Storm of the Seven Sins, page 22
What an unmitigated prick.
One word from me, and your precious reputation goes up in flames. Let’s see you marry Eva Marteinn then, Jaxon had said. Well, two can play this game. If I can pry Sebastían’s secret out of him, then I’ll hold the same leverage. I can use him to find Eva, and then drop the bomb. But if whatever he’s hiding has the potential to endanger this mission, that’s a different story.
I catch up with him outside his tent, set up at the base of a giant fir. “What,” he says without turning. I suppose my scent gives me away.
“We need to talk.”
Sebastían turns to look at me. He’s covered in mud, his face streaked with it. Those aquamarine eyes peer out of a mask of dirt, making him look even more feral than usual. “You have five minutes,” he bites out. “Then I’m going to sleep. Talk fast.”
I duck through the doorway of his tent. It’s nicer than most: tall enough to stand up in; plush blankets instead of my plain bedroll; embroidered pillows; a small altar to the many-headed gods set up to the left of the entrance, complete with low-burning candles. It’s also got Ilsa, who rises as soon as he comes in, her eyes widening.
“What happened to you?” she says, scanning him from head to toe. “I was so worried when you didn’t come back. Are you all right?”
Sebastían’s lip curls. “A fool. No need. And yes,” he says. “Now get out.”
“But what about—” She flaps her hand at a blanket draped over something next to the altar. An odd chittering sound emanates from beneath it, followed by a hiss that ends in a growl.
“Out, I said!” Sebastían snarls, not sparing the blanket a glance.
She must be used to his surly moods, because she obeys without a word. As soon as she ducks through the flap into the night, he pulls his mud-splattered shirt over his head and dumps it in a corner. Then he dips a cloth in a bowl of water and starts dabbing the mud off his face, his back to me.
“Ticktock, exile,” he says.
Supercilious ass. It’s not like I’m itching to be stuck in here with him. “I won’t waste any time with niceties, then. What were you really doing in the woods? And who’s the her Jaxon was talking about?”
“That’s none of your business.” His tone is cool, assured, but the hidden thing in the corner takes issue with it anyway, squawking in alarm.
“No? Let’s start with something simpler, then. What in the nine hells is underneath that blanket?”
Sebastían turns, his bearing regal and his skin pale in the flickering light of the candles. Even in human form, it’s clear he’s a formidable opponent, his skin pulled taut over well-defined muscles. A bruise is beginning to darken on his jaw, courtesy of the one good punch Jaxon landed. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
I straighten to my full height, giving me a solid two inches on him. “You said we have five minutes, yeah? So, let’s cut the virtueless crap and get to it. We both know I’ll get answers one way or another. This is the easy way. I advise you take it.”
Sebastían levels his gaze on me, his eyes boring into mine. I stare back, unperturbed. If he thinks he’s going to intimidate me like this, he’s sorely mistaken. I’ve engaged in a battle of wills with the best of them, and more often than not, come out on top.
He gives first, sinking down onto his blankets and propping himself up on his hands. “Oh, fine. Sit, if you want,” he says, gesturing at the camp chair Ilsa vacated.
Warily, I comply, then wait. Interrogation 101: the one who speaks first, loses.
Sebastían rubs a hand over his face. “I was telling the truth about feeling confined in this camp,” he says. “Panthers are nocturnal. We’re meant to rove, to prowl at night. Not to be trapped in a place like this.” He waves a disgusted hand at the tent. “So I’ve been swearing Ilsa to secrecy and shifting, once everyone is asleep. It’s easy for a panther to slip past guards, no matter how good you are. If we don’t want to be seen, we won’t be.”
“Well,” I say, my tone dry, “there’s also the small matter that the guards are watching for people trying to get into the camp, not out.”
“True.” He leans back on his hands again, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and the bruise blooming blue-and-purple beneath his pale skin. “So, yes. I did leave the camp because I wanted to escape. But also—well, you heard what I told Ronan about naming Eva’s panther. I thought maybe, if I took the form of my beast, I could call to her more effectively. That Carina would hear me, even if Eva could not.”
I sit forward with a start, bracing my hands on my knees. “And could she?”
Sebastían shakes his head. “For a moment, I thought—but no. If she heard me, she didn’t reply.” His shoulders slump. “It’s shameful, to be unable to call your mate’s beast-half that way. It’s seen as a sign of weakness.”
“At the risk of sounding reiterative,” I say, iron in my tone, “perhaps that’s because she isn’t your mate.”
“Semantics.” Sebastían waves me off wearily. “You can understand why I didn’t want to confide this out in the open, to Fjeri, no less. He’s always searching for ammunition, that one.”
I’m not in the mood to debate whether or not Eva belongs with Sebastían. It’s an unwinnable argument, and his belief that they’re meant to be mated is, in part, what’s convinced him to join this invasion. Besides, I’d be willing to bet that he’s just trying to distract me.
“So she hasn’t been answering you. And you expect me to believe you didn’t try another approach, even though this one hasn’t been getting you anywhere?” I stab a finger in the direction of the chittering sound. “I’ll ask again. What is that, and why is it so important that Ilsa needed to stay behind to guard it?”
“Oh, for the love of the gods. You’re like a terrier with a bone, Westergaard.” He heaves himself to his feet. “I suppose you were going to find out anyway. This camp leaks like a sieve.”
Stalking over to the blanket, he bends and yanks it off with a flourish. “Behold.”
I don’t know what I was expecting: some kind of magical implement? a vicious beast? But as the blanket falls away, I draw a surprised breath.
Beneath it is a cage. And inside the cage is…
“Is that a ferret?”
“Very good, exile,” he says dryly. “At least they teach the identification of basic animal species in that Commonwealth of yours.”
I take another step forward, and the creature in the cage screeches, scuttling away. Its dark eyes are bright with panic, its small ears pricked. The closer I get, the more it puffs out its fur in an attempt to impress me with its size. “Why the hell do you have a ferret in a cage?”
Sebastían arches an eyebrow. “Maybe I wanted a pet. A companion who wouldn’t scheme against me or ask annoying questions. Did you ever think of that?”
“And maybe I plan to take up the fine art of basket weaving.” I peer more closely at the animal, which seems to have exhausted itself. It’s lying on its side now, flanks heaving. “What’s wrong with it? Is it sick?”
“It’s dying.” His voice is flat. “Just like all the others.”
“What others? What the hell are you up to?” Hand dropping to the hilt of my dagur, I stare at him, then at the ferret, which has begun to pant.
“I think…” He prods the cage with the toe of his boot. “I think it’s a spy.”
I glance from the animal, whose show of bravado has subsided into shivering, to the Panther of the West, looming over it. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Think about it, Westergaard. How is this any more peculiar than the Mages using the ravens? This is the fourth one I’ve caught slinking around our camp, eavesdropping on conversations. They’re like you, always where they shouldn’t be. But when I try to interrogate them, like you did with that damned bird, they just die.” His jaw tightens with frustration. “You want to know where I was tonight? Out in the woods, trying to catch another.”
Ignoring the jab, I straighten and glare at him. “We’re supposed to be working together. Why keep this a secret?”
“Because.” For the first time, I see a hint of embarrassment color his cheeks. “What if I was wrong? You’d mock me, the way you’re doing right now.”
“So you chose to sneak around behind my back instead? You ever hear the one about how pride goeth before a—”
“Spare me your Commonwealth platitudes.” He rattles the cage, heedless of the animal’s pathetic whining. Spy or not, I can’t help but feel sympathy for it. If Gentian could see this, he’d have a nervous breakdown.
“Let it out, Pardúr.”
He shoots me an incredulous look. “Have you heard anything I said?”
“I heard you. But look at it. Does it seem like it’s in any condition to go running off?”
Without waiting for his reply, I bend and unlatch the cage. Sebastían huffs, but he doesn’t say a word as the ferret gets shakily to all four paws and creeps out. It pauses just beyond the entrance, as if waiting to be shoved back inside. But when that doesn’t happen, it sinks to its haunches, still trembling, and looks up at me.
“Fantastic,” Sebastían mutters. “You can add another accolade to the list. Ari Westergaard, Commonwealth exile and ferret whisperer.”
“Shut it.” I kneel in front of the animal, whose jaws have begun to drip with drool. Sebastían’s right on one account: it’s not well. If I’m going to act, I need to do it now.
Paying no attention to the glowering prince beside me, I close my eyes and draw on my bond with Eva. If Sebastían’s right and this poor creature is being used as a spy, then maybe I can see her through its eyes, like I did with the raven. It’s a long shot, but better than no shot at all.
Come on, Eva, I think, picturing the cord of our bond, trailing off into blackness. Give me something. Anything. Please…
For a moment, nothing happens. I feel beyond foolish, kneeling on the floor of a shapeshifter’s tent, holding an imaginary conversation with a dying weasel. “Forget about—” I begin, intending to put the animal out of its misery and get the information I came for: the secret that, if exposed, has the potential to sever Sebastían’s claim on Eva once and for all.
And then an image flickers into my mind, fuzzy at first, but sharpening by the moment: Eva, fists gripping the bars of a sins-forsaken cage, dark eyes wide with shock. In them, I see the miniature reflections of a red-robed figure: a Mage.
By the Sins. “What have you done to her?” I say, voice tight with fury. “Let her go!”
Eva’s eyes widen even further. “Ari?” she whispers. “But—but how—”
She can hear me, thank the Virtues. “Where are you?” I demand, scanning the room for clues. I don’t recognize it: luxurious furniture, cracked stone floor, and of course, that damned cage. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.” Her fingers are white-knuckled on the bars of the cage. “But Ari, don’t come here. Stay away. It’s a trap—”
My mouth goes dry. If she doesn’t want me by her side, then I was right: she’s decided this is a fight she can’t win. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam echoes in my head, as clearly as if she’s spoken it aloud. “Eva, don’t do anything stupid, you hear me? I’m coming. Wait for me.”
She shakes her head, her disheveled braid flying. But before she can reply, the red-robed figure speaks. The words issue from the ferret’s mouth, hoarse but decipherable nonetheless. “Speak of the wolf,” it barks, “and she will come.”
“In the name of the gods,” Sebastían murmurs, dropping to his knees beside me.
What the hell is a Mage doing, reciting the rebellion’s cipher?
Unless, of course, it’s not a Mage at all.
I recognize that voice. I would know it anywhere. And now that I take a closer look at the tiny reflections I see in Eva’s eyes—
I brace myself for cross-examination. But as the first words leave my lips, the ferret twitches, coughs up a horrifying amount of foamy blood, and dies at my feet.
Chapter 34
Eva
The red-robed figure is no Mage. It’s Gentian Halverson, Ari’s friend.
Though Gentian and I have never spoken, I remember him well. Once, he risked everything to save a bird. Ari took the blame for him…and the whipping.
I was there, that day in Clockverk Square. I saw Gentian watching Ari, his own body flinching with every lash, his eyes welling with tears. I know he was one of the only people in the Commonwealth that Ari respected. The only one, other than Kilían, that Ari missed when he left this place behind.
Ari, whose voice I heard, filled with desperation and pain, before it cut off like a bad transmission. Who has somehow managed to reach out to me a second time.
I tried to warn him, to protect him. But he won’t listen. I know he won’t.
Wait for me, he’d demanded, the way he used to give me orders when we were still mentor and apprentice. But I know better. Beneath that cool command, he was pleading with me to stay. To still be here when he fights his way to my side.
The problem with understanding someone so well, on a bone-deep level, is that the blade cuts both ways. Don’t do anything stupid is code for the same thing he said to me when we were alone together in the Brotherhood’s tent that first night: Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. No more of the self-sacrificing games.
He knows I’ve been planning to take myself out of the equation, as soon as I can figure out a way. And the agony in his voice, a moment before Gentian spoke and our connection snapped…it shatters me. His pain is my own, even miles apart.
I don’t deserve him. But by the Architect, I want the chance to try.
“What just happened?” I whisper, the iron bars biting into my palms as the words spill from my lips. “Have you been talking to Ari? Do you know where he—”
Gentian gives a sharp, vicious shake of his head. Then he digs in the pocket of his robes, coming out with a creased piece of paper and a pencil. Crossing to the table, he smooths the paper on its surface and then scribbles something. A moment later, he holds up the page, and my mother comes forward too, as far as her clanking chains will permit her, to see.
I hoped communicating with him might be possible. But I didn’t know for sure, it reads. The paper trembles in his hands, and he irons it out on the table, writes some more, then holds it up again. The Mages use animals, then discard them like trash. Whatever creature Ari was speaking through is probably dead. His teeth sink into his lower lip, his expression pained.
I think about the raven that delivered the message to the stables. About hearing Ari’s voice, when I was chained to that beam with Dresda looking on. “But you’re not a Mage.” I speak softly, and Gentian steps forward, straining to hear. “How did you do that?”
Frowning, he turns away and scribbles again. No one notices a shy, stuttering vet tech. They experiment in my lab. And I listen. One day, I will stop them.
The expression on his face is fierce, uncompromising. I remember him as a shy, quiet boy, thin and angular, with a headful of curly hair he never managed to tame and gray eyes that always looked a little too big for his pale face. That much hasn’t changed. But I also remember him as fearful, hiding his small, animal-rescuing rebellions in the shadows. The boy I recall would never have had the bravery to impersonate a Mage, or to join an insurrection. Yet here he is, uttering the Brotherhood’s passphrase—just above a whisper, so the bellators in the hallway can’t hear, but clear as day nonetheless. Here he is, spying and declaring revolution.
The hope that faded when the Executor had Traalf unplug the cameras reignites inside me, bright and shining. Maybe my mother and Ari are right. Maybe there’s a way out of this, after all, even if I can’t see it clearly right now. Maybe I just need to have faith.
If the Commonwealth has taught me anything, though, it’s that blind faith is dangerous. I want to believe Gentian’s presence here means that victory lies within our grasp. But the conviction of one unskilled boy, no matter how courageous, is not enough to turn the tide.
Gentian holds the page over one of the guttering candles. Fire nibbles at the edges, then devours it. When it’s nothing but ash, he lifts his tray once more and approaches our cells. His scent drifts through the bars: lemongrass, with an undercurrent of rubbing alcohol.
When he speaks, the words are barely audible. “What happened after you left the Commonwealth?” His eyes flick toward the door outside which the bellators lurk, then back to me. “How were you and Ari separated? The last time you saw him, was he all right?”
What can I tell him? That Ari risked his life for me over and over, and I repaid him by prioritizing political alliances over his love and loyalty? That when Erdahl was kidnapped and Vik’s border alarm went off, I was in the woods, letting Sebastían give my panther a name? That when he cautioned me about meeting with the Mages and Executor alone, I was so convinced I knew best that I ignored his counsel, getting Erdahl killed and delivering myself into the hands of the enemy?
Sebastían would doubtless say it’s because my beasts’ instincts consumed me. That I wasn’t responsible for what happened. But I can’t let myself off the hook that easily.
“The last time I saw him, he was trapped inside a stone circle, fighting to get to me,” I admit, pain lancing through me at the way Gentian’s expression falls. “It was my fault.”
He blinks, swallowing hard. “Is it true you hold the forms of four beasts? That he’s become your f-familiar, as the Mages call it?”
I nod, and his angular face settles into a determined expression. “Then he’ll find you, Eva. It doesn’t matter what happened. He c-came back for you once. He’ll do so again, like he promised. And we need to be ready when he does.”
His voice is so firm, so confident. He believes there’s a way out of this, that’s clear enough. He’s placed his faith in me, in Ari, and in his own ability to withstand what awaits us.
I take in the set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes, and feel shame wash over me. Is it the coward’s way out to believe that if I manage to escape this cell, the only prayer of foiling the Executor’s plans is to do myself in, taking down as many of our enemies as I can until I fall? Is it wrong to play along with Gentian, letting him think we have a shot at true victory, when I’m planning to sacrifice myself at the first opportunity?
