by Stacey Filak
As quickly as the magic had come, it passed. The waves of magery disappeared into nothingness and Devery stood before Gemma with strands of silver at his temples.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. “The mark of unmaking,” he said. He reached up to touch her face, and all the sinuous grace he’d possessed slipped away. He was just a man. His mouth curved up in a wry smile. “A gift from my mother.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. This man—her man—had just lost a piece of himself. Aspects of him had disappeared, yet he was making jokes. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I will be,” he said calmly. “Let’s go get our daughter.” She knew there was something he wasn’t telling her. Something he wouldn’t say in front of the others.
Her tongue grew thick with emotion, and she nodded, unable to speak. Would all of his years catch up with him now? What kind of mother could do that to her son?
Her gaze drifted to Isbit who stood still with hard eyes and the air of a caged beast. Looking at the Queen of Above, Gemma made a promise to herself. I’m going to be a better mother than Brinna or Isbit.
She reached up and ran her fingers through Devery’s suddenly silvering hair. “Let’s go.” She kissed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE PALACE
Tollan was confused. Something had happened between Gemma and Devery. Some change had come over the assassin that he couldn’t quite understand, but Elam was clearly distraught. As they shuffled into the palace, Tollan took hold of Elam’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, but … Devery’s not right.”
It was clear to everyone that the strangely gifted assassin had disappeared, and in his place was an average, somewhat older man.
“What’s happened?” Tollan asked, louder this time.
But Gemma wasn’t in the mood for conversation. She flung open the door to the hallway. “If you would be so kind, Your Grace?”
As Isbit pushed past him to take her place at the front of the group, she grabbed Tollan and embraced him awkwardly. “Keep yourself alive,” she whispered into his hair. “No one else matters but us.”
Tollan opened his mouth to argue with her, but she was already gone. He turned to his friends and saw that both Elam and Wince had heard. He shook his head, hoping that they would see his thoughts. Hoping beyond reason that they had even a spark of the connection that Elam had with his friends from Under.
Tollan’s sword trembled in his hand as they followed Isbit through the vacant corridors of the southern wing of the palace. He wished, at the very least, that he had his good sword. The last he’d seen of his sword, it had been dripping with his father’s blood, and he’d thought that this was all just a misunderstanding. How stupid and naive he’d been, then. How innocent.
Without warning, Elam reached out and caught his hand. Their eyes met, and Elam winked. How does he always know just what I need? Tollan drew a deep breath. Time to be strong. Time to be brave. Time to be a man. He squeezed Elam’s hand back. He could do this. He could do anything with Elam by his side.
Suddenly, Gemma stopped. Halfway across the hallway, she turned and looked to the right. She held up a hand, motioning them to follow her, then headed quietly down the hall. Tollan caught his mother’s tunic in his fingers and she arched an eyebrow before following after Gemma. Her blade quivered in her hand, and the glint of mania in her eyes made Tollan’s heart hurt. Promising his mother Above was a mistake—he didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it before.
They were twenty feet down the hall when Tollan heard the crying, but Gemma was already racing toward the door of the library. Devery drew his sword and followed her. Wince went charging after them.
When Tollan entered, he found Gemma standing over a dark-haired woman in dirty palace livery. Her hair was in tangles, and she leaned protectively over a person lying prone on a chaise. The woman looked up, her eyes wide and terrified.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “If they find you here, they’ll kill you for sure. You need to go. You need to get the king out, or …” Her eyes drifted and landed on Tollan. She stiffened. “You’re dead,” she said. “They … they said you were dead. They put the mark on …” She looked down, and it was only then that Tollan looked at the chaise.
Madness broke out in the library as Tollan recognized his brother at the same time that Isbit laid eyes on her youngest son. Iven’s eyes were open but unseeing, and he wasn’t breathing. Every inch of his skin appeared to be mage marked, and many of the marks festered and oozed. He was naked and covered in layers of blood and his own filth. Isbit’s howl of grief quickly took on the tone of an angry bear, and she grabbed hold of the maid. “Where are they?” She gripped the maid’s chin in her hand. “Where are those bitches?”
A pain that he could not name clenched Tollan’s insides—guilt mixed with grief and rage to create a swirling, nauseating hole that threatened to swallow him. At the same time, he suddenly acknowledged his own feelings of terror. He suddenly realized how well and truly pricked they were. If the mage women could do this, he and his companions didn’t stand a chance, and their best weapon was starting to look more and more like a middle-aged shopkeeper. He tried not to glance at his brother, tried to ignore the bitter truth. I should have come sooner. I should have died trying. I should have known …
“They’re in the throne room,” the maid whimpered. “I’ve been hiding in here for days, and then they brought him in and dumped him here. I heard them say that they’d wait for the dregs in the throne room.”
Wince reached up and gently but firmly removed Isbit’s hands from the maid’s face. “Where is everyone else?” he asked. “Where are the guards and the servants? Where are the …”
“Dead,” the maid croaked. “They’re all dead. They don’t know I’m here, I … I was too afraid and I hid.”
Tollan couldn’t understand the guilt that he heard in her voice. Of course she had hidden. What sane person wouldn’t? But then his gaze drifted back to his brother and he understood. Guilt didn’t live in the same house as reason and there was a hole in Tollan’s mind where logic and reason were supposed to live. He had failed so completely that his brother lay bloodied and maimed by magic, his entire house had been massacred. Everyone he had ever lived with was gone, and the blame lay at his feet. “Dead?” he murmured, confused. “But I … I wanted to save him …” Tears were starting to well in his eyes and he feared that he would collapse into a pile of his own despair.
But there was no more time for his grief. Isbit rushed out the door, braids flying. His mother would make no time for sorrow. She only desired vengeance and power.
Gemma cursed under her breath and followed after her, and Tollan trailed after Elam and Devery, with Wince supporting the sobbing maid behind him.
The two queens led them through the remainder of the southern wing and into the belly of the palace without slowing down until they reached the enormous mahogany doors that led to the throne room. As Isbit made to push them open, Gemma turned to exchange a glance with Elam and Devery. In unison, they snapped their fingers twice. Then Tollan’s mother pushed the doors open and released the Void.
Wince wanted to pull everyone backward—back through the palace, out past the Golden Door, beyond the tunnels and back to Dockside. He wanted a minute to catch his breath and figure out what had happened—what was still happening—and how best to deal with it. He wanted to comfort Tollan, for he knew that the sight of his brother in such a condition must have pained Tollan greatly. But events were moving at breakneck speed, and he had no time to do anything more than make wishes.
Something was wrong with Devery. Something terminal. He was slow and his shoulders were hunched, and Wince was fairly sure that his hair had gone suddenly gray.
Queen Isbit was dragging them ever forward, careening toward the confrontation that he dreaded would destroy them all. She was oblivious to all consequences as she charged headlong toward
the throne room and vengeance. Wince had always feared Tollan’s mother, but this was something else entirely. And she’d already told Tollan that no one else mattered. He knew without a doubt that she would throw away every last one of them in an attempt to right the wrongs she’d been dealt. He glanced at Tollan and saw actual fear on his face. No mother should instill that kind of terror in her child.
Wince could see the enormous polished wood doors that led to the throne room. It was now or never. He met Elam’s gaze and a silent discussion happened in an instant. Elam’s hand twitched in his pocket, where Wince knew he kept the reed that held the poisoned needle. Should he use it?
As they neared the doors, Gemma hissed, “Isbit, wait!” but the Queen of Above ignored her. As panic took hold of Wince, he tried to remember what Lian had said when she’d pulled the two of them aside and given Elam the reed just before they left.
“Mistress Melnora always had me keep a few made up,” she’d said, as she carefully dropped the thin reed capped with wax into Elam’s hand. “She said you never know when you might have to take out one of your own.” She’d looked at Wince, then. “And you’ll need to serve as Elam’s eyes. You know those of the Above better than he does. If it’s one of them, you let him know, in whatever way is necessary.” She had trusted him, and it had felt like an enormous gift to Wince, at the time.
“Who do you think …” his voice had broken.
She shrugged. “We eat lies like sweets here in Under, and I suppose Above isn’t all that different. It could be anyone. You’ll know it when you see it. It won’t kill. It’ll just … take them out of the equation temporarily.”
Elam wrapped his hand around the reed, his face showing a mixture of awe and dread. “What if it’s me?” he asked.
She’d grinned. “It won’t be either of you. It’s not how you’re built.” She patted his hand thoughtfully. “But, Elam. Don’t rule out the possibility that it could be Gemma.”
But it wasn’t Gemma. Not this time, anyway. Gemma’s rage was fiery and smoldering, but it was the kind of anger you could predict, and it did nothing to blunt the edges of her feelings. Isbit, however, had gone as cold as the depths of the Hadriak, and she no longer bothered to look beyond the borders of her own hatred.
Elam took one more look at Tollan, and Wince saw the moment he made his decision.
The door flew open as he pulled the needle from his pocket. “Isbit!” Elam called, just to grab her attention. They only needed her to hesitate for a heartbeat. He only needed to break the skin.
Wince held his breath and said a silent prayer.
There was no time to think, no time to breathe. Gemma tried to recount their plan. All two hundred of the Ain were in the tunnels, guarding against escape. The dozen sellswords and eight assassins who were still awake were stationed beyond the burning brambles at the front doors of the palace, and Lian was supervising the remaining members of the Guild who surrounded the palace of Yigris.
But Gemma and Dev and Elam and the rest were just as trapped as the mages were now, and Isbit refused to slow down. They needed to gather their wits and come up with an attack plan, but the Queen of Above had gone mad with grief and fury.
Gemma understood. Somewhere beneath the buzzing in her veins and the pounding of adrenaline in her chest, she remembered. Even if they won today, she had lost. Her throat grew thick with pain for an instant, before she smelled peaches and cinnamon, and her breathing eased. She would grieve properly, after. Right now, she had to get Katya back. Right now, she had to protect Devery. Right now, Isbit was flinging open the doors to their doom.
“Isbit!” Elam called as he slipped past Gemma. The Queen of Above paused for just an instant. Elam reached out, his hand brushing Isbit’s arm, and the queen slumped to the ground.
“What the prickling Void?” Gemma cursed, gaze darting about as she searched for danger.
Gemma’s bowels rumbled. Goddess, had Elam just killed Isbit?
Then Elam slipped his hand into his pocket and winked at her. He snapped his fingers, twice, then stood and spread his arms wide. “Regency,” he said formally. “If you would.”
But she had no time to think. From within the throne room, a voice rang out.
“I had hoped you were dead, you piece of Yigrisian trash. Where is my son?”
Gemma stopped, surveying the room. A young woman with pale flaxen hair sat stiffly on the throne. She wore an immense silver crown, and her eyes were flint and ice. The four captive mage women sat on a bench. Their shoulders were slumped, and their hair hung ragged and dirty around their faces. They did not seem to notice that anyone else was in the room, and they certainly didn’t seem as if they’d recently gained their freedom. Gemma had expected them to be aiding Brinna and Elsha, but they sat like statues, and Gemma realized that she was still missing a piece of the puzzle.
She had no time to dwell on it, though, because Brinna held Katya at arm’s length, her hand wrapped around the back of the girl’s neck. Her other hand burst into flame as Gemma watched. The heat rippled the air around them, and Katya winced, struggling to pull away.
Brinna waved her burning hand in the air. “Ah, there you are,” she said, her blue eyes lit with madness. “Now, come here like a good lad so I don’t have to hurt Katy. You know it’s the last thing I’d want to do.”
For an instant, Gemma forgot that Devery wasn’t Devery anymore, and she almost smiled, knowing that in a heartbeat he’d cut Brinna to bits for threatening his daughter. But as Gemma heard the plodding footsteps behind her, reality came crashing down around her. “No!” she hissed. He reached out, patting her shoulder as he walked past. It was a half-hearted gesture. He wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze remained focused on Katya. But as his hand slipped down her arm, he snapped his fingers. Once. Twice. Three times.
Have patience.
“That’s much better, Devery,” his mother said, as if she were speaking to a toddler. “Come to Mother so that I don’t have to punish you any further. You look terrible, son.”
An animal fierceness was building in Gemma. Her legs trembled with pent-up adrenaline, and her mouth was dry. Her hand slipped to the hilt of the blade at her hip.
Devery stopped a few feet in front of his mother. “Let Katya go, Mother, and I’ll come willingly. You don’t have to hurt her. She’s … she’s a gift, remember. She’s just a little girl.”
Brinna chuckled. “You’ve always been soft, Devery. My little experiment with you failed, and I didn’t make you nearly hard enough. You were an excellent killer, love, but you still thought you had choices.”
The fire in Brinna’s hand went out unexpectedly, and a small wave of mage work washed across Gemma’s face. Brinna released the girl, who crashed sobbing into Devery’s arms. He bent and whispered something into her hair, and she nodded. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on the forehead. Then he released her. She ran toward Gemma with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Gemma caught Katya, and wrapped her in her arms. Brinna turned Devery around and pushed him to his knees. She placed one hand on his head. “I never should have left you with free will,” she snarled as she began to trace a character in the air with her fingertip. “I’ll give you back all of your gifts just as soon as I have a tighter leash on you.”
Gemma stared at Devery, paralyzed. Her heart caught in her throat, terror and pain roaring in her mind for her attention. The blood in her veins pounded so loudly that it was all she could hear, and all she could see was the fear in his eyes. It tore at her soul.
Devery’s eyes widened, holding Gemma’s gaze with his own. Brinna continued to draw her elaborate mark in the air. Devery began to snap his fingers.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He stared into her eyes, as if willing her to understand. Gemma shook her head, defiant. It was the code they’d never used.
One meant “run!”
Two meant “I’ve got your backside.”
&nbs
p; Three meant “have patience.”
And four meant “kill me.”
Katya was sobbing into Gemma’s shirt, her fingertips running aimlessly along the skin of Gemma’s arm. Gemma wanted to push her away. She needed to get to Devery, to save him from whatever evil his mother was going to make him do. She was not going to kill Devery, no matter what he asked her to do.
“No!” Gemma screamed, just as fire raced up her arm, a wave of mage work nearly knocking her from her feet. She looked down, meeting Katya’s gaze.
Devery’s daughter grinned up at her. Then she stepped aside. She snapped her fingers just once.
Run!
Gemma could feel magic coursing through her. Her body felt capable of anything. She was beside them, blade in hand, before Brinna had any idea that the tide had turned. Gemma reached out, pushing Devery aside. It took no more effort than shooing away a fly. He dropped out of the way, wearing a smile as wide as the room.
Gemma didn’t give the woman time to speak. She didn’t give her time to draw a last breath. “Prick you, Brinna,” she growled as she drove the knife into the mage woman’s belly and lifted upward, gutting her just as she’d promised she would. She didn’t pause to admire her work. She turned back toward Katya just in time to see the Void break loose.
Tollan had watched Isbit slump over, and he felt as if he was supposed to do something. But in truth, all he’d felt was relief. Her headfirst dive into destruction had been halted, and while he hoped she would be all right, he was glad that she wouldn’t be dragging the people he cared about down with her. He ignored the maid’s whimpers and moved next to Elam, who knelt beside Isbit.
“Is she all right? What happened?” Tollan asked.
Elam rolled Isbit onto her back and placed his fingers on her throat. He nodded, his brow furrowed. “She’ll be fine.” Something in his tone made the hair on Tollan’s neck stand up, but he didn’t have time to analyze it because he heard someone speaking to Gemma.
