Page 170 of Scourged

Sebastian stepped forward. “Mariah, I doubt he knows the name of the exact guard?—”

“I do. Know it. I … I’ve met him before.” The boy still struggled with his words, but he forced them past his teeth.

Sebastian’s hand returned to the hilt of his sword, lips turning down into a scowl. Mariah took another step forward, a predator stalking her prey.

“Who?” she growled again.

“Ryland,” the boy whispered. “His name is Ryland.”

Fuck.

Andrian’s magic snapped forward again, this time wrapping around the boy’s wrists, binding them together in front of him. Not that the messenger would try anything—his eyes were wide and terrified at the shadow magic holding him—but it was enough time for Trefor and Matheo to surge forward, each grabbing one of the boy’s arms.

Once he was secured, Andrian pulled his magic back to him, just beneath his skin. He turned to Mariah, light tremors of her rage washing through her frame.

“Nio?” he said gently, barely more than a whisper. She darted her gaze up to him, an unearthly wildness still blazing in her eyes. “What do you want to do with him?”

Her jaw worked. “Take him to the meeting room. I have more questions for him.” She raised her voice. “The more forthcoming he is, the less this will hurt.”

Matheo and Trefor hoisted up the boy, dragging him from the throne room, heading toward the meeting room they’d used so many times over the past few weeks. The boy had pissed himself in his fear, a dark stain spreading across the front of his pants as his sobs sputtered through the cavernous space, pleading for his innocence, that he was only doing a job.

The boy had to learn the lesson at some point. A job for the wrong people would get one killed.

“Mariah.” A feminine voice rang out, hesitant yet clear. Mariah was rigid as she turned, her beautiful face cold and brimming with power.

The power of an ascended queen.

Pride—dark and vengeful and eternal—swelled within Andrian, even as his knees threatened to buckle before her.

Ciana stood with Liliane, the latter pale-faced as she stared at Ryenne and Kalen’s bodies. Behind them was Delaynie, slumped over a male form as silent sobs wracked her body, her mother beside her.

Ciana swallowed. “Mariah … they need to be taken to Priam’s Antechamber.”

The room was still. So still, an unearthly quiet that raised the hair along the back of Andrian’s neck.

Mariah’s gaze was focused on Ryenne’s lifeless body, now pale and empty of the magic that had given her long life.

“I know.” She cocked her head. “It’s all been arranged. Liliane will see to it.” The sound of her name roused the young priestess, raising a wide-eyed stare to Mariah.

“Give honor to our departed queen and her court, priestess. The rest of you, we meet in the meeting room. Now.”

“Mariah.” Ciana’s voice was firmer now. The tone was not of a queen’s lady but of her best friend. Mariah’s gaze snapped to Ciana’s, and Andrian could feel the battle of wills clashing between them.

Without another word, Mariah stepped back toward the dais. Up the steps. Past where Ryenne and Kalen lay, where Liliane had bolted to gather the assembled assistants who would help her take their bodies to the antechamber and begin the death vigil.

Mariah stopped above Delaynie, kneeling with her mother beside her father, tears streaking her high cheekbones. Sheturned up to face her queen, auburn hair shifting across her back.

Mariah bent, resting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Stay, Delaynie. Mourn your dead. Join us when you can.”

Delaynie nodded, and out of the corner of Andrian’s eye, he saw Quentin tense, as if he might spring up those steps. But he didn’t move, simply remained standing beside Andrian, bouncing subtly from foot to foot.

Mariah rose and turned to Ciana, who gave a tight nod. Mariah’s face was still blank, empty of all except that deep, unending fury as she started toward the dais’ steps.

She stopped again, right beside Ryenne’s prone body. Her eyes flickered downward.

With a slow, drawn-out movement, she knelt beside Ryenne, the old queen’s gray hair splayed around her head. Mariah’s fingers wrapped around something, a surge of wild desperation clawing down their bond.

When Mariah stood, she had the golden snowdrop blossom crown of Onita clutched in her fingers.