“Don’t come any closer.” I back away, dragging Toralé with me, fumbling once again for the knife at my belt. From the doorway, Tarrith watches us go. Through Toralé’s eyes, the mordathe has always appeared as a thirsty shadow, draining light and life from everything he touches. I don’t perceive the world in the same way – yet all the same, facing him, I’m gripped by a deep, instinctive revulsion.
“Where are you going with my tool?” he asks. At least, I assume from the wording that it’s a question; his voice holds so little inflection that it’s hard to tell. Beside me, Toralé trembles violently.
“He isn’t your tool any more,” I say, as much to him as to Tarrith. “I freed him.”
“Indeed,” Tarrith says. “I felt it as soon as it happened. You have made a mess of him, haven’t you?” A thin smile cracks his face. “Don’t worry, Toralé. Once you are my link, I will fix your eyes.”
I can still feel Toralé shaking, a constant tremor – but although it’s hoarse, his voice is clear. “You can’t t-torture me into submission now, Tarrith. Your hold on me is b-broken.”
“Yes,” the mordathe agrees. “But then, I never could persuade you with pain, could I? Which is why Alyssia is here.” He moves nearer to us, until a wild jab of my blade halts him. “Here’s your fool’s bargain, Toralé: submit to me, or she takes your place.”
My fear balloons into full-blown panic. What if Toralé agrees? He doesn’t know me. And it would be natural, after everything he’s been through, to do whatever it takes to escape …
I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I should be trying to figure out how both of us can get away. Maybe Tarrith is weaker, now that I’ve broken Toralé free. He only has the power in five people’s blood to draw on, not six. Maybe that gives us a chance …
But he’s still a mage. And to kill him, we’d still have to kill five other people as well.
“That isn’t why I’m here,” I say, playing for time while my brain spins in useless circles. “I’m here – ”
“Because you thought Toralé was in danger of execution.” Another thin smile. “Lord Ifor knows all about your … particular talent. And he knows what it feels like when you are spying on him. He showed you what he wanted you to see.”
What? No. I press my lips together to hold back the words, yet Tarrith must be able to read the realisation on my face. Because I don’t know how, but if he’s telling the truth …
If he’s telling the truth, Ifor knew I would come. As soon as he recognised me, he began to make plans to bring me here. He let Tarrith hurt Toralé to draw me in. He lied inside his own head in order to conceal his intentions. And I led the others straight into it.
If we die here today, it will be my fault.
“We were surprised you brought them all with you,” Tarrith says, as if to confirm that fearful thought. “Not your wisest move. But then, you didn’t even consider that you might be walking into a trap, did you? So sure of the advantage your farsight gave you that you never stopped to think that perhaps, someone who knows what you are might be able to manipulate you.” Once again, he moves closer; I grip Toralé’s arm and back away until my heels hit the wall. “Still. It allows us to swat two flies with one blow. I get what I need to break Toralé’s stubbornness, and Lord Ifor gets to teach his wife a lesson.”
By now, the panic has consumed my body until I can hardly feel my legs. Through numb lips, I stammer out, “B-but Ifor isn’t – ”
“Meant to arrive until tomorrow?” Despite the expressionless tone, the question is mocking. Tarrith spreads his hands. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
I don’t want to look. Yet I’m already reaching, back through the silver bond that connects me to Oriana.
She hears the footsteps, first, approaching down the passage from the direction of the Retreat. Too many of them, too loud and too sure of themselves, to be Alyssia and Luthan returning. Immediately her hands begin to shake, her insides falling away until she is conscious of nothing more than the desire to run. She could do it. She could retreat into the shadows of the narrow escape route she stumbled upon earlier, and abandon Fabithe to be found by himself. The discovery of his unconscious body would probably occupy them long enough that she could untie a boat and escape before anyone even thought to look for her. It is not as if she can do any good for him against armed soldiers, anyway. Why give up her freedom for nothing?
Not nothing, she tells herself. The right thing. And as the footsteps get closer, she draws her dagger and moves to stand in front of him.
The soldiers come into view. Eight of them, marching two by two. And with them – as soon as she sees Ifor, her legs will no longer hold her. She sinks down onto her knees, fighting for breath. Memories pile on top of her: the moment they met. The moment he asked her to marry him. The moment he told her the truth about her mother’s death.
His hands on her body. His laughter. His blade cutting into her skin.
And the words! All those words, drowning her with their contempt. Stupid. Worthless. Weak. Pathetic. This is all your fault, Oriana. Look what you made me do. The weight of them holds her in place. What made her think she could ever face him without fear? She is nothing. An insignificant mess. He makes her that way.
Yet somewhere underneath all that, she finds a glowing ember of rebellion. It is friendship. And happiness. The way she healed Luthan. The way she stood up to the soldiers in Bridgehold. It is Fabithe saluting her courage, Fabithe holding her hand. Alyssia saying You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And it makes her brave enough to lift her chin and say, in a voice that trembles only slightly, “Stay back.”
Ifor stops. His expression is a familiar one: amused, but on the verge of exasperation. “And if I do not? What will you do to me?”
She grits her teeth, refusing to be cowed. “I will not let you hurt him.”
Ifor’s gaze moves past her to Fabithe. His expression changes, but she recognises this one, too. It is the promise of pain.
“Do you remember what happened between the three of us, that time in Iridene?” he asks. “You and I were about to be married. But as soon as you smiled at him, I knew. I knew you would betray me.”
She does not understand. He is talking about something that never happened. She shifts a little on the gritty stone floor, and he smiles. Not the dazzling beam of their courtship, or the delighted laughter she associates with her torture, but something twisted and full of sadness.
“I know what you are thinking, little one. Such a thing never happened. But I assure you, it did.”
He takes a step closer. She lifts her dagger between them, and he stops again.
“Did he tell you his real name, this time round? Morani Kingswood. Adopted son of the king of the Westlands. You will not have learned it from your politics tutor; Morani fell from grace when you were still a child. Convicted of treason and sacrilege, and sentenced to death.” Ifor looks down at Fabithe, and a new darkness enters his face. “But he survived. Cockroaches always survive.”
“Why do you hate him so much?” Oriana whispers.
“I hate you all for what you did to me. And I despise you for what you did to my country.”
“My lord …” The honorific drops from her lips automatically; he drummed it into her often enough. She hears it resonate in the space between them, that small sign of submission, and hates herself for it. “I have never done anything to harm you.”
“No?” The intensity drains from his face, leaving only the bitter smile. “You might want to ask Luthan about that.”
To her surprise, what rises in response is anger. She tries to choke it down – because anger is dangerous, because he will punish her for it. Yet she cannot turn it back on herself, as she used to. It leaps and burns in her veins. It reminds her, You are allowed to be angry.
“Was it so very terrible?” she asks. Her voice trembles, but not with fear. “Whatever it is you think I did to you. Did it really warrant the bruises? The broken bones? The way you f-forced yourself on me and isolated me from my father and – ”
He looks at her. One fist clenches. Her body arches as pain runs through it, every nerve-ending raw and screaming.
“Yes, Oriana,” he says calmly. “All of that and more.”
This is all your fault.
Look what you made me do.
Tears leak from the corners of her eyes. With a contemptuous gesture, as though throwing away a piece of rubbish, he releases her. She sinks back to her knees, gasping and blinking.
“I will not let you hurt him,” she says again, though her voice is a thread. “I do not care what you do to me.”
Ifor’s lips tighten.
“Take him,” he orders his men, with a jerk of his head at Fabithe. “Lock him up. I need some time alone with my wife.”
As they start forward, Oriana grabs Fabithe’s hand. She cannot defend him against them all. Her only chance – his only chance – is for her to –
Light flares around his body. For the third time in her life, the world becomes something new. She ignores the allure of the thousand colours around her, focusing only on those that surround Fabithe: the odd little weaves that run through his own colours, sign of a magical malady.
What was it she did before? Stone for sickness, steel for blood. But he is not sick, and he is not wounded. This is a harder problem.
Hard … but not impossible.
She is not sure where the knowledge comes from. Snippets of her mother’s books. Half-remembered legends. Some place deep inside her, older and more fundamental even than instinct. Whatever the truth, she can see how to mend him. Take some flaxen light from the air, draw off the excess viridian into the wooden fastenings on their discarded bags, redistribute the colours properly around the body – a little carmine from his sword, like a jolt straight to the heart –
He gasps. His eyes fly open. He looks straight up into her face, and his lips shape her name. For a moment, she forgets everything. Everything except that.
Then the northerners are with them, pushing her aside, grabbing for Fabithe, and anger wipes all other emotion from his expression. He throws a punch, scrambling to his feet – still disoriented, lurching to one side, but kicking the nearest soldier’s knee before driving his elbow into another’s stomach – Oriana tries to pull them back, clawing and biting despite the debilitating headache bestowed on her by healing Fabithe, but there are too many, piling onto him, dragging him down through sheer weight of numbers –
“Stop.” At Ifor’s single word, the northerners back away. Fabithe leans on his knees, gasping; Oriana can see how much it has cost him, to come up fighting from unconsciousness. The men look at Ifor, who smiles. “Morani has something to say to me. Let him say it.”
Fabithe shakes his head. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Really?” Ifor drawls. “I seem to recall you had plenty to say, the night before Rys cut you down. What has changed?”
Fabithe’s fists clench. A shadow crosses his face. Watching from between two northern soldiers, her wrists gripped tightly to keep her from intervening, Oriana sees her own familiar emotions reflected in him. Remembered fear. Old pain. A black curl of shame. But then they are gone. In one fluid motion, he draws his sword and swings it round into a two-handed grip.
“This time,” he says calmly, “you don’t get to hide behind my brother.”
Without looking, Ifor gestures to one of his men, who hurries forward with a similar weapon. He takes it, tests the weight and the balance of it, but does not immediately mirror Fabithe’s stance.
“How did it feel?” he asks. “Knowing you were willing to spare your brother’s life, but he would not do the same for you?”
Fabithe says nothing. He waits in silence, dark gaze fixed on Ifor’s face. Yet a hint of that same pain tightens his jaw.
“Never mind,” Ifor says. “I will spare you. I remember how good it feels to have you inside a prison cell.”
Fabithe’s knuckles whiten. Involuntarily, it seems, he takes a half-step backwards. He looks, for the first time since Oriana met him, young and vulnerable. Just a boy, as she is just a girl.
But both of them are more than that.
“Fabithe!” she calls out, startling herself with the strength of her own voice. He turns his head. “Whatever it is he told you about yourself, it is not true.”
She is not sure if the words will mean as much to him as they did when he said them to her. She is guessing, only; seeing the echoes of her own past in him, and realising that the two of them have more in common than she had understood before. Yet it holds all the power she hoped. His spine straightens.
He nods.
And as Ifor brings his sword round in a sweeping arc, he lifts his own to meet it.
I jolt, the clash of steel ringing in my head. What have I done? Before I came to Endarion, Oriana and Toralé were in Ifor’s power, but Fabithe and Luthan were free. Yet now, all five of us are on the verge of being captured. I haven’t helped anyone at all. I’ve only made things worse.
“You see?” Tarrith says. “Your friends are lost. But if Toralé submits to me, I will allow you to walk through this door. Perhaps there is still a chance that you will escape the Retreat, alone.” Gesturing at Toralé, he adds with a touch of malice – the first detectable emotion I’ve heard from him – “Whereas a newly blinded man stands no chance at all.”
He’s right, of course. Toralé wouldn’t make it by himself. All I’ve achieved is an extra twist of the knife: a taste of freedom, before he’s dragged back into captivity. Yet I can’t walk out of that door and leave him to his fate. I won’t.
“You should go,” he says, and I swing round to face him.
“What?”
A bitter smile touches his lips. “Tarrith knows me better than I thought. He knows I could never really be free, if I sacrificed someone else in my place.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
“I know you came here for me. What else matters?” Toralé shakes his head. “Go. And thank you.”
“What for?” I fling at him, half sobbing. “I’ve given Tarrith exactly what he needed to coerce you. They played me, and I was too incompetent to realise.”
“All the same,” he says quietly. “It was good to feel whole again. Even for these few moments.”
I suppress a wail. I’ve let him down. And Oriana! She trusted me, and now …
But I didn’t see Luthan.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Too busy drowning in guilt. Yet although I saw Ifor with Oriana and Fabithe, Luthan wasn’t with them. She might still be free out there somewhere, on the other side of the arch. And if so, she’s the best chance any of us have. I don’t know how to defeat Tarrith, any more than Toralé ever did. But Luthan is a mage. If anyone can help us, she can.
“Just hold on,” I breathe, and reach for the silver thread that connects me to her.
“Do you understand?” Luthan asks the three men in front of her. They salute, expressions glum after her lecture.
“Yes, Bladeleader.”
She nods at them, but she has to hold back a smile. Strange to admit, but she has enjoyed it: playing a part, pretending to be someone else. There is freedom in it. She can say and do whatever she likes, and it doesn’t matter, because it isn’t really her.
All the same, she’d better change her approach, now. Alyssia has been gone a long time. Originally the plan was to cover for her until she returned, then recast the illusion once she stepped back through the arch. But perhaps she needs help. In which case, best to send these three about their business before climbing the stairs after her and becoming Luthan again.
“All right,” she says. “Listen closely. I want you to – ” But she stops, because she can hear footsteps. Someone is coming. Multiple someones. And whoever they are, if they find her here, any chance she has of getting through that arch quietly will be lost. The archway itself is lined with neolyte, the stone used by the Pendhaki to test for mages; as soon as she passes through it, any magical weaves she has in place will fall apart.
It isn’t really harm, she tells herself. A Bladeleader would do it, for the sake of the mission. And she walks up to Hilnel and casts a net of sleep.
“Help me!” she orders, as she breaks his fall by catching him against her shoulder. “This man has collapsed.”
One of the guards moves forward. Together, they lower Hilnel to the floor. Then, when the guard crouches to check Hilnel’s pulse, Luthan sends him to sleep too.
“Something wrong here!” she barks at the second guard. “Raise the alarm!”
He sets off at a run in the direction of the rapidly approaching footsteps. As he passes Luthan and the two unconscious men, she shrouds his mind in sleep as well. This time she can’t prevent the man’s full vertical descent; she winces as his face hits the floor. I will never harm the powerless. But it’s only a broken nose. Better than letting herself be captured.
By now, the power stored in her stave is nearly gone. She flings herself through the neolyte archway and hurtles up the stairs, drawing more blood from her fingers as she goes.
I blink, gasping. That’s good – she’s on her way. But she still has to find us along the corridor, past all those doors. And I need to keep myself and Toralé alive long enough for her to get here.
“To what?” Toralé whispers. I’m not sure what he – right. A minute or ten ago, I told him to hold on. I open my mouth, but Tarrith gets in first.
“Enough of this. I know what you’re thinking, but she’ll never get this far.” Once again, he moves closer. “Toralé. Give me your consent.”
I step between them. “He won’t do it. Because I’m not leaving.”
“Oh, I think he will,” Tarrith says. “Once he hears you scream.”
I shudder – but I have to delay him. And since I can’t hurt him without hurting someone else, there’s no point going for him with the knife. Which only leaves …
Reckless defiance.
“I won’t scream,” I fling at him. “No matter what you do. I won’t let you use me against Toralé.”
Once again, a thin smile appears on the mordathe’s face. “Let’s test that, shall we?”
They are waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Five of them, ranged across the corridor. Three men, two women. Their expressions solemn, as if they have gathered to greet her formally for a special occasion.
“Luthan of Oakelm,” one of them says. “Lord Tarrith sent us to fetch you.”
There is something unsettling about them. Luthan hesitates, trying not to appear alarmed while she figures it out – and then she has it. Their birthstones are all wrong. Twisted and snarled up with magic. And not the kind of magic that can be blocked with neolyte – illusion or kinesis, something fluid and separate. This magic is part of them, warping their flesh and blood.
Tarrith’s links. Toralé would have been the sixth.
Luthan suppresses her instinctive urge to flee. These people are dangerous only so far as they give Tarrith power. In themselves, they are no more than human. And she is a mage. Surely she can find a peaceful way past them.
In the silence, voices float up through the archway.
“What’s happened here?”
“These men are asleep.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“This way, quickly!”
Luthan turns her head, to see a group of northern soldiers approaching up the stairs towards her. The ones she heard coming before. She looks from them to the links, and her heart begins to race. She is trapped.
Yet that could work to her advantage, if –
I will never harm the powerless, she reminds herself again.
I will use my power only in pursuit of the greater good, is the swift reply. Alyssia and Toralé are in here somewhere; their survival trumps all other considerations.
Besides, she will not be harming anyone. They will be harming each other.
She fades. Wrapping herself in insignificance, a shield that no casual glance will penetrate. At the same time, she sets two illusions. Copies of herself. One on one of the links, one on one of the soldiers. Each group will see only the other’s illusion. None of this would work on mages, but on ordinary people …
As a fight breaks out, she steals away past the links and down the corridor, searching for her friends.
Tarrith’s fingers close on the fabric just below my neck, yanking me forward. I kick at him, wildly, slashing at his knuckles with my knife. Someone will be hurt by that, but it isn’t serious. And if I can make him let go of me –
His magic tightens around me, and suddenly I can no longer move.
Taking the knife from my hand, he looks at it contemplatively. Then at my face. “Perhaps we’ll start with an eye.”
I try to struggle. Over and over. But it’s as if I have no control over my body at all.
Luthan’s coming, I tell myself. She’s on her way. You just have to hold out a bit longer.
Yet as the blade gets closer, I start to shake. He will do it. I saw enough of what he did to Toralé to know that. He won’t hesitate to mutilate me, if –
The tip of the blade touches the corner of my eye, and despite myself I whimper.
“What was that?” Tarrith presses a little harder. I feel the sting of my skin breaking, a hot drop of blood falling down my cheek like a tear. Please. Please don’t –
The knife cuts deeper.
I scream.