83

Salila

“A minor tremor. Nothing to worry about.” Rantorjin is still oblivious to my rage as he waves his people back to their seats. “A commonplace event here.”

“Really?” I speak through a clamped jaw. “Commonplace?” I can barely keep from tearing into every throat, breaking every neck in the hall.

“Truthfully, no,” he says only to me. “But Amassia’s weather patterns are askew.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

He goes on as if I didn’t speak. “Have you seen the second sun glowing red in the sky?” He waves out the smaller west windows even though the star set hours ago. “Of course you have.”

I can barely contain myself, but first, I’ll hear what Atikis says, in case I have it wrong. The red-robe strides toward us but his eyes are on the food.

Rantorjin rises. “Allow me to introduce—”

Atikis, the rude man, interrupts. “Let me eat first before the civilities. It’s been a full day.”

“And not over yet,” I say under my breath as I grip my steak knife. “Where are your prisoners, Atikis?” I lift my chin, spitting the words at him.

“Easy.”

The Magistrate’s fingers tap mine and I jerk back.

“Lord Atikis,” he tries again. “This is Salila Sovnon, of Avon Eyre.” The Magistrate speaks formally and with more than a little warning in his tone. It gets the red-robe’s attention. “She wishes to hear about the prisoners who were briefly in your possession.” The emphasis is on briefly.

Atikis nods. “So she will.” He goes to the sideboard, not returning to the table until his plate is overflowing. He takes the seat next to me but addresses Rantorjin. I’m very close to reaching down his throat and pulling out his lungs. Let’s see what that does to his appetite.

“First,” the red-robe says. “It’s time for me to collect what’s due.” He holds out his hand to the Magistrate as if he was owed a few coins.

Every fiber in my being bristles.

Rantorjin clicks his tongue as if about to counter, but instead, he undoes the clasp at the nape of his neck and hands the Eye of Sierrak over to Atikis.

My jaw works back and forth. “So you betray your own High Savant?” I growl.

“My dear, I am sure Zanovine will understand—”

I flip the knife I’ve been fondling and plunge it into Rantorjin’s hand, pinning him to the oak table. It’s aimed carefully between the web of his first two fingers, but still, it holds his attention, his face blanching white.

Atikis leaps back, and I rise, pushing the table over, food board and all. Rantorjin rolls with it, still impaled to the wood as he releases an anguished cry for his guards. They rush in, but I ignore them.

“Focus, you imbecile.” I pin Atikis with my eyes. “Tell me what happened to the prisoners?”

The Magistrate’s guards help him pull the knife from his hand, but they aren’t sure who to point their pikes at, me or Atikis.

“Are you mad, woman?” Tears stream down Rantorjin’s face as he presses a napkin to the wound. It is quickly turning red.

“Temperamental, is she?” Atikis says.

It’s still a joke to him but in a few more moments, it won’t be. I’ll feel immense satisfaction in that as I swipe up another steak knife.

“Put your weapon away, Princess. I’ll tell you what happened.”

He still thinks it’s funny? But I will be patient. News of Kaylin and Ash comes first. He won’t be able to talk without his trachea.

“I traded the young woman, quite successfully.”

“Traded her? For what?”

“The Mask of Anon, if you must know.” He taps the chains around his neck. “Your own realm’s. I’m surprised you weren’t aware.”

“Where is she now?” I grind out the question.

He shrugs. “They took her with them into the bone tunnel. Perhaps they are back in Avon Eyre by now. Time runs a little differently there, or so I am told.”

I ignore the taunt in his eyes and ask my final question. “And her guard? The sailor?” I bare my fangs at the red-robe but he still doesn’t seem to know how close he is to his last breath.

“The lad?” He takes a step back, finally registering the rage in my face, the veins pulsing in my neck, the dilated pupils. His next words come as he shifts to his back foot. “A strong one, that. The battle was challenging, even to me.”

“And?”

“I ran my blade through his heart. He bled out before the girl stopped screaming. Terrible racket the—”

I raise my knife and lunge, letting loose a war cry.

Atikis is blasted back, hitting the floor hard. Panicked guests jump from their chairs and race for the exit.

“Hold! Both of you.” Rantorjin, a brave but stupid man in the end, stands between us, arms warding us off from each other.

“Get out of my way, old man,” I say. When he doesn’t move, I crack his chest with my fist. He gasps his last breath while watching his heart beat in my hand. I throw the organ to the side and glare at Atikis. “You were saying?”

The guards surround me with pikes as the polished hardwood floor cracks like pealing thunder. Atikis is on one knee, his phantom rising. I leap over the pikes and drive the small knife into his neck. Too late! His phantom is up, a large tentacle jutting up to shield him. My knife sinks into rubbery flesh, not a pulsing artery. I sever the phantom limb from the root as the smell of wet earth fills the hall. Atikis advances on me, sword over his head, multiform phantom busting through the floorboards, upending tables, cracking foundations.

The quarters are too close. “Follow me, Atikis and bring your sea slug.”

A tentacle rises toward me, and I run to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the hall. With hands stretched over my head, I spring into the air and dive through the eighteen-foot plate glass, shattering it into a hundred pieces.

“For Tutapa!” I cry when I land, and turn to face the enemy.