Page 91 of Heart of Night
Slowly, he stalks closer, dark eyes like pits of night as they assess my disheveled state, the dirty clothes, the blade in my hand, and a smile tugs on his lips.
“You came alone? Where is the weakling king you love so much?”
Myron stays at the side of the hole, hidden while he gathers his power. I can feel it rising beneath my own skin as he readies to strike.
“You mean the fabulous male who saved his own people—including your sorry ass—and came back from the dead because the gods willed it so?” I put on my best smirk, praying to Shaelak and Vala to give me strength. If there is anything I’ve learned, it’s that the Guardians didn’t bother to do shit when I was drowning in despair, when I was fighting for my freedom, for my life. But Vala did. Vala guided me, gave me her power, gave me back Myron. And Shaelak bestowed upon me the power of the Crows. I only wish I could use it at will. So far, nothing stirs beneath my skin when I draw upon the energy that gave me feathers and made me shift. “Because if you’re talking about him, I can assure you it’d be better for you if you never saw him again.” I lift my knife, listening hard for every single tell of presences in the room where I can’t see behind the gap framing Ephegos. With horror, I recognize the walls though. This is the room where I was strapped to a metal table, pierced with needles, and forced to watch Myron fight pain and helplessness. If I never see this room again, it’s soon enough, but there is no way around it. Royad is still here, and I won’t shy away from my fears.
Ephegos shifts, his fine sepia shirt crinkling as he adjusts his stance into a defensive one. A shadow moves behind the wall, tall and broad in a way that makes me believe I found Herinor. And the slow, rattling breaths?—
Royad is still alive. I know on instinct that these are the failing lungs of my friend, and if we don’t hurry, this sound will haunt me forever.
Myron is ready to strike, hand lifted at his side and focus on me. I incline my head an inch and step aside, making way for Myron to lunge, which he does. With powerful grace only a Crow can master, he lands in the opening, magic ripping free from his palm and soaring through the air. Swirling streaks like hot and cold air meeting in a visible glimmer brighten the air as I see his power for the first time.
A scream tears from Ephegos’ throat as the blow hits its mark, but it’s not Ephegos’s skin and flesh the power pierces, it’s the shield Ephegos conjured in front of him rattling with the impact. Sparks fly like when a hammer hits an anvil, and the sound is thunder and lightning cracking the sky.
Shit—
“You think I didn’t see you there?” Ephegos shoots him a wide grin, that of a friend—and a traitor disguising himself with ease.
Myron comes to a halt in front of me, the muscles in his back flexing as he lifts his hand, and a glimmering, translucent layer wraps around both of us when he conjures a thicker shield of his own.
“I think it doesn’t matter what you think.” Myron’s growl fills the room, and Herinor appears behind Ephegos, his gaze trained to the side where an edge of the torture table is visible, and hanging limply over it, Royad’s tan arm—or what’s left of the skin is tan. Most of it is raw flesh dripping blood.
My stomach twists as I try not to allow nausea to steal my focus. Inhaling through my nose, I take a step forward so I see better past Myron’s shoulder and father into the room.
Katrijanov is there, and so are three guards, each of them grasping a sword and wearing various expressions of horror as they take in the Crow King on the loose. And by his side, their own king’s betrothed. Separating us is the long, steel table covered in Royad’s blood draining from his limp form. Tangles of brown hair stick to the side of his face as if someone turned him over from where his cheek had been pressing into his own blood and couldn’t be bothered to smooth the strands away. The scar running upward from the corner of his mouth is bleeding, and on his other cheek, a mirror of it has been carved into his skin as if to mock the sign of weakness. His bare, bruised, and blood-streaked chest is still rising and falling but barely. I don’t even want to think what cruel torture has created the pattern of wounds and bruises, or I’ll forget every caution. If we don’t get him out of here soon and heal him, he won’t stand a chance. I’ve seen enough people die to know.
Myron knows too, for his head has turned to Royad as well, taking in his cousin with the ire of the gods on his features.
“You’ve come to take back your friend?” Ephegos asks even when we all know that’s the only reason we’re still here.
Myron doesn’t deign to respond. Instead, he sends another blast of his power at Ephegos’s shield, and I watch sparks spread all the way to the other side of the room. Ephegos has enclosed them all with a barrier of magic, and there is no way for us to get past unless we bring it down.
Fear and frustration fight for the upper hand as I draw upon the sources of water I’ve noted along the path, pulling the liquid toward me with silent concentration. If I manage to wash a hole into his power, I might get to do what I swore I’d do if I ever laid eyes on Ephegos again.
The thought of murdering another creature shouldn’t excite me all that much, but this is Ephegos, and he deserves every last moment of suffering. It’s the determination that keeps me going when the amounts of water feel like too much and my arm is tiring from the effort as I force the water to stay out of sight so I can spring it on him in a surprise attack while Myron does the debating. He’s better at it anyway. I’d just provoke Ephegos, and he’d slit our throats instead of letting himself be sidetracked.
The strategy worked in the Seeing Forest after all.
Until Ephegos nearly killed me and Myron killed himself by saving me.
The panic clogging my throat is real, as is the pounding of my heart that drowns out all other sounds.
“It doesn’t matter why I came as long as I get to rip out your throat before I leave.”
It seems Myron isn’t one for diplomacy today either.
Unfortunately, there is little we can do without risking Royad, whose throat is now at the tip of Katrijanov’s blade. The Tavrasian general has used the moment of our regrouping to make the three strides toward the table and show us exactly how powerless we are. This won’t be a big battle—or even a small one. This will be a test of willpower and patience, of wits and strength of magic. One wrong step and Royad is dead, it’s implied in the way Katrijanov is glaring at me past Myron’s shoulder with too much of that vicious glee I’ve seen flare there before when he sold me to the Crows, then when he came to see me at the Flame estate. He has something up his sleeve that we can’t anticipate.
I wish I could speak to Myron mind to mind so I could tell him to watch out for the general, but the Crow is a master of battle. He knows how to keep an overview of a situation.
The three guards have inched closer to the door as if ready to bolt any moment, but Herinor is blocking their path, his mere presence inducing dread.
He’s your ally, I remind myself even when I know that there is nothing he can do for me.
“You brought your little Crow woman, Myron.” Ephegos appraises me as I step to Myron’s side. I won’t hide. I won’t run. I won’t balk from the danger. This is about all of us and I’d rather make myself useful before it’s too late.
Besides, I can aim much better from here than from behind Myron’s muscled body.