City of Keys, page 13
She shook her head. “There are no men where the witches train their acolytes.”
“So you’ve never even been to the temple in Dur-Athaara?”
“No. What’s it like?”
“Full of snakes. Tash is there. He takes care of them.” A grimace. “I used to visit him, but I haven’t seen him in months.”
“Is he well?”
“He seemed happy the last time I was there.” A pause. “I’m glad for him.”
Malach paused in the curving hall, eying the children’s bedroom doors. “I won’t say goodbye,” he muttered. “It’s bad luck.”
No one woke as they slunk back down the stairs. Outside, Malach asked her to wait and ducked into a shed next to the garden.
“That’s your weapon of choice?” Nikola asked, when he emerged with a rusty shovel.
“We don’t keep swords lying around,” he said dryly. “And we only have one good chopping knife. Finlo’ll kill me if I lose it.”
Nikola eyed the shovel. “I feel like we’re about to dig our own graves.”
Malach tried out a fancy quarterstaff move. The shovel flew from his hands. “Whoops,” he muttered, jogging to retrieve it from a puddle.
She shook her head. “Come over here.”
Malach stepped up.
“Closer.”
He smiled and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Do you believe in me?”
She studied his face. “Oddly enough, I do.”
“Do you think the spell will work with the kaldurite inside me?”
“I hope so,” she muttered. “But I haven’t a clue. This is unnatural magic. If my theory is right, I’m not doing anything to you directly. Just changing the space around you.”
She took two gems from the pouch, gripping one in each hand. Left for projective, right for receptive. “The landings aren’t smooth, so brace yourself.”
He nodded, muscles tensing.
Nikola joined her mind with the stones, tapping the opposing forces of ley inside them. Threads of power snapped and crackled. Her will sharpened to a single blazing point. Nikola fed it with the kindling of her need. Her anger at Falke. She wove the threads together, picturing two tall bronze doors and the lavish room that lay beyond. At the same time, she built a box large enough for two. Walls of shimmering ley formed around them.
Nikola forced the box.
Chapter Thirteen
A spear of ice stabbed Malach’s gut. The breath evaporated from his lungs in a burst of searing heat. He clung to Nikola with one hand, gripping the shovel in the other. The world blurred into a dizzying kaleidoscope. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to retch. The pressure in his head built to a buzzing ache. Then blessed relief as his ears popped. He sucked in a startled breath as the ground fell away beneath his feet.
It lasted only a moment. Malach landed with a jolt, squinting in sudden torchlight. A high-ceilinged stone corridor swam into focus. Three knights in mail stared in shock. A fourth lay on the ground in a pile of charred sand, smoke drifting from his open mouth. Malach swung the shovel at the first knight within range. It met his skull with a crunch.
Blades scraped from scabbards. He ducked blindly. A sword whistled above his head. He kicked a kneecap and leaned away from a wild slash as the man staggered to regain balance. Malach whacked him across the face. He dropped the shovel and was scrabbling for the fallen blade when the knight flew backwards, slamming into the stone wall.
Malach turned, panting. Nikola stood with her left palm open. She tossed the stone aside and rummaged through the pouch. The last knight stood behind her, his sword raised for a killing stroke. Malach lunged, dragging him to the ground. An elbow smashed his nose, sending a lance of pain through the top of his head. He managed to pin the knight’s blade arm. Then Nikola was crouching down, fingers twined in the knight’s hair as she pressed a bluish stone to his forehead.
“Sleep,” she whispered.
The man writhed, his eyes going even wider. Nikola frowned, then quickly switched the stone to her other hand. “Sleep, dammit!”
This time he fell limp. Malach rolled away. She threw the stone away, muttering something about her dominant hand.
Nikola looked up and down the corridor. “I missed the bedchamber. Not by much, though. We’re just on the wrong side of the door. Saints, you’re bleeding.”
He wiped his face with a sleeve, climbing to his feet. “I’m good.”
They were in an alcove outside a pair of tall, heavy doors. The wood and hinges looked brand new. She gave a push and shook her head.
“Bolted from the inside. But that’s why I got it wrong,” she said. “They must have replaced them after Feizah was killed.”
“The doors were ripped off?” Malach wondered, his heart still stuttering with adrenaline.
“Guess so.” She drew another stone from the pouch. “Stand back.”
He picked up a sword, adjusting his grip. The words Virtus, Veritas, Lux were embossed along the blade. Courage. Truth. Light.
The fucking hypocrites.
“Here goes,” she muttered.
Nikola’s fingers folded around the gem with a look of intense concentration. Her hand sprang open. The doors splintered and blew back, sagging on their brand-new hinges.
“Shit,” she whispered. “It actually worked!”
Malach stalked into the dim chamber beyond, thick carpets whispering beneath his feet.
Dmitry Falke sat up in an enormous four-poster bed, a single candle on the table illuminating a face hard with fury. Malach reached him in four strides. He laid the edge of the blade to Falke’s throat, just below the Raven Mark. “Where’s my daughter?”
Falke stared at him with contempt. “How did you get in here?”
Malach pressed the steel deeper, drawing a bead of blood. “Where is she?”
The dark, hooded eyes showed no fear. Malach nodded, flexing his free hand. “Fine. I won’t kill you. I’ll just invert every single one of your Marks. You can have a nice long stay at the Batavia Institute like Lezarius.”
A muscle twitched in Falke’s jaw. “Listen to me, Malach. The child is safe here. Loved and cherished. If you truly care about her—”
“Shut up! She’s nearby, isn’t she?”
Falke said nothing, but Malach knew he was right. “Get up.”
The pontifex’s gaze slid past him to Nikola. “I should never have let you go,” he muttered.
“Quiet your Marks,” Nikola said coldly. “They won’t do you any good.”
Malach couldn’t see the ley, but he realized that Nikola could. She was telling him that Falke was trying—unsuccessfully—to use the power against him. Malach felt grim satisfaction at the flash of surprise on Falke’s face.
“Get up!” he snapped.
Falke threw the blankets aside. He wore purple silk pajamas. The gold ring of the pontifex glittered on his right hand. The man still had a certain regal dignity, but he seemed old now. It was strange to see the enemy he’d hated above all others, the Curia’s greatest general, move so stiffly. Yet Malach knew better than to underestimate him again.
Falke’s mouth tightened as they walked him past the fallen guards. “You’ll never get her out,” he said. “There’s five hundred knights between you and the Dacian Gate.”
Malach prodded Falke with the blade. “That’s my problem, isn’t it? Yours is to do what you’re told so I don’t take your head off.”
Nikola prowled ahead down the corridor. When they reached the first juncture, she looked back and raised a hand in warning. Falke opened his mouth to yell. Malach grabbed him by the hair, pressing the blade to his throat. “Hush.”
Nikola jogged back, moving silently on the balls of her feet. “Two knights are guarding a door,” she whispered. “Just around the corner.”
Malach twisted Falke’s head around. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
The look in his eyes confirmed it.
“Follow my lead,” Malach told Nikola.
He dragged Falke to the juncture, then swiftly stepped around the corner.
“Hey!”
The knights lounged against the wall. They spun to attention. Malach gripped Falke’s hair tighter, yanking his head back, the blade skimming his jugular. “On your knees!”
They froze, eyes locked on Falke. One dropped a hand to his sword.
“Toss those away or I cut his throat right in front of you.”
The men exchanged a look.
“I killed the last pontifex.” Malach smiled. “Do you really want to test me?”
The men sank to their knees and laid the swords down. Nikola strode up and kicked them away. She dug into the pouch again with a frown. “That’s not what I need,” she muttered, poking through the remaining stones. “Where are you?”
The knights looked at each other.
“Uh, Nikola,” Malach muttered. “Can you hurry it up?”
“I know there’s a moonstone somewhere—”
One made a grab for the pouch. Gems spilled across the floor. She fell to her knees, snatched one up, and fisted it with a yelp. A huge black swan waddled down the corridor, wings beating, beak opened in a hiss. The knight reared back in surprise. His companion leapt for one of the swords. Nikola swept up more gems, juggling them between her hands. “Be still!” she shouted, an edge of panic in her voice.
The knight holding the blade went rigid and slowly toppled over, his eyes rolling wildly. Nikola stared at him in astonishment. “Damn,” she muttered.
The swan disappeared. The second knight locked eyes with her. Nikola’s palm sprang open. Malach saw the glitter of a blue gemstone. “Sleep,” she hissed.
He yawned and shook his head like a dog with mites. Tried in a lumbering fashion to stand up. With a grunt of frustration, Nikola seized one of the fallen swords and whacked him over the head with the hilt. The knight slumped down next to his frozen comrade.
“Witchcraft,” Falke rasped. “Where did you learn—”
“Be quiet or she’ll turn you into a toad.” Malach eased the blade from Falke’s throat, using the tip to nudge him to the door. Nikola tried the handle. It opened freely.
She cast an anxious look at Malach and pushed the door wide. His heart drummed as he stepped inside. Faint light spilled through a tall, arched window. His could make out the dark shapes of furniture along the walls. He forced Falke deeper into the room. A small bed sat next to the window. It was empty, the sheets rumpled.
“Where is she?” he hissed.
Falke turned to shoot him a silent glare.
Malach pressed a palm to the bed. Still warm. He shoved Falke to the ground and looked underneath. Candlelight bloomed behind him. Enough to see the space was empty. Malach stood.
Nikola held a candle in her hand. She had a taut expression he couldn’t quite read. But it was Rachel’s room. He knew it. Everything was child-sized except for a rocking chair. A copy of the Meliora rested on the chair. The Via Sancta’s foundational text. A sudden image of Falke rocking in the chair while his daughter played on the floor brought a wave of furious heat to his face.
“She used to be here,” Falke said hoarsely. “But I moved her. You’ll never find—”
“That’s why you posted knights outside? To guard an empty room?”
“To trick you,” Falke spat. “And it worked!”
“If he moves a muscle,” Malach said to Nikola, “hit him with something nasty.”
His gaze lit on the tall wardrobe. Malach walked over, mouth dry. He set the sword on top of the wardrobe. Then he opened the door.
A child crouched inside. She had a heart-shaped face and large hazel eyes with thick lashes. Curly dark hair that puffed out in a cloud around her head. She wore a tiny white nightgown that brushed her feet. Her skin was a dusky caramel. She looked just as he’d imagined, only even more beautiful. A current of love swept through him, tempered with remorse that they should meet this way.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “Come on out.”
She clutched a book to her chest. It was small, made for little hands. Was she reading already? The thought of all he’d missed cut him like a knife. But he had her now. Nothing else mattered. In time, she would learn to love him.
“Do as he says, Lessa.” Falke’s voice was calm.
Her head turned. “Papa?” she whispered.
A red blossom of rage unfurled in Malach’s chest. He tamped it down. None of it was her fault.
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “Please come out.”
The child eyed him warily. He stepped back. After a moment, she climbed down from the wardrobe. Barely six months old and she was a head taller than Roseen. Falke spread his arms. She tried to run to him. Malach snagged her around the waist. The child gave a cry of alarm.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“Papa!” she screamed at Falke.
Malach heard distant shouts in the corridor.
“Stop,” he pleaded, as she writhed against him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She bit his hand, drawing blood. He swore under his breath.
“Maybe we should leave her,” Nikola said tightly. “I warned you this would happen.”
“No!”
“It’s too late, Malach,” Falke said, an edge of satisfaction in his voice. “You cannot corrupt her. She’s been raised in the light.”
Malach managed to wrap his arms around her, though she still fought like a cornered badger. “They lied to you,” he said firmly. “Just listen to me, Rachel. Falke is not your father!”
Her struggles grew more violent. Boots rang in the corridor.
“Bar the door!” he shouted.
Nikola delved into the pouch. She raised her hand. Wood creaked and swelled in the frame just as a resounding blow came from the other side.
“Take us back!” Malach urged her.
Nikola hurried over, her face grim. Rachel thrashed wildly. A small foot caught her shin, eliciting a grunt of pain.
“Hurry,” he snapped.
Nikola shot him a dark look. “I need the right ones.” Her jaw tightened as she sorted through the pouch, finally choosing two stones. The kaldurite ignited like a lump of ice in his belly as power swelled around them.
“Hold on to me, Malach,” she muttered. “Can’t you keep her still?”
Falke rose to his feet. “Stop! You cannot—”
Malach’s skin crawled as invisible walls formed around them. He shifted his grip on the flailing child to take Nikola’s arm. In that instant of distraction, Rachel wrenched free. She flung herself at Falke. Nikola let out a string of oaths as Malach leapt after her.
“Wait!” he cried. “Just wait!”
He felt like a monster prying her fingers free from Falke’s shoulders. Their eyes locked. Malach saw the disgust in his face. Then he had Rachel back in his arms, howling like a banshee. He turned to run to Nikola. A deep clap of pressure rattled his ribcage. Sheet lightning flickered. A burst of intense heat seared his skin. Malach flung an arm up, stumbling backwards. He crashed against the door. It shuddered under a series of heavy blows from the other side.
Malach blinked, half-blind. His vision slowly cleared. Falke was staring in astonishment at the empty square of melted stone where Nikola had stood a moment before.
“She’ll come back,” Malach whispered. “It was a mistake. She’ll come.”
But she didn’t. And he finally understood that it was no accident.
She’d left him there.
Rachel stopped her frenzied struggles. Her body was still in his arms as he ran to the window. A four-story drop to a courtyard below.
No way out.
Another resounding blow. They had axes. The edge of one bit through the wood, pulled back, struck again.
If the knights took him, they’d sever both his hands for sure this time.
Sweat slicked his palms. He had no ley to defend himself. He had nothing.
Nothing but his daughter.
He set her on her feet and crouched down to look her in the eye. Malach forced his voice to calm. “Listen to me carefully. I know you can do something special. Every half-blood has unique power. Tell me what it is.”
She shook her head in a swift denial. And Malach saw it.
The Raven Mark on her neck.
The last rational piece of him withered like a seedling in a sudden blizzard. He passed beyond rage to a frozen wasteland where nothing mattered except survival.
“Tell me,” he growled, “or I’ll break your father’s neck. Do you believe me?”
The look in her eyes would have ripped his heart out if it wasn’t already in shreds.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The bitter irony was that he couldn’t kill Falke now, no matter how badly he wanted to. If he did, Rachel would die, too. The Curia called it Mark sickness. It started with hallucinations, then bone-rattling chills, and eventually, a miserable, screaming end. If Falke had given her the Mark—and Malach knew he had—their lives were entangled forever.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make Falke suffer. Tear down everything he’d built, leaving him as empty and ruined as Malach felt at that moment.
“Tell me what your special talent is,” he said.
She swallowed. “I talk to the sky.”
“What does that mean?” He turned to Falke. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know! She’s too young. I haven’t even tried to find out.” Falke’s heavy jowls were mottled with anger. “You would use her in this way? Have you not a single drop of compassion—”
Malach shut him out. He barely heard the thud of the axes falling, the wood splintering into pieces. There was only Rachel and her frightened gaze.
“If you want him to live, you’ll make us a way out of here,” he said. “Tear down the whole Arx if you have to!”
“No,” Falke cried. “Don’t listen to him!”
She cast an agonized look at the man who had stolen her. Lied to her. Imprisoned her own pregnant mother and then discarded Nikola like a piece of trash once he had the infant. The man who had murdered her grandparents. Who had vowed to see her entire race eradicated.
