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My magic faltered as I bit back a gasp. Fuck. Had I gone about this the wrong way? Did mind magic not work like this at all? Had I alarmed him, confused him, somehow driven him to pull that gods-damned rope anyway?
All is well all is well all is well all is—
He loosened his shoulders with an audible sigh, drawn from the very bottom of his lungs, and let the rope go.
My knees almost buckled with relief – but no, I couldn’t start slacking yet. Was this where I killed him? But I didn’twantto kill the poor sod, no matter how many times I told myself he had been here to single-handedly doom every magical people but faekind to slow extinction – not when he started humming a dreamy, happy melody, sauntering towards the wide open window with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Like a happy child. Like the male he might have been if not for centuries among the cutthroat masses at the Crimson Court.
I thought of Iorgas, drifting down towards the deadly ocean, and squeezed my eyes shut.Stop.
The humming abruptly ceased.
My eyes flew open. He was still standing where he’d stood a moment ago, shoulders slumping deep, head lolling gently to one side. When I cautiously pulled my left hand away from the smooth floor, he didn’t move.
I rose to my feet, not making a sound. No reaction.
One cautious step forward. Two more. Two more. Still no reaction. I tiptoed a few yards further, until I was close enough to jump on top of him and physically restrain him if necessary, then let out a small, polite cough.
No reaction.
Bolder now, I slid past him to where I could see his face. He stared back at me with glassy, unseeing eyes, not registering my presence or movement in the slightest.
A shrill, mirthless laugh slipped over my lips. No reaction. I steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and whispered, ‘You don’t mind me searching your pockets for a bit, do you?’
There was no spark of understanding in his eyes – nothing that suggested he even remembered what pockets were, let alone cared about their contents. I patted him on the shoulder and went to work, feeling the sides of his well-tailored linen coat, then his broad thighs. In the left pocket, something rustled as cloth brushed over parchment, and I slipped my hand in to retrieve the note he was carrying.
West hall, it said,F413.
And below that, in another, messier hand,(CH).
CH.
Creon Hytherion.
Was I going mad? Thishadto be the west hall of the two. F413 – one of the glass balls to my right carried the number 413 on its shelf, indeed. When I darted to the head of the aisle, I found a large, copper F nailed to the side of the cabinet.
My breath quickened to shallow gasps. It made sense, didn’t it? Thysandra had handled the administration surrounding the bindings, Creon had said – so it stood to reason that she would know which of these thousands and thousands of glass balls was his. Would she send her agent that way, too? Itcouldbe. There was enough old animosity between them, she’d sounded particularly venomous when inquiring if he was here to get his voice, and if push came to shove, it may have given extra weight to her threats. She could not have been sure the Silent Death would care much about the sacrifices the rest of the world had made. His own binding, though … That was guaranteed to make an impression.
So she’d handed this note to her subordinate.West hall, F413.And he had, nervous about forgetting anything or messing anything up, added that clarification later –Creon Hytherion.
I shoved the note aside, heart a fluttering mess now. In the fae male’s right pocket, I found what I had originally been looking for – a heavy key, anactualkey, forged from gold and the bow inlaid with mother of pearl. No one could argue the Mother didn’t have style when it came to prisons and reigns of terror.
Then I had all I needed, didn’t I?
I threw a glance at the window. Far away, in a circle of torchlight, I could see the others moving around at the foot of the cliff, fae binding Lyn’s hands behind her back as I squinted. I should hurry the hell up. But that damned note,CH…
Hisvoice.
‘Alyra?’ Of course she was right behind me. ‘Could you fly out ahead of me and draw as much attention as possible? Make sure Beyla sees you.’
The little falcon was already on her way, squeaking in elation as she shot out through the window and into the open air beyond. I drew in two slow, deep breaths and slipped the key into the pocket of my own dress. With that weight pulling on one hip, I leaned over ever so slightly and tapped my fingers against ball number 413.
It didn’t shatter on the spot. I dared to release my breath, slowly.
Should I use yellow magic to strengthen the material? But the gods knew what unintended side effects that may have; if I was going to experiment, I shouldn’t do it with what might very well be the key to Creon’s magic. Which meant I’d have to be careful out there. But the orb would illuminate my path, diminishing the risk of surprise rubble, and …
Hisvoice.
I may have muddled my priorities for weeks, if not months, but this I could get right.
