by Natalie Mae
Jet and I move quickly, silently, glancing over our shoulders for Kasta, slipping between servants carrying armfuls of ribbons and flowers for the coronation and around groups of tipsy nobles. A few of them call to me—Jet silences every one. The armory doors come into view, cracking open in the middle when we approach, and we step into the heat.
With everyone off of work for the coronation, the tables sit empty. An eerie quiet swirls the space instead, the melting vat hissing as we move deeper inside.
Jet points to the supply closet, the same one where Marcus and I showed the Runemaster the pelts. “Marcus told Conlee to wait in hiding, in case Kasta stopped by and questioned why he’s here. He should unlock it if we knock six times.”
We pause outside the door, and I knock as Jet said. The melting vat bubbles, the hum of finished runes prickles my skin, but finally metal slides as a key turns in the lock. The Runemaster peers out, his messy hair a shock of red against the shadows.
“Dōmmel,” he says, touching his forehead before nodding at Jet. “Aera. Here, I have everything ready.” He moves to his workbench, and Jet and I stop on the other side.
“Thanks again for your help.” I lift my sleeve. “I have what you need.”
The Runemaster nods. “Of course. I’m happy to stop corruption wherever it may lie.”
“How long will this take?” Jet asks.
“Not long. A few minutes.” The Runemaster pulls a familiar leather string lined with square-cut runes from his pocket and sets it on the table. From his other pocket he pulls a silver band that looks much like an advisor’s armband, the inside marked with black symbols. “Controlling necklaces work in two parts. You wear the necklace, and the Shifter wears this to complete the bind.” He taps the cuff. “Ultimately this spell will be imbued into the Shifter’s armor so it can’t be broken off, but this will work until an Enchanter can fit him for that.”
“Good,” Jet says, inspecting the cuff. “We’ll have the priests put this on him in the temple.”
“Just give me a moment to finish the rest. May I have the sample, dōmmel?”
“Of course.” I come around to his side and offer my sleeve, and the Runemaster picks up a shining pair of scissors to cut it free. My nerves flash. I should have come here first; I don’t know what Kasta will do if he realizes I’m past negotiation. I want to say there’s nothing he can do once I bring the pelts and the binding necklace to the priests, but that’s the problem. I still have to get there.
The Runemaster is just starting to make the first slice when something hits the armory doors.
My blood stops. The Runemaster freezes, and we wait, all of us on thorns, but no one comes in. The doors shudder and creak. Silence follows, then a muffled cry—and the CRASH of something breaking.
“Jet!” comes Marcus’s muffled voice. “Someone followed you—”
Another crash. Jet shoves the binding cuff into my hand and draws his sword. “Get this done. Don’t come out until I say it’s clear.”
He takes off for the door. Something else smashes farther down the hall, and I bounce on my heels, remembering too late that Jet warned me, way back before the Crossing even happened, that Kasta had half the palace servants employed as spies. I’m reassured that I’ve been paranoid enough to keep all our important conversations behind closed doors, but if Kasta is looking for me, I’m pretty sure he’ll soon know where I am.
I turn back to the Runemaster. “Just a few minutes, right?”
He’s nearly cut the blood sample free. “Yes, dōmmel. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
I shift, anxiously watching the closed door, but nothing else sounds from the hall. I’m grateful Marcus, at least, had the foresight to play lookout. Melia must have told him Jet and I were making our move. I’m just starting to praise myself for my excellent choice in advisors when the Runemaster turns my hand, shoves my wrist into a metal shackle, and clamps it shut.
My magic leaves me in a sickening lurch. I jump back, dropping the binding cuff in surprise—and a chain rattles, locking me in place. What I’m looking at doesn’t even make sense. A shackle, clearly made of forsvine, attaches me to the side of the table by a short chain . . . one that I realize now was hidden beneath the Runemaster’s burlap satchel. The Runemaster himself moves quickly, tucking the cut sleeve and the rune necklace into his pocket, snatching the binding cuff from where it rolled on the floor.
He hesitates a moment, as if he’s forgotten something, then turns on his heel.
He’s leaving. He attached me to a table, and he’s leaving.
“You—” I tug on the chain. “What are you doing?”
The Runemaster grabs a few tools from the next table over. He’s already slid the scissors into his bag. “I’m sorry, dōmmel. But I could not sit by and let you enslave Prince Kasta. I know the pelts are fake. I had them tested. I would have been happy to help you catch a Shifter, but it’s clear that’s not your motive.”
I gape at him. “What? Kasta is a Shifter! He’s been wearing forsvine this whole time . . . I’m just about to prove it!”
“As I told you, I’m dedicated to stopping corruption wherever it may lie.” He backs away, holding the satchel close. Like he’s planning to leave the armory for good. “Prince Kasta warned all us Runemasters weeks ago that you were understandably angry with him, but that it had twisted you, and he’d overheard a plot to ensure you rose to power alone. That we should tell him if you approached one of us.”
Oh gods. The Runemaster is one of the servants Kasta has in his employ . . . and the bird that freaked Jade out was definitely Kasta, spying on me. “He said it had twisted me?”
“I wasn’t sure I believed him, especially when it was Marcus who came on your behalf, because I know Marcus’s heart is good. So I decided I’d help and determine for myself who was right. After you brought me the false pelts, the truth became clear.”
“Oh, no no no.” I pry at the shackle, digging my nails under the metal. “I’m not the bad guy here. You can’t turn me in; I have to stop Kasta! And fine, yes, I faked the pelts, but that’s only because Kasta is very, very careful, and I couldn’t get anything on him that wasn’t circumstantial. I had no choice! But I know I’m right, and if you would just trust me for ten minutes, I can prove it!”
Was that a villain monologue? Oh my gods, what is happening?
“Yes,” the Runemaster muses, more to himself. “He said you’d be very convincing, but I’m afraid I won’t fall for it. But lucky for you, Kasta is more merciful than you paint him to be. He isn’t getting the priests involved, yet. He wants to talk this through.”
“Talk!” I laugh, and jerk hard at the chain. “I guarantee you he is beyond talking right now. You can’t leave me here wearing forsvine. No one will ever see me again.”
But the Runemaster only turns and quickens his pace. He’s not listening. In his eyes I’m the bad guy, and no one wise ever listens to the bad guys.
Which I really should have remembered before all of this.
Jet is still out there, I remind myself, not like that does me any good. He’ll be no match for a Shifter if Kasta arrives, safe to use his power now that I can’t use mine. I huff and hang on the chain, but the end of it is embedded inside the stone. The table only shifts, a slab of solid ironstone too heavy to even tip with all my weight.
I attack the shackle instead. A slit marks the place where the two sides connect, but whatever locks it, I can barely pry it farther apart than a hair. I need a tool. The Runemaster took everything off this table, but a hammer lies on one nearby. I lurch for it—my table doesn’t budge. It’s still half a meter out of reach.
The far door clicks open.
“Jet!” I yell. “Jet, I’m chained to a table—”
The Runemaster bows low, his fingertips to his forehead.
And Kasta steps in.
The torchligh
t ripples across his pearlescent tunic. He’s cleared the smudges from his face and darkened his eyes in fresh kohl, ready for the coronation. I wish I could take the unreadable set of his face as a good sign, that maybe he does only want to talk, but I know this calm. I know the shadows slipping under his skin.
And it’s a very bad sign that Jet isn’t answering.
“Mestrah,” the Runemaster says. Like Kasta is already crowned. He hands Kasta the binding necklace, the swatch with the blood, and the silver cuff. Kasta thanks him—thanks him, like this was a civilized transaction—and the Runemaster strides out like he’s just saved the world.
The door drifts shut.
His eyes on me, Kasta shoves down the heavy metal bar that locks it.
XXXI
THIS is not the way heroes are supposed to die, chained to tables by law-abiding Runemasters while their nemeses sift through different recipes in their minds. I will be a steak; I will be mashed into tiny pieces and stuffed into meat pie. Of course I don’t know exactly what Kasta’s thinking, but I imagine it’s something along those lines. And I only have myself to blame.
This is what I get for lying. For dropping to Kasta’s level and thinking I could win.
“I see you’ve made your decision,” Kasta says, in that cold, quiet tone.
“Where’s Jet?” I ask.
“In a cell, where he belongs. I had your entire advisor posse arrested as soon as they came to the priests with military plans stolen from my room. It turns out magical research is not actually illegal, but spying on a crown prince definitely is.” His mouth twitches. “Then I just had to lure Jet out to join them.” His voice shifts—to Marcus’s deep tone. “Which was very easy.”
My stomach twists. Gods, Jet and I even knew better, that we should never trust anyone we couldn’t see face-to-face, but we were so close to winning, neither of us stopped to think—
“I’m afraid the priests want to speak with you, too,” Kasta says, starting slowly forward. “I told them I’d take care of it.”
My nightmare flashes behind my eyes. I lurch again for the hammer and the table slides, just a little. Not enough.
I hiss and grab the chain, leaning all my weight on it.
“I’ll admit I’m impressed,” he says, strolling to the melting vat. “You made a few amateur mistakes: not checking the windows before you first discussed your strategy with your team, leaving your blood behind in my closet. But the pelts . . .” He tsks and drops the fabric with his blood on it into the vat, where it vanishes in a burst of fire. “Very clever. If I hadn’t gotten to the Runemaster before you did, he would never have thought to verify them. And our positions would be switched.”
I inhale and heave; the table slides, almost enough. I’m fingertips away.
“If I didn’t know better,” he says, moving again, “I would say you’ve learned some things from me. It’s making you unpredictable. It’s making you formidable.”
The approval in his tone, especially in contrast to how Jet now sees me, sends a shiver down my spine. I pant and lurch again—knocking the hammer, which slips off and falls to the floor. Out of reach.
Oh gods.
“So now what?” I say, my laugh bitter. “You kill me, eat my remains, and take the throne? You don’t think the priests will find that convenient?”
He winces. “I suppose I deserve that. I wouldn’t trust me so fast, either, after everything. But we’ll have plenty of time to fix it. You see, I’ve learned some things from you, too.” He ties the binding necklace around his throat, the runes gleaming red as he hides it, carefully, beneath the collar of his tunic. And a hollow opens in my stomach. “This is where it gets interesting. Will you condemn me for doing exactly the same thing to you as you planned to do to me?”
He cracks the binding cuff open along the seam, his eyes dark as shadow. And realization jolts through me for why the blood pool I left in his closet was so small. “You had him make a binding necklace for me?”
“I told him you were in league with another Shifter to complete the charade.” His gaze slips to the gods’ mark on my chest; to the power of Influence, that will soon be his through me. “The pelts I brought him were real. He was so upset with you at that point, he didn’t even ask who your Shifter was.” His smile curves. He’s almost here. “I didn’t want it to come to this. I truly hoped you’d wake up and trust me, and we could do this together, but you forced my hand. Orkena needs us both, and I’m not letting you throw that away. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He’s one table away. “You’re going to change your advisors’ minds about me”—he steps closer—“you’re going to place a crown on my head”—he’s within reach—“and very soon, you and I are going to bring the world to its knees.”
He lunges for my arm. I make one last grab for the hammer, but Kasta catches the chain and heaves me back—it nearly snaps from his strength. My heart jerks. He grabs for my free hand, and I remember what he said during our sparring match—to do something unexpected—and just as he moves to latch the cuff, I shove into him, slamming his wrist with my elbow.
The cuff flies, flashing, toward the storage closet. Kasta swears and starts after it, but I twist the chain around his wrist and he doesn’t even think about it, he pulls to free himself—
The chain snaps.
His eyes widen. He grabs for me, but I roll under the table and bolt for the door, my pulse thundering in my ears. I weave between workbenches, and I’m six tables away, then four—
A cheetah streaks past me, bumping my arm as it leaps off of a table and lands awkwardly in front of the door. I skid to a stop so fast that I fall backward, and the cheetah twitches and grunts, fur rippling as Kasta transforms back to human in a blink. He gags at the end, as if he hadn’t meant to do it so fast, and eyes the forsvine shackle still attached to my wrist. It neutralizes his magic if he touches me, too.
“Hmm,” he says. “You seem suddenly opposed to this plan, when you’re on the other side of it.”
He starts forward, and I shove to my feet, backing toward the melting pool. “This is absolutely not the same. I almost gave you the benefit of the doubt . . . I wanted to.” My voice cracks. “I was on my way to find you, to talk this through, when we found your plans for the new knife. You say you’ve changed, but your mind is still on power. On who you can kill to get it!”
He shakes his head. “You’re making assumptions again. Just like you did when you assumed I’d killed Maia.”
“Oh, really?” I round the melting vat; heat rises from its yellow surface in a deadly steam. I grab a freshly made dagger from its edge. “Is that why you were hiding it away? You were afraid someone would find it and think, This murder weapon will be entirely misunderstood, since all of these equations point to death!”
“It’s not for me!” He rounds the pool, passing finished swords and spears. Not threatened by me in the least. “That’s a prototype for a weapon to protect us in the war. I’m going to make them for the Forsaken.”
“The—” My heart jolts, remembering the first letter Hen and I found. “You’re going to send them to fight the war?”
“I’m going to send them to gain the magic they are owed. Every enemy they slay will make them more powerful, and after we cut Wyrim down, the Forsaken will return as heroes.”
I gape. “And thousands will have died for it. The Forsaken may die—”
“And what else would you have for them? Without magic, no amount of wealth will make them equal here. The elite will still exclude them. They’ll still be doomed by the gods to wander the afterlife for eternity.” Kasta shakes his head. “I don’t understand you. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. You wanted me to seek counsel. To use my power to help!”
“But not to harm! You’re talking about fueling a war, letting untold numbers of people die—”
“Those untold numbers want us dead,” Kasta
says, stopping. “We’re out of time to do this any other way. Wyrim is beyond negotiation. This is how we’ll end the unrest quickly, with the casualties on their side, and once we’re safe, we can start talking about alternatives. Anything less and you are sentencing Orkena to death.”
I laugh in disbelief. “That’s if our allies don’t turn on us, terrified of what we’re becoming. You have no way of knowing how long this war will go—”
“Which is why I have you.” His fingers twitch, and my stomach pulls, waiting for him to lunge. “You think they’re afraid of you now. Wait until we show them what you can really do.”
“And we’re back to magic.” I flex my grip on the dagger. “Gods, Kasta, if you would focus that brilliant mind of yours for one second on anything else—”
He scoffs. “And you’re so immune? They never looked twice at you when you were a Whisperer. Now they bow. Tell me there’s no difference.” His eyes flash. “Tell me you would give your power back.”
I grit my teeth. “I agree that the system is broken. But more magic won’t fix it, and neither can this war!” I step back, eyeing the tables. “I will make you regret doing this. I will fight you every step of the way.”
His lips quirk. “I’d hope for nothing less.”
And he sprints. I bolt in the other direction, but he’s already rounding my side, and before I’ve even reached the nearest table, his hand locks around my arm. The world lurches to a stop. I whirl to stab him, but he catches my wrist, the blade trembling a whisper above his heart.
“Careful,” he says, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Remember what happens if you kill me.”
I startle, realizing how careless a move that was—and that I would have killed him if he hadn’t stopped me. Is murder that easy for me now? Am I willing to kill him to save myself?
Have I become him?
Kasta presses my palm until I gasp and let go of the knife. Then he spins me, pinning my back to his chest, and drags me toward the storage closet. Toward the binding cuff. I go limp. I drag my feet. I claw his arm and try to twist away, but his grip is a vise, even without his magic. Panic flushes through me. I could choke on it, on the thought of being his pet until the bitter end, of the things he’ll make me do—to the Wyri, to anyone else who would oppose us. Of what he’ll do to them, without anyone to stop him.
