, not his charm. He smiles back at my laughter and nods his head.
“Perfect.” he says. He flicks my nose almost playfully before backing away. “I’ll be in touch.”
I don’t realize why Finn had me laugh or flicked my nose until I see him pass Lyom as he saunters around the corner. Finn inclines his head to Lyom, who nearly gapes, wondering what the prince is doing down in the dungeons, clearly.
I wonder if he has already had his discussion with Haraya. I can tell he is itching to ask every question going through his mind but he must have better things to do. His gaze finds mine and I can understand why Finn wanted me to laugh. I am suddenly all for Finn and his antics. I did not even agree to his deal yet he trusts that I will. And he was right to assume so.
I catch Lyom’s blue eyes darting to my wrists, where the dried blood has stained my skin crimson. He takes the keys from his belt and opens the door, hinges squealing. I tense slightly, the urge to take a step back intense, but I force myself to stand my ground, even when Lyom walks up close enough to me that we stand toe to toe, his eyes burning ardently. He still smells like leather, though there is another scent in the air around him. Perfume, maybe, or some sort of soap. An image of Princess Haraya comes to mind and my resolve against him only hardens.
“What do you want, Lyom?” I demand, all playfulness from my voice absent. I know he did not come here for a repeat of the last time I saw him.
Lyom stands in front of me for a long moment before saying, “What did Prince Atwood want? Why was he down here with you? Who let him in?”
