It was hardly my concern anymore since I was going to die right here.
I blinked back hot tears and looked far into this distance as the cold stole my strength in tiny flickers and shreds, and this damned arcanery stole my spirit the same way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Poisoned Saint
I come awake with a start.
It is night. Darkness surrounds me except for a lit candle in a pool of wax about halfway between myself and a pair of beautiful, treacherous, demon-loving eyes.
I leap to my feet in a heartbeat and have to catch myself against … against an altar made of woven bones? I cringe back from them. I could almost swear some are human.
“What is this place?” I manage to rasp. It’s not exhaustion or fear that roughens my voice. It’s unmitigated wrath.
Fury and hatred twist up in a pair, writhing through my belly and up to my heart. I’d fallen for her. It was safe enough to admit that now. Now that she is become my sworn enemy. Now that the sight of her twists me right through with hatred and disgust.
I am a devil, for I have fallen in love with one.
An aching sadness joins the rest of my collection of sorrows.
“A grimivoir, apparently.” There is an ironic twist to her mouth, amplified by the sharp, flickering shadows of the candle. She sounds resigned, as if she has already read the book of my heart and knows how the story ends.
She stands, with me, as if she can’t let me get the upper hand by being taller. Her armor is gone. She is wearing what she slept in last night: leather trousers and a light linen tunic. She’s lost her braid entirely and her loose black hair tumbles across her shoulders and down her back. If she wasn’t still carrying the sword, I’d wonder if she is the same woman. She looks haunted. Brittle.
Why is she carrying a sword? Unsheathed. Naked in her hand.
I draw my own blade with slow care. I want to let her know I will not fall to her sword easily while also trying not to provoke her to immediate attack.
I have told her I cannot forgive. I have seen her soul stained through with the keeping of a demon. She will know what must be done next.
“What is a grimivoir?” I ask, stalling for time, getting my bearings. I will not fail in this. I just do not wish to succeed at once. Could I delay it a year, I would.
I look carefully around us, trying to assess without losing track of her. I do not dare let her strike first. I’ve seen her fight. I’d be lucky to bring her down along with me if she landed the first blow.
I roll my shoulders as I think about trying to match my strength to her speed, my experience to her ferocity. We will likely both die. Am I ready to meet the God and give an account?
We’re neatly trapped on a platform two long strides wide in every direction from the center. The odd stone bench, the books, the candles, and the spine-like carvings that serve as a rail around the edge provide no escape. There is not enough light to see farther than that, though a faint glow above suggests possible starlight and the echo of my words tell me this is a large place. I might be able to climb the bookshelves on one side of us, but to what end?
There is not much room to move here and there is no sign of the others.
“Have we been banished here?” My words echo slightly, as if the room finds them humorous.
She snorts. She is laughing at me. I feel the muscles of my face tighten in annoyance. Her mockery will be her last emotion. Is that what she wants?
“In a way,” she says, shifting her weight onto her back foot.
Good. She knows she is threatened. She will not be a helpless innocent when my blade crashes through her. This is right. This is fitting. This is how justice is served. Something tickles the back of my mind. A little voice asking me if perhaps Sir Kodelai had these very thoughts only yesterday.
She is grave as she goes on, “This is the second trial. The room that was behind the door after the walls shifted. You can’t see it now, but it’s a library — or rather a grimivoir. Books line a cylindrical room that stretches high to the ground above our heads and reaches farther down than I could guess.”
“You didn’t throw anything into it to check?” I ask, lifting a mocking eyebrow. Bitterness twists my every word. “A loose stone? Your innocence?”
“I didn’t,” she says, and she shifts again, this time uncomfortably. I’m aware of her every twitch and shift. Only because I soon must attack her and slay her, not because she draws me in like the smell of sweet fruit in summer. Not because her every movement lulls me like music well composed. Not because she is enchantingly feminine and lovely in this terrible place. “The Majester tested it by flinging his own body into the depths — or so Sir Coriand would have us believe. I am not so certain.”
I flinch back from that.
“The Majester is dead?” My words sound hollow. I still feel his map burning in my pocket.
