I pull the shadows back into me as Ronan and Kira retreat into the distance, flying hard for the cover of the clouds. I stand there, watching them until they finally vanish, until I feel the wrenching loss of Ronan’s emotions, the emptiness of his absence.
One of Seth’s soldiers takes my arms and pins them behind my back, but I don’t fight against it. I watch from a distance as they drag Taran to his feet. There’s an arrow in his chest near his collarbone, but it’s missed his lungs from the way he moves. The soldiers push Taran forward to Seth, who gestures for them to follow him.
Seth leads the soldiers and Taran towards me, swaying a bit as he goes.
“In the tent,” he tells the soldiers. “Have another cot brought in, and a healer.”
Taran’s blue eyes meet mine as they lead him away. He doesn’t look angry or even afraid. He just looks resigned, as if he knew that this would happen and warned Ronan about it, and then it happened just as he thought it would.
Which is probably exactly what happened.
But I am afraid for him. Seth may have been on his best behavior with me because, in spite of everything, I’m his sister, but he’ll have no such affection for Taran.
Taran, an Orsa. An enemy even more hated by our people than Ronan himself. Taran, one of Ronan’s generals, a general who defeated us once before. One of the people responsible for the deaths of many Nithyrians, including the friends and loved ones of people in this very camp.
Taran, the man who killed our father.
It’s a secret only three of us know—Taran, myself, and Ronan—but if Seth manages to get it out of us, he could use it to turn Selara against Ronan. To win more of its Great Houses to Nithyria’s cause.
And if he finds out, he’ll kill Taran.
He may kill Taran anyway just for the fun of it, knowing him.
Taran may be calm and accepting of his fate, but I’m not. I will not let him die here, and I cannot let him be tortured.
And, as before, the key to saving him lies in somehow convincing my insane brother not to do something I’m sure he desperately wants to do.
“Well now, sister,” says Seth as he approaches me. He wipes his face, and his hand comes away red. Is that Taran’s blood, or was Seth harmed somehow in the confusion?
It’s neither, I realize as Seth turns towards me.
It’s lipstick.
Seth cleans the lipstick from his neck and jaw with his handkerchief, folding it neatly before putting it back in his pocket.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” he says, shaking his finger in my direction. Or sort of generally near where I am.
He’s really drunk.
I haven’t been holding out on him, but I can’t let him know that. “I can’t control it,” I say. “It just happens.”
“When you’re afraid,” he says, his head lurching with the realization even through his stupor. “We can work with that. Come. Let’s see what that Orsa has to say for himself.”
My stomach plummets as he leads me back into the tent.
Gods, Taran. I’m sorry.
Chapter Eleven
Ronan
Kira’s panic fades as we break through the clouds. The only silver lining to be had in this fucking disaster of a situation is that the arrow that hit her was somewhere I could reach to remove and heal. She’s uninjured, but she’s frightened, far too frightened for me to force her back to the camp, no matter how badly I want to.
Gods. Fucking. Dammit.
The air is bitterly cold up this high, even colder now that Taran isn’t with me, but we can’t risk diving, not with the entire camp alerted to my presence. There’s nothing to do but fly back to the palace.
I spend the entire flight back thinking of nothing but what I can do to free Sylvie and Taran. My mind travels to dark, violent places it hasn’t been in years, playing out scenarios in which I blaze through their camp like my ancient forebears, annihilating their soldiers with cleansing light. I forget that they’re my own people. I forget that most of them are not to blame for Sylvie and Taran’s captivity.
