Javius grimaces. “Maybe I just need to tell someone. Most of the soldiers here don’t really know what’s going on. Fucking Valor. I don’t know how it got like this.”
“Of course you know,” Leth snaps, then takes a deep breath. Fuck. He can’t argue now, and he has no interest in Javius’s despicable self-justification. He needs more information. “Where’s Anton now? Where are we?”
“We’re camped outside the chapel he’s been looking for,” Javius says. “He’s setting up the array now.”
Another voice outside. Leth can’t make out the words. Javius stands and moves to the door of the tent, listening. As silently as he can, Leth tries to shift his legs underneath him. His eyes fix on the knife at Javius’s belt.
“Javius,” Leth hisses. “Untie me. I have friends nearby. We can stop him.”
Javius shakes his head. “It’s too late.”
“Anton can’t control a demon like this,” Leth says. “You know he can’t. I saw the array. The sacrifice wasn’t the only problem. His lines were wrong, and he’s never practiced this kind of magic.”
Javius’s eyes are unreadable, his lips tight behind his scraggly beard. “You’re going to get me killed,” he finally says.
“You’re dead anyway.” Leth holds his gaze. “When Anton loses control, he’s not just feeding me to the demon. Every soldier in this camp is dead, unless you help me now.”
He knows by the slump in Javius’s shoulders that he’s won. The victory tastes sour.
Swearing, Javius crouches next to the bedroll again. He pulls a bottle from his pocket and as Leth watches, pours a portion of it onto the canvas floor. “There. I’ve dosed you up again, just like I’m supposed to.” He hesitates, then unsheathes his knife and sets it next to Leth. “And you grabbed my knife, without me looking.”
“How long do I have?” Leth asks.
“Anton should be back in an hour.” Javius stands up and pauses at the tent flap. “You don’t know what it’s like having a friend like Anton. He’ll chew you up, but he won’t spit you out. He just keeps fucking chewing.” For a moment, pale gray sky outlines his haggard figure. Then he closes the tent flap behind him.
As soon as the flap closes, Leth twists around to grasp the hilt of the knife between his bound hands. Flipping the blade around is tricky, and between the angle and restraints, he can’t move his hands much. Sawing through the rope is a long, arduous process.
It’s something to concentrate on, at least, instead of dwelling on how blind he’s been his entire life. Leth thought he had already lost all his illusions. When Anton gave Javius a slap on the wrist for the incident six years ago. When Ronan explained the Binding, and he learned Ka Dravos had never heard his prayers. When Ka Dravos rejected his plea for power after the Unbinding.
When he realized Evain was a demon.
The blade slips, and pain slices into the meat of his hand. As warm blood wets his fingers, Leth counts his breaths, adjusts the knife, and resumes scraping the blade against the rope. A breathless, broken laugh wracks his lungs.
He misses Evain.
More than anything, Leth wants to break down and cry, but he can’t do that by himself. He can’t allow himself to falter when there’s nobody to catch him.
A strand of rope snaps. The knife cuts sharp into his arm again as the bindings loosen around his wrists. Ignoring the pain, Leth yanks his battered hands free. His shoulders scream with the release, and he hunches over, gritting his teeth, until the agony recedes.
He wipes his bloody palms on his trousers and picks up the knife again. Cutting the bindings around his ankles goes more quickly. He stands up after several failed attempts, limbs shaky and blood circulating painfully through his arms and legs.
Clutching the knife, he takes a step towards the tent flap and realizes he doesn’t know what to do next. An elaborate plan sketches through his mind—first, slice through the back of the tent. Confirm the camp layout is the Dravans’ usual, then set a deliberate trail in one direction before doubling back and stealing a horse. He’ll need to steal a coat, too, if he doesn’t want to freeze to death. If they’re really at the chapel already, he knows the route to the nearest town. It’ll be a long, cold ride alone, but he can make it.
But Leth doesn’t want to make it alone, anymore.
He used to rely on prayer when he was scared. Tradition when he was uncertain. He used to rely on his own strength and conviction when he felt helpless. Now, bleeding and trembling, Leth kicks the bedroll away for space and kneels on the ground. He digs the blade into the back of his left arm until blood spills like a river, then drops the knife. Dipping his fingers into the blood, he starts painting a circle on the rough canvas floor.
No sane array ever looked like this. Leth draws no runes for binding, no runes for control. He demands no shield and no protection. Each stark line is an act of reckless trust.
He wants power. He wants comfort. He wants Evain.
He wants.
“Aevendaris,” Leth says. His need surges from him and sets the bloody lines ablaze.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
