Into the Glittering Dark, page 35
62
EVERIS
Everis woke to darkness.
Not a dark room. Not a dark cell. But darkness—all-encompassing nothingness. The cold swaddled him gently but made his skin burn. Despite the endless stretch of emptiness, he didn’t feel as though he was alone. There were eyes on him from every direction. Faces in the shadows he could only ever catch in his periphery; they vanished like ghosts when he turned to look.
Then there were the voices. Master Orin. Lady Imaryllis. Ivy.
This sort of power needs to be hidden, Ever.
It’s dangerous.
Blood magi ought to be locked up for life,
if you ask me. No second chances for that sort of thing.
I used to hunt blood magi for the Citadel when
I was younger. I could’ve hunted you if I’d wanted to.
The words slithered down his spine like droplets of ice water. He shuddered, curled in on himself, put his hands to his ears.
Stop.
Don’t get me wrong—
if I have any inkling that you’re a threat
I will come after you myself.
Please stop. I don’t want to hurt anyone.
I don’t understand; Maliel was doing so much better.
Then I left him alone with that boy…
I had to protect Wren. It was only to protect Wren…
Wren questions whether it was a wise choice
to have brought Everis here… I do not know.
The Citadel would surely see him as a threat
and put him to death.
Everis curled in tighter. Bit back a sob. He couldn’t run, couldn’t escape. All he could do was to drag his magic around him like a shell, wrap himself in threads of gold and crimson, bury his face in his arms, and pray for it to stop… or for Drake to end it so the voices would go silent.
63
WREN
Wren scarcely recognized the interior of the magi tower. He stopped short, sucking in a breath. His vision had mostly cleared, enough that he could take in the surrounding sight. Books and papers and shelves lay strewn about. A battle had taken place here, and no one had bothered to clean up after it. Heartbreaking.
Arabella had left a trail of blood in her wake, winding across the ground floor. Wren followed it, trembling. She’d been his peer once, a member of his family here at the castle, even if not a close one.
But Faulk…
Even though the assassin had been closed off, in just a few weeks, he’d become closer to Faulk than he ever had been to Arabella in all the years they’d lived together within the castle walls.
Abruptly, the blood trail ended behind a bookshelf. Wren frowned, turning full circle. She couldn’t have simply vanished.
He heard her casting behind him just in time to leap to one side. A gust of wind sent the bookshelf skidding across the floor and crashing into its neighbor before toppling them both. Wren rolled to all fours, scrambling for a spell to use. Fire in here would send centuries’ worth of important texts up in flames. A lifetime of being taught to respect the history within this room left him paralyzed, unsure of what to do.
Wren could see now where Faulk had left deep gashes across Bella’s abdomen, like some sort of wild animal rather than any human-made weaponry. Arabella redirected toward him, hands raised, a more involved chant falling from her lips. Wren lurched to his feet to run.
A massive, ghostly hand slammed into the ground where he’d been. Its fingers curled, monstrous claws leaving gouges in the stone. It moved as Bella moved, following Wren across the room, blocking him from effectively reaching Bella to break her concentration—or having a moment to cast anything himself. Instead, he wove in and out of the bookshelves, trying to make Bella lose sight of him. She cursed his name loudly. He ducked low around a corner as the ghost hand swept past him, and he dove beneath a research desk, huddled and hiding, catching his breath.
“You can’t win this,” Bella sneered. “Come out now, and I’ll take you to Master Reed. Maybe he’ll spare you if you ask very nicely.”
Wren gritted his teeth. This was one of the weaker apprentices. If he couldn’t beat Bella, how in the world was he supposed to go up against any of the others? How was he supposed to go against Drake?
I can’t do this without Ever.
No, he couldn’t rely on Everis. That he’d all but vanished suggested he was in trouble. Not dead—Wren would’ve sensed the absence of him—but locked up or injured or both. Wren needed to be stronger than this. He had to be capable of fighting on his own.
He scrubbed his palms against his trousers and closed his eyes, breathing deep. Centering. Concentrating. He blocked out the chaos of Bella’s spells, wreaking havoc across the room as she searched for him, and willed his heart rate to slow. Like Master Orin had taught him. Focus. Calm.
When one of her spells knocked the desk across the room, exposing Wren, he was already halfway through his spell. Something more in-depth than he was accustomed to, but he could do it. He knew he could.
“Got you,” Arabella jeered.
Wren’s fingers formed an O. He opened his eyes, looking at her through the center as he spoke the last word. Shackles of shimmering energy clamped around Arabella’s body, pinning her arms to her sides, fastening her ankles together. It forced her spells to drop. The ghost hand dissipated a mere inch in front of Wren’s face. She threw her head back and shrieked in fury, thrashing against the magical restraints.
Wren slowly got to his feet, careful not to break his concentration. As he approached, she shook with rage, eyes burning a brilliant red. He stopped in front of her. “Got you.”
Arabella laughed. “You won’t kill me, though, will you? You’re thinking of all the ways you could keep me alive.”
She had him there. Wren should kill her. He had the means to do so, and he was likely going to have to, but he didn’t want to. He’d rather lock her up, send her to the Citadel. A lifetime sealed away seemed a far more fitting punishment for murdering Faulk than a painless death.
“Pathetic little apprentice. And stupid,” Bella continued. “The moment your guard is down, I’m going to rip your throat—”
Through the open doors lunged a shadow so swift that Wren couldn’t immediately register its presence. The giant wolf sank its teeth into the junction of Bella’s neck and shoulder, puncturing her throat. Her eyes flew wide, mouth opening in a scream. The binding spell dropped, and Wren stood, paralyzed by horror and fear as the great beast shook Arabella like a rag doll. The sound of her neck snapping broke Wren out of his terror, and he shrank back, readying himself for another fight.
But the wolf dropped Arabella and turned to him, blood-stained mouth pulled back into a snarl as it licked its chops. Its body was humanoid, bipedal, with arms and large, clawed hands. Stooped over on all fours, it was nearly eye level with Wren. Were it to stand up properly, it would tower over him.
Wren stared, a tremor working across his body from adrenaline and fear. Yet the beast stared at him calmly, and in its gold eyes, he saw something he recognized.
“Faulk?” he whispered.
It all made sense.
The uncanny ability to navigate in the woods, in the dark, in the tunnels. The wounds he’d inflicted upon Bella outside. There’d been signs every step of the way, and he’d missed them. Faulk had even said, I’ll catch up with you.
Damn him and his secrets.
At the sound of his name, Faulk stepped closer with his head bowed. Not a threat. Wren swallowed hard, reaching a shaking hand to touch the wolf’s head. His fingers slid into the coarse fur. Then, unable to help himself, he wrapped his arms around the wolf’s neck and hugged him tightly.
“I thought you were dead.”
Faulk snorted. He allowed himself to be hugged for a moment before shaking Wren off, and Wren watched in morbid fascination as the beast convulsed and shifted. His bones cracked, and Faulk whined, low and pained, as his body morphed back down into its human shape. When he sank to the floor on all fours, catching his breath, the open wounds on his body that he’d gotten while defending Wren were no more than fresh pink marks, healed over.
Wren kneeled at his side, a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He knew little about werewolves except that his master had met one once that he’d deemed not a threat, and so he had let him live, but the process he’d just witnessed looked excruciating. “Are you alright…?”
“Clothes,” Faulk muttered, voice hoarse. “Outside.”
Wren’s face warmed, but he nodded and ran out of the tower, stealing a look around to ensure no other surprises awaited them. He fetched the discarded clothing and brought it back.
As Faulk dressed, Wren circled up the spiral staircase of the magi tower to one of the uppermost floors, surveying the damage. It would be impossible to locate any of the texts he’d been hoping for, but he had his own small writing desk where he’d kept a few books and notes that were, thankfully, undisturbed. He took a seat and flipped through them, searching the potion recipes, spells, and charms scattered throughout for something that would be of use.
He couldn’t transform like Faulk. He couldn’t scribe like Lady Imaryllis. His spells weren’t as strong as Master Orin’s. He couldn’t cast without speaking and signing like Everis…
Or could he?
Wren stared down at the few spells he’d plucked from the books and notes. He shoved one of his sleeves up and slid the assassin’s dagger from his belt, hesitated, then brought the tip of the blade to his skin.
If they were going to survive this…
Drastic measures were needed.
64
BRANT
“These fucking halls.” Elias delivered a swift kick to the door they’d just passed through. “I swear, if we pass that tapestry one more time…”
“Well, we can’t just stand here and do nothing.” Brant sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. He wasn’t certain how much time had passed since they were separated from Wren and Faulk, but it felt like too long, and that they hadn’t encountered a single person was concerning. They were caught in a loop of the same three hallways, and every time they seemed to select the path that broke the trend, they found themselves wrapped up in it once again with another wrong turn.
Brant was about to suggest they stop for a bit to rest when the air around them seemed to shudder and shimmer, a dizzying blur of texture and color that made his head hurt. Then the illusion faded, leaving in its wake an entirely different hall than the one he’d thought they were in. Rather than the north end of the castle near the ballroom, they were somewhere east, a few turns away from the library. “What’s happened?”
Elias stood at attention, alert, confused. “Maybe whatever magi was casting the illusions got his arse handed to him?”
“We can hope. Come on.” With renewed excitement, Brant pressed onward, now with a sense of direction. They would head to the tower where the royals slept in search of Danica.
At the end of the hall, Elias grabbed his arm and yanked him to a halt, signaling him to keep quiet. In tandem, they peeked around the corner, spotting nearly a dozen guards positioned outside a set of double doors.
“Where do those lead?” Elias whispered.
“The library.”
“Anything worth guarding in a library?”
“Um…” Brant blinked. “Books?”
“Doubt they care much about protecting books at a time like this.” Elias rolled his eyes. “Willing to wager they’re looking after someone.”
Brant raised his eyebrows. “If that someone is a magi, are we really the two who ought to be stopping to say hello?”
“Maybe not, but do you fancy hanging out here to wait for backup?”
He bit back another sigh, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, alright. Got a plan?”
Elias pulled a set of knives from his belt, grinned, and swung around the corner. “Ahoy, gents!” he crowed, strolling down the hall toward the guards. “Got a second? I can’t seem to find where I left my bloody horse.” The moment the soldiers drew their swords, Elias flicked the knives with expert grace and aim, piercing two of the men’s throats.
Brant stared, open-mouthed, until one guard took a swing at the assassin. Swearing under his breath, Brant drew his own sword and raced after him, catching the guard’s blade and knocking it away.
“Brant?” one of the guards called.
“Sylvia.” He pointed his sword at the lot of them where they’d paused. They didn’t all recognize each other, but he saw a few faces he knew, and knew well. “What are you doing? You’ve lost your damned minds, working alongside blood magi!”
Sylvia hesitated. Not only her, but many of the others. They were frightened, cowed by Drake Reed and Danica into following orders. “We can’t defy the queen,” Sylvia said.
“Danica is no longer queen,” Brant hissed. “Stand down. Help us reclaim the castle for Cassia. She’s the one you should be loyal to!”
A few glances were exchanged, but no one moved. Was he going mad? Had he chosen the wrong side? How were they so willing to skew their view of duty?
“We’ve seen what happens to those who try to lie down their arms,” Sylvia whispered. “We’re just following orders. I’m sorry, Brant.”
Brant raised his sword, jaw clenched. “So am I.”
They met with a clash of blades. Elias slithered amongst the group with the grace of someone used to close combat, his reflexes fine-tuned.
Brant tried not to think. Tried not to pay attention to whom he cut down, to the familiarity of their faces, the pain in their eyes. If he acknowledged that, if he allowed the hurt to seep in, he would surely fall to pieces.
At least Artesia wasn’t there. She was safe in Patish with Cassia, and she’d be waiting for him when this was over. If he faltered here, if he died, she would no doubt blame herself for not having come along. Brant couldn’t allow that.
Thinking of his best friend renewed his resolve. He allowed his mind to blank, to think only of the sword in his hand, to see the people before him as nothing more than enemies to contend with. And at the end of it all, he stood amongst the bodies, breathless and trembling, nursing a gash in his side and another on his thigh. He looked at Elias, who wiped his daggers clean on a fallen soldier’s cloak and tucked them back into his belt before straightening up. His hair was mussed, but otherwise, he appeared unharmed.
The assassin flashed him a grin. “Nicely done.”
Brant surveyed the fallen with a knot in his stomach. He swallowed hard and nodded. I did what I had to do. He couldn’t force his voice to work, so he straightened as much as his wounds would allow and reached for the door instead.
He pulled the library doors open. A blinding light flashed before his eyes. Elias grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him aside just as a stream of crackling lightning zipped past where he’d been standing. Its proximity made the hair on his body stand on end.
“What the fuck—”
“Magi,” Elias hissed.
They braced themselves. This wasn’t a fight they were likely to win.
“We just want to talk,” Brant called.
No answer.
“You know perfectly well we aren’t capable of beating you, magi. So, grant us a few minutes of your time.”
Still, silence. No more spells, nothing. Brant and Elias looked at each other, frowning.
“You may enter,” came a voice.
Slowly, the pair stepped through the doorway, on guard, prepared for some kind of trick. Instead, they saw Danica with a knife in hand, standing over magi Beatty’s throat-slit corpse. She stared at them, something unreadable in her gaze, then dropped the knife and turned to move away.
Baffled, Brant lowered his sword. He closed and locked the doors behind them and inched into the room. Danica had taken a seat at a table and stared off at nothing.
“Your Grace?” The respect came automatically and without thought, after too many years of viewing this woman as his queen. She said nothing, hands against her belly. “You killed the blood magi. Why? I thought you were working with them.”
“I was,” she murmured. “But that was before.”
“Before?”
“Before I realized what a fool I was.”
Brant and Elias exchanged looks once more. Brant pulled up a chair and sat. “I don’t follow.”
“It’s not an excited story.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got nothing but time right now, so start talking,” Elias said.
Danica took a slow breath. “…I fell in love with Drake years ago. He was handsome, charming, and what’s more… he paid attention to me. Loved me. I had not shared myself with Faramond in years and he never so much as asked. He had his daughter. That was all he cared about. His wife didn’t matter.
“Cassia isn’t truly my child. When I admitted as much to Drake, he filled my head with worries. What would happen after Faramond was gone? Would the people who knew the truth use it to discount my place here? I lost sleep over it.”
“So, you started to poison the king?”
“Drake’s doing, and I didn’t realize it was him for a long while. When he told me, I was horrified… but the fact of the matter was, my life had been better without my husband in the picture. He could have stayed sick, for all I cared. I had my freedom. I had Drake…”
Brant’s gaze dropped briefly, then lifted to her face again. “And then you got pregnant.”
Danica placed her fingers against her stomach. The swell was barely noticeable, but it was there. She gave a grim smile. “I refused to share Faramond’s bed for years and he never pushed. And then everything spiraled out of control. Drake has gone mad. I tried to reason with him, but after he killed Orin, something in him… seemed to snap. Whatever Cassia wishes to do with me, I deserve. I only ask mercy for the child I carry.” Finally, she looked at Brant. “Please, stop him.”
