Shimmer and Burn Page 9

  Twisting, I sidestep spilled blood and swallow back exhausted tears. This is not what Thaelan promised me all those months ago. Where’s the Avinea he imagined?

  Where’s the Avinea he died for?

  The sun fades fast as Loomis steers us to a corral full of withered, miserable beasts. A young man straightens as we approach, swiping a cigarette out of his mouth and crushing it beneath his boot with a look of guilt that dissolves into relief when he sees Bryn.

  “Your majesty,” he says, dipping into an abbreviated bow before he pulls two horses forward, attention shifting to Loomis. “Took long enough, didn’t you? Gods and sinners, the offers I’ve gotten since you left. They buy skin by the inch out here.” A hand absently touches his chest, where Perrote’s loyalty spell sits above his heart. “I was tempted to sell.”

  “You should be so tempted to keep your mouth shut.” Loomis thrusts me at the boy. “Did you make the purchase?”

  The boy flashes a bundled package before tucking it back in his jacket, wrapping the slack of my tether around his fist.

  Loomis helps Bryn onto a horse, far gentler than the boy who drags me to his. As we settle in the saddles, Kellig arrives, lazy and unhurried, hands in his pocket. Two men flank him, built like giants, with arms bared to demonstrate the poison written across their skin. They fall back as Kellig hooks his elbows over the corral fence. He catches my eye and winks.

  The night’s not over yet.

  We ride out of the settlement and into a smoky field. I cling to the horse, trying to watch the landscape rolling past. There’s no bog on the other side of the valley we ride out of, no river leading to a hidden stairwell. Instead, the ground opens and we chase the sun’s descent, the mountains to our left. They couldn’t have brought horses through the river below the dungeon, and I realize with a jolt:

  There’s more than one way out of Brindaigel.

  We don’t slow until we reach a forest of silver birch and dense evergreens. With a grunt, Loomis dismounts and pulls his mask off, revealing a face damp with sweat and stamped with the harsh lines of the mask’s leather padding. He wipes the sweat against his shoulder. “We’ll do it here,” he says.

  Bryn twists in the saddle, surveying the forest. “Why are we stopping?”

  Loomis rummages through the saddlebag. I catch a glimpse of a flintlock inside and my stomach drops. During the war, King Perrote imported pistols from the Northern Continents to sell to Corthen and his men—brand-new technology to combat Merlock’s magic. They’re rare now, since loyalty spells limit their necessity, but their purpose is the same.

  To guarantee victory.

  Sweat breaks out across my back. The last time I saw a councilman with a flintlock, it was to shoot a girl who tried to escape Brindaigel by climbing over the mountains. Even in the middle of the gathering crowd who stood to watch, the reverberation of that shot had echoed through my bones like a drum.

  “I apologize, your majesty,” Loomis says, exchanging glances with the boy at my back as he withdraws a length of rope. “It’s only a momentary detour. King’s orders.”

  Bryn watches him, bemused. The boy dismounts before pulling me down, taking the rope from Loomis and pushing me into the fringe of trees.

  “Be careful,” says Bryn. “That one bites.”

  “And what about you, milady?” he asks playfully, a contradiction to the rough way he shoves me to my knees in a cradle of roots. “Do you bite too?”

  “Impertinent young man,” she says, but it’s an absent response, her attention drawn elsewhere. I follow her gaze, to the shadows thickening between the trees. Is there something out there?

  The boy grins, humming beneath his breath as he lashes me to the tree. “Do you even remember me?” he asks. “We danced once at the palace.”

  Bryn regains her composure as she dismounts, shaking out her traveling cloak before twisting her hair over one shoulder. “Did we?”

  “She has danced with many men,” Loomis says darkly.

  “Ah, but this was special,” says the boy.

  “I’m sure it was magic,” Bryn says drily.

  Loomis scowls and holds out a hand. Grinning, the boy retrieves the bundled package from his pocket. I strain for a glimpse as it’s unwrapped, only to go numb when I recognize the glass and metal flashing in the fading light.

  A needle. Another syringe.

  God Above.

  “What is this?” Bryn asks, plucking the syringe from its wrappings.

  “A simple precaution,” Loomis says, carefully taking it back before passing it to the boy. “You were spared the effects of the Burn because of your royal blood. But your captor . . .”

  All three look at me and I stare back. “You’re going to poison me?”

  “Avinea is a wasteland,” Loomis says. “His majesty keeps his people safe, no matter the cost. A demonstration of that mercy will alleviate the kingdom’s fears and prove that the princess was spared by the gods’ blessing—”

  “Perrote is a liar!”

  Bryn slaps me across the face. “That is treason.”

  I swallow hard, cheek stinging, staring across the trees. She’s on my side, I tell myself, but do I really know that? Bryn plays us all so easily, I can’t be certain which one of us is the enemy.

  Maybe we all are.

  Backing up, Bryn holds her hand out. “I want to do it,” she says.

  Loomis balks. “Your majesty, that would hardly be appropriate.”

  “I know how to use a needle,” Bryn says. “My betrothed taught me, among other things.”

  “Also not appropriate,” Loomis says.

  “I do not regret my choice,” Bryn says tightly, “nor do I suspect you regret yours. Joyena certainly stands closer to the crown than I ever could.”

  Loomis looks away, jaw clenched.

  The boy’s eyebrows arch with interest at Loomis’s sudden discomfort, no doubt savoring the story left unsaid to be taken home and embellished in the tavern. But then his attention returns to Bryn and he offers her a lazy grin, rolling the syringe between his fingers. “I’ll let you have it if you can remember my name.”

  Bryn’s expression softens, turns beguiling. She approaches the boy, flattening the collar of his tunic, straightening the shoulder of his jacket. He shifts his weight, wetting his lips in anticipation.

  “It’s right there on the edge of my tongue,” she says, folding her hand over his, cupping the syringe between them as if they were about to waltz. She tilts her head and his smile widens, turning devilish as she plucks the needle from his hand.

  There’s no chance for him to even gasp, to scream. Like a strike of lightning, Bryn drives the needle in the boy’s chest and depresses the plunger, releasing the entire vial of poisoned blood into his heart before she unsheathes his dagger and steps back, chin high. His smile turns into a gruesome scream as he claws at the needle, knocking it loose. Dropping to his knees, he stares up at Bryn and she stares him down, unflinching.

  “I didn’t remember your name,” she says softly, “because it was never worth knowing.”

  Loomis chokes back a strangled gasp of surprise. Bryn rounds on him, holding the boy’s dagger to his throat as she unsheathes his sword as well. “I actually liked you, Loomis. You were ambitious in a court full of cowards.”

  He stares at her, stricken. “Your majesty—”

  “But then you chose my sister,” she says, gesturing toward me before handing him the dagger, holding the sword to his back. He dutifully drops to his knees and cuts me loose before she reclaims the dagger, crossing it over the blade of the sword in an X at his neck. “Greed always costs.”

  “Bryndalin,” he tries, softer this time, more pleading.

  Bryn presses both blades into his skin, drawing twin points of blood. “I should thank you,” she says, almost breathless. “You were the first man to show me that human life is its own commodity.”

  The boy begins convulsing, clawing at his skin. Thin rivers of poison route a map up his
throat, across his jaw. How long does it take to turn hellborne?

  Bryn scowls at the boy before glancing at me. “Get the pistol,” she says, nodding the direction.

  I hurry to retrieve it from the saddlebag, holding it for her to take.

  She doesn’t. “Do you know how to use it?”

  I push it toward her again. “No,” I say, and I don’t want to learn.

  “I suggest you start by pointing it at his head,” Bryn replies darkly. “Pull the trigger when you’re ready.”

  My spine turns to ice. “What?”

  “Kill him,” says Bryn.

  “I—I can’t do that.”

  “Would you rather have the sword?” She pulls back, withdrawing the blade in question.

  “No,” I say, emphatic. “No, I mean, I can’t—” The words tangle in my throat and I shake my head, backing away.

  Bryn stares at me, mouth grim. “Once again, you harbor the illusion that you’re being given a choice.” Tossing the sword aside, she grabs my arm and yanks me forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against Loomis’s temple. “Pull the trigger. Shoot. You’d already be done by now.”

  “This wasn’t part of the agreement—”

  “The agreement was to start a war,” she says. “You chose your side. Now honor your promises or I’ll honor mine.”

  Blood trumpets in my head, a pulsing, beating no-no-no. I’ve fought before, but always against an opponent who accepted the risks of the ring—and who knew a palm on the floor could save them if things went bad. But I can’t do this, not to an unarmed man with no chance of intervention. It will unbalance my soul.

  “It’s either him or Cadence,” says Bryn. Her eyes glitter in the twilight, like twin pools of oil. Releasing her hold on the gun, she steps back, out of the way, watching me. Waiting.

  Horror rakes down my back: Is she only doing this to prove she has power over me?

  Loomis’s breath catches, damp and rattling. He wets his lips and shifts his weight across his knees, eyes closed, features contorted with the terror of anticipation.

  Loomis or Cadence; Cadence or me. Do I want my sister enough to kill for her?

  “His majesty is not a heartless man,” Loomis tries weakly. “He would show mercy for your crimes—”

  “That is a lie,” I say, choking on the words as my throat closes tighter. “Perrote is a murderer.”

  And now, so am I.

  It’s almost too easy, it’s almost too fast. An instant is all it takes to scar my soul down to the bone as the echo of my choice screams through the trees.

  There are monsters in Avinea.

  Bryn is there immediately, wiping away the blood, the tears, the goose bumps that tighten my skin. Smoke twines between us as she cradles my face in her hands. “You’re all right,” she says. Wolves bay in the distance, called by the howl of gunshot, the smell of fresh meat. “Cadence needs you to be stronger than this.”

  The gun slides out of my hand. I close my eyes, curling my arms over my face, squeezing back the tears and the screams. Pulling away from me, Bryn gathers her skirts to avoid the blood on the ground and crouches, frisking both bodies. The boy grabs her arm, desperation bright in his eyes.

  “Please,” he wheezes.

  “My father would have killed you both as soon as you returned,” she says gently, moving his dark curls out of his eyes. “You stupid boy. Nobody leaves Brindaigel.”

  Standing, she offers me a dagger. “Always aim for the heart,” she says. “Be careful of the ribs. Cut the throat if you have to, but use enough force or you’re wasting your time.”

  Growling, I grab her by the wrist; the bones are tiny, fragile, easy to break. Bryn pulls back, but when I don’t release her, she stops moving, expression defiant.

  I can’t breathe. Blood freckles her face; pools of shadow hollow the spaces beneath her eyes. We stare each other down and though I stand several inches taller than her, she towers over me.

  “I am not the enemy tonight,” she says.

  Still holding my gaze, she deliberately pulls out of my grip, proving how powerless I really am.

  Staggering back, I bump into a tree and bend over my knees, sucking in harsh gasps of air. Bryn turns for the horses. “We’ll ride to Nevik and continue as planned,” she says. “Nothing has changed.”

  A boy lies dying at her feet. Another man is dead at mine. The whole world has shifted an inch to the side; tomorrow, the sun will rise at a different angle than it did before.

  I killed a man and nothing will ever be the same.

  Turning, I run, graceless and frantic. Spells are woven out of threads, I think; if I run fast enough, far enough, maybe, maybe it could snap apart and Bryn couldn’t hurt me—

  A figure materializes in the darkness and I veer to miss colliding with it, my boots skidding on the cover of dead leaves before I lose my balance and fall. A woman frowns at me as I raise my dagger in delayed defense. The blade shakes in my tremulous grip and she smirks. Amused.

  She’s the same deadly kind of pretty that Bryn wears so well. Moonlight-colored hair with darkened tips, silver eyes and narrow brows. Spells are woven across her arms and throat, countered by veins of dead magic that trace her face in shades of charcoal.

  “Are you the daughter of the king?” she asks in a voice like smoke and screaming.

  “That’s not her,” a voice says, male and familiar. Kellig. He slinks out of the shadows, prowling behind the woman.

  Bryn screams in the distance; the woman and I both turn to the sound. “Take what you can and bleed the rest,” she says, moving into the trees in search of Bryn. Dismissing me, the useless one.

  Kellig waits for her to disappear before he regards me with a grin. “Five hundred pieces of silver,” he says, shaking a finger at me. “You see, North knows. He always knows when to buy and when to sell and when to disappear.”

  I climb to my feet and back into a tree, assessing my escape.

  “What’s your name?” Kellig asks, still pacing. “Or maybe you’d rather have mine? You can scream it as I kill you.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I like to start with the teeth,” he says. “Those are the first thing to rot, you know? Noble addicts pay good money for good teeth to hide their dirty habits.” He bares his own teeth at me, snapping them together. I flinch and he grins. “I’ll rip them out one by one,” he continues, “while my men fight to drink that virgin blood as it spills down your chin.” His dark eyes drop to my chin and lower, to the sagging neckline of my dress. “They bite sometimes,” he says. A dark smile carves his lips into something terrible. “You might actually like it.”

  Another scream, wild and feral, before heat flashes across my calves in warning. Bryn. I realize—too late—that she’s more of a liability to my safety when I can’t see her. If she gets hurt, I get hurt too, and despite everything, she’s not my enemy. Not tonight.

  “And then I’ll peel your skin off,” Kellig says. He makes a gruesome squelching noise at the back of his throat as he pantomimes tearing flesh from his face. “Exposing all your secret spells.”

  “No secrets here,” I say, wetting my lips, shifting my weight. I know men like him, the kind who come to the Stone and Fern, their egos outweighing their abilities in the ring. All talk to compensate for little action.

  I try to relax into position, fists loose but ready: I’ll only have one chance to strike first. Unlike with Loomis, this is self-defense, and I welcome the taste of adrenaline, the familiarity of a fight.

  Kellig feints for me but my sidestep is too slow. He grabs a fistful of my hair and twists as my legs buckle and fear clouds my strategy, turning everything muddy. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he says, flattening his palm across my exposed collarbone. Needles of pain slide under my skin and start digging.

  Is he a transferent, able to rip the magic out of my skin with just his bare hands?

  “Let her go,” a voice says, sharp from the shadows behind us.

  Kellig s
pins, swinging me in front of him as a shield, his palm sliding off my skin. Icy relief floods through me, immediately eclipsed with fear: I can’t fight more than one at a time.

  A man steps forward, slender and ominous, a face framed in all black. North. He aims a crossbow toward Kellig and edges closer, sure-footed, eyes never leaving his quarry. “Let her go,” he repeats.

  “Make me an offer,” says Kellig, hugging me close, grinning as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Two hundred pieces of silver, North—a bargain considering what you would have paid.”

  “I’m not bartering with you.”

  “Where’s the fun—?” Kellig starts, as I slam my dagger into his upper thigh. He swears and releases me, doubling over.

  I run.

  North shouts for me to stop but I ignore him, crashing through the trees, stumbling over roots and sunken gulches. Pine needles slap at my face before I stumble into the same clearing as before. Two horses, one body.

  Where’d the other one go?

  Three monstrous figures are bent over Loomis, tearing at his flesh in their greed for the magic woven through his skin. The nameless boy is nowhere to be seen, and a detached thrill of fear runs down my back. Am I sure the screams I heard belonged to Bryn? The pain I felt certainly did.

  The hellborne pause their eating and look at me with bleary, moony eyes. I stare back, frozen. Every breath aches, and each one is torn from me in short, staccato bursts that threaten to send me to my knees.

  And then I am on my knees, knocked forward by a blast of heat that scorches the air and thickens it with the smell of blood and brimstone. The hellborne scream in agony, clawing at their chests where tiny striations begin cracking the skin. Boiling poison seeps out, steaming in the cooler night air.

  North appears behind me, shaken and gaunt, a bare hand outstretched. With a look of pain, of concentration, he makes a fist and the hellbornes’ screams abruptly end as they slump over. Dead.

  I scramble away from North, hauling myself to my feet. He turns to me, magic still glowing in his fingertips, casting eerie shadows across his face.