CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Nether removed can fan the dying flames

And sparks will reclaim ashes growing cold

Venom, so deadly, can be drawn from veins

To save a soul from death’s unyielding hold

But for the clinging twilight to retire

A lambent, brilliant power will be required

—THE BOOK OF UNVEILING

Darvyn didn’t bother to struggle as he was hauled into the Cantor’s library and strapped to the same stone table as before. Exhaustion made his bones heavy. He searched the men surrounding him, looking for Kyara’s face, but instead found only scowls from the Golden Flames. Aren’s vicious gaze stabbed him.

He’d lost time, at least a day. At one point he’d thought himself in the World Between, but his recollection was fuzzy and he had not seen the Queen. Maybe without access to his Song, She was beyond his reach? Could She see him? For as long as he’d desired to be free from Her control, he ironically now wished for Her intervention. Otherwise, there was little hope for a rescue.

The Cantor approached, her unnerving gaze focused on him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. She was imposing and ageless—terrifying, if he was being honest. Not as terrifying as the Queen, but a close second. She also wasn’t as powerful as the Queen, he reminded himself. She scrutinized him while running her hand down his body. It took every ounce of his control not to wince as she pressed the still-healing flesh on his chest and abdomen.

“It seems Aren was a bit overenthusiastic.” She shot Aren a biting glare. “Thankfully, Kyara stopped him before he rendered you completely useless.” Aren frowned and looked over his shoulder to where Darvyn guessed Kyara was standing. So she was here. Darvyn exhaled softly. He would rather she be present than locked in the dungeon along with him. It appeared her true loyalties had not been discovered.

Withstanding what was to come felt more bearable knowing she was safe. Part of her was lodged inside him, immoveable. More so, he did not want her gone.

Above him, everything faded from his vision except the Cantor’s shrewd stare.

“The True Father needs answers quickly, so I don’t have time for the usual tactics.”

She produced a knife from her side, different from the one Aren had used on him. This one was longer and white, with an ornately carved handle. She held it respectfully, stroking its blade almost as she would a lover.

Darvyn’s chest was bare but already covered in lacerations and cuts—the result of Aren’s attentions. The Cantor tsked as she looked down at him, then ran her hand down his thigh, dangerously close to his manhood.

“What a shame,” she said. A dark fear pierced him, but she simply used the knife to cut off his trousers and brushed away the fabric. “I need unmarked skin for this.”

She gripped the knife with both hands and uttered a string of words in a foreign language, low and guttural. The invocation made the collar at his neck ache even more as unfamiliar magic settled over him, holding him in place. She lowered the knife to his thigh and began to carve.

His jaw clenched against the pain, not as bad now as the last time he’d lain on this table. In the corner of his eye, Kyara came into view. He turned his head to take her in. The assassin’s gaze, hardened and cold, stared back at him. He locked onto her until his vision was blocked by the Cantor’s body when she shifted position. Done with the spell, she rested the bloody knife back on the bench with the other instruments of torture.

A scraping across the carpet sounded as she pulled a chair close. Then she sat and stroked his head. He flinched from her touch, but she kept at it. She appeared far wearier than she had a few minutes ago. Her breathing was heavy. The spell had taken some toll.

“All right, lovely, now you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

Kyara stepped to the side, into his line of sight again. He watched her hands, fisted, the skin at her knuckles taut.

“You will tell me where the caldera is,” the Cantor said. Her voice was mellifluous, calming. Darvyn’s mouth opened of its own accord. He did not want to answer but felt his will bent by a powerful force. Pain erupted on his thigh when he tried to remain silent. So this was what Kyara endured, what she suffered each time a command was given, and what had nearly killed her as she fought it to keep him alive. His respect for her redoubled.

“What caldera?” he said, his voice cracking from the pain.

She revealed sharp, white teeth. “The one you found at Tanagol. The one the Keepers of the Promise have been hiding for twenty years.”

“How do you know about that?” The Keepers had long suspected the True Father knew of the stone Darvyn had found in the ruins as a boy, and had taken great pains to keep it from him.

A haze covered his vision. Kyara was so much stronger than he was. His Song had healed him quickly his whole life. Without it, misery overwhelmed him. How had she held on for so long?

“Whispers here and there. You hear much if you listen hard enough,” the Cantor said with a brittle smile.

No one who had survived Tanagol that day would have spoken of it, but the gleam in the woman’s eyes was feral. The pain in his thigh exploded, pulsing with agony in time to his heartbeat. Darvyn’s lips opened, even though he fought against it. But he was exhausted, half-starved, bloodied, and torn. He prayed to lose consciousness and not be forced to speak. The Cantor only stared at him harder. The pain was so great he could not even move his eyes to find Kyara, so he shut them.

“Open your eyes.” They flew open immediately. “Tell. Me.”

He could resist no longer. “It’s in Elsira.”

“With whom?”

“The refugees. I don’t know which one.” For which he was grateful. The plan was for his mentor, Turwig, to take it out of the country, traveling with some of the other elders. Darvyn thought they should try to get the caldera into the Elsiran palace where the body of the Queen Who Sleeps had been resting for five centuries. The Queen had not told him exactly what the caldera would do. All She had said was that it was needed in Elsira and would help end the war. The faith of the elders propelled them forward even when She had no more answers to give. But they needed a chance to succeed, and Darvyn hoped his weakness had not doomed them.

“And what do they plan to do with it in Elsira?” the Cantor purred.

“I don’t know. Await a sign from the Queen.” The torment searing him faded to an ache. His attention centered on making his lungs work as Kyara’s face came into focus above him.

Is she gone? he mouthed.

Kyara nodded.

“She raced out of here like her skirt was on fire.” Aren’s voice made Kyara’s solemn expression tense. Darvyn longed to stroke away the worry line from her brow, if he could only move his limbs. “I guess we don’t need him anymore,” the Flame said.

Kyara produced a switchblade from somewhere—one minute her hands had been empty and the next the handle of the blade twirled across her fingers in an impressive dance.

“He belongs to the True Father now,” she said. “Imagine what a tribute he will be. Only then can he die. And if anyone is going to kill him, it will be me. He was my assignment.”

Aren snorted. “An assignment you barely completed. What was your plan?”

His voice dripped with suspicion. Kyara smiled wickedly, looking wild and unhinged. Darvyn smiled through his pain. That dangerous confidence of hers affected him like nothing else.

Kyara moved closer to Aren. The man had the good sense to take a step back. “Blood spells can be changed. If you outlive your usefulness to His Majesty, maybe one day you’ll be my assignment.” Her smile turned sweet, but the Flame’s expression froze in horror.

The man’s fist clenched, and he moved as if to strike her. The switchblade in Kyara’s hand shot up, pointed at his chest. “I believe you’ve been expressly forbidden from harming me, have you not?”

Aren’s heavy breathing slowed; he unfurled his fingers. Kyara clicked the blade closed and spun on her heel.

“Guards, get the prisoner back to the dungeon. He’s bleeding on the Cantor’s floors,” she said.

Aren snarled and stalked from the room, passing the two soldiers who came in. The guards unbound Darvyn and hustled him off the table, dragging him past Kyara, whose blank eyes met his.

The callous mask broke for an instant, long enough to lay bare the torment she was going through. It took almost no effort for Darvyn to grin and wink at her. He must have looked grotesque with the state his face was in, but the corners of her mouth curved a fraction, such a tiny amount that it could have been his imagination. He leveled a promise to her in his gaze. There was still breath in his body. That meant there was still a way out of this.

---

Kyara had been staring at the same page for an hour, but her sight was overtaken by the vision of Darvyn’s flesh sliced by a pale blade. His will shattering as Ydaris pried secrets from his lips.

Invisible bugs crawled over Kyara’s skin; she felt ill. She needed to find a way to free Darvyn. To save him before the True Father drained his Song, increasing the king’s terrible power.

She shivered, trying to force the images of Darvyn’s pain from her mind, when her Song lurched forcefully the way it did when there was an imminent threat. But she sat in her tiny bedroom—there was no danger here.

Kyara dipped into her second sight, and still nothing seemed amiss. She searched for a reason as her Song continued to strain. Spreading her senses to their limit, she finally recognized it. Far below, in the depths of the glass castle, the Nethersong of a fresh death called to her.

She was on her feet and out the door in a heartbeat. She drew in the Nether, and as she descended long staircases and grew closer to its source, a sizzling invigoration electrified her. The energy almost crackled from her fingertips, bringing a smile to her face.

The scowls of the dungeon guards fell away as she tugged on their Nethersong. Instantly, they collapsed. She managed to control her power enough to not kill them and simply remove their consciousness.

The power thrumming through her veins made her giddy. She took out every guard she encountered, the Nether making it easy to defy the blood spell. Her wound didn’t so much as tickle.

She sped through the dank, icy hallways searching for Darvyn. The dungeon hadn’t changed in the past eleven years. It was still rotten and fetid, each cell lined with moldy, insect-infested straw. Aside from her footsteps, the only sounds were the defeated moans of the inhabitants and the scurrying of critters best left in the dark.

She found Darvyn, motionless in a corner cell. The flickering lamp in the corridor illuminated his battered form. He was out cold, lying on the floor, encrusted with blood and grime.

The iron door to his chamber was barred, but the last guard she’d disabled had a ring of keys attached to his belt. Kyara retrieved them and after several tries, found the matching key. The rusted lock complained, but she pushed the heavy door open and rushed inside.

“Darvyn,” she said, kneeling beside him. She lifted his head and cursed, realizing she had no water or cloth with which to clean him off.

The collar around his neck needed to be dealt with, but the ring of keys did not hold one small enough to fit the tiny padlock. Ydaris would have it, but there was no time to head all the way back to the Cantor’s library to retrieve it. She wasn’t sure how long the Nethersong from a single dead body would last, and she needed to get Darvyn out of here.

She patted his face gently until he roused.

“Kyara?” His eyes were unfocused, but her name on his lips made her heart jump. “What? How?”

“Shh.” She brushed a finger over his mouth. “Can you stand?”

He rose unsteadily to his feet. She placed an arm around him to support much of his weight as he stumbled out of the cell.

They made it down the row and past the cell holding the dead man. Dozens of shallow cuts covered the prisoner’s emaciated body. One of Yaris’s projects?

“May you find serenity in the World After,” Kyara mumbled.

Darvyn stared at the downed guards curiously but was having a hard time keeping his head upright and remaining on his feet. She needed to remove the collar so he could heal.

“Wherearewegoing?” His tongue sounded swollen.

Kyara nearly stopped when she realized she had no idea. “Any suggestions?”

His breathing was heavy and slow. “Keeper … safe … house.”

She shook her head. “The Keepers are compromised. One of them turned you in.”

“No choice.” He lifted his shoulders in an attempt at a shrug and groaned. “Need to … find … who.” He sighed and his head pitched forward, hanging limply from his neck. Kyara took on even more of his weight.

Of course Darvyn would want to know who betrayed him. But heading into that pit of vipers made no sense. However …

The Keeper informer hadn’t given the True Father anything more than the Shadowfox’s location. He or she could have easily revealed the location of any number of safe houses or identities of their members, but hadn’t. Could Kyara risk betting on the fact that whoever had betrayed Darvyn didn’t want to betray the rest of the group and that the safe house would stay safe?

She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

“Please.” Darvyn’s wheezing turned into a prolonged cough. “Need to know.”

He stumbled, and she righted him then continued hustling through the dark hallways toward the exit.

“You want to trust the Keepers even though we know we can’t trust them?” She sighed. “Fine. Where’s the safe house?”

“Low End … Monarch’s Reign Boulevard. Fifth house … from the wall.” He coughed again and then rasped out the rest. “Knock four times … Code is: ‘Denmar seven-oh-three.’”

An unconscious soldier lay in front of the thick wooden door leading out of the dungeon. Kyara propped Darvyn against the wall so she could move the body out of their way. On the other side of the door was a little-used staircase leading to a side entrance of the castle.

She retrieved Daryvn and began the long climb up. His heavy breathing indicated how difficult the task was for him, though he never complained and never gave up. Supporting much of his weight was draining, but they kept going.

At the top of the steps, she paused to catch her breath and extended her second sight to scan the area. She motioned for Darvyn to keep silent as a column of light passed by the outer door. When it was gone, she cracked open the door and ventured a glance out.

Empty.

She tugged on Darvyn and they entered the antechamber, hoping that their luck would hold.

The castle’s outer door was right in front of them. Once outside, they just had to cross the courtyard and slip out of the gate in the castle’s border wall. From there they could disappear onto the busy Avenue of Kings and hire a ride across the city to Low End.

They headed out into the blazing sunshine, the red of the castle walls lending the afternoon a sinister quality. Kyara dipped back into her second sight to find three glowing columns of light approaching from the south.

She picked up the pace, crossing an open courtyard devoid of any vegetation that could hide them. Darvyn stumbled, his feet unsteady, blood now soaking his leg where some wound must have reopened.

Kyara was grateful Ydaris had made no lasting commands of Darvyn using his blood spell. Such magic was draining and the Cantor had been so harried, she must not have wanted to attempt it. A small mercy that the True Father had Ydaris working on something big that was taking the bulk of her attention and resources.

They had almost reached the gate when a voice called out from behind.

“Kyara!”

Shite. She shot a glance over her shoulder to find Aren racing toward her. Part of her was afraid to use her power with Darvyn clinging to her, but if she didn’t they were both dead.

She took a deep breath, pulling in the last of the dead prisoner’s Nethersong, drawing it deeply into her until there was none left. She turned and eyed Aren who, along with his two favorite henchmen, was running toward them. The men were twenty paces away.

Kyara targeted their Nethersong and they dropped to the ground, their forward momentum making them crash face-first. Next to her, Darvyn went limp.

Shite, shite, shite.

She checked his pulse—he was out cold, but there was no getting him up again, not until that collar was removed. She scanned the area—empty for the moment. It took all of her strength to maneuver Darvyn’s dead weight onto her shoulders and lift him. He hung across her back like a human yoke. She staggered to the gate and leaned her weight against it, praying to any god in any land to make it open.

Blessedly it did, on quiet hinges. The chaos of the city enveloped her as she stepped onto the busy avenue. Rickshaws, carts, horses, wagons, and diesel contraptions congested the wide street. People filled the sidewalks. They parted for her, a young woman carrying a grown man on her shoulders, but no one commented or gave her a second look. This was Sayya after all and people only paid attention to what concerned them.

Kyara flagged down a rickshaw and dumped Darvyn into the carriage before climbing in beside him.

“Monarch’s Reign Boulevard, fast as you can,” she said, and the man took off running.

She rested Darvyn’s head on her shoulder and stroked his hair as they were whisked through the city.