I think of the violets, of the Hexen’s transformation, of the disappearing bruises on Nyatrix’s skin. I wrap my arms around myself and let out a long breath, utterly exhausted in a thousand different ways.
“Well, this has been amusing, but it’s time you seek your God’s city,” Nyatrix tells him, getting to her feet in one lithe unfolding.
Renault finally tears his eyes away from his hand and glares at her. “Yes,” he agrees, to my surprise, cradling his hand against his chest, as if he’s just remembered how easily she took his fingers from him. “My bride and I will be on our way. You will not interfere.”
Nyatrix roundly ignores him, grabbing my cane from where it’s leaning against the bench. Then, without another glance in his direction, she reaches down and offers me her hand. With a hard swallow, I take it, and she gently helps me to my feet. Once I’m standing, the knight positions herself between Renault and me, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the Cursed blade.
“Ophelia,” Nyatrix says, her voice all slinking heat, “do you still wish for Renault to live? Say the word, and I shall gladly slay him for you.”
My betrothed’s breath comes in a hard gasp, the sound unmistakable in the silence of the bathing chambers. My lungs constrict, as if my body has forgotten how to breathe on its own. Heat amasses low in my belly, an ache unfolding between my thighs. I swallow hard, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
“This is absurd,” Renault protests, but his voice is high and reedy, his eyes wild with fear.
My mind tumbles, and the forgotten chamber buried beneath the rotten sands of the Sundered Lands holds perfectly still, stretched taut as a pigskin drum.
“I do not think,” I say, my lips numb, “there is need for any more death today.”
Nyatrix does not hesitate; she steps aside with all the grace of a high-blooded Noble lady. “As you wish,” she murmurs, turning to me, her head bowed.
My throat tightens, and that forbidden thing roars a war cry somewhere in my chest.
Renault says my name and does barely more than shift his weight toward me—but Nyatrix’s blade is already drawn, the point of it pressed against his throat. My heartbeat ricochets, my world condensing to the indentation of Renault’s skin where a Sepulchyre sword rests. A delicate thing, I think uselessly—to apply just enough pressure with such a large, heavy blade. To not break the skin, to not spill blood, but to so clearly make a threat of doing all those things.
“She is not going with you,” Nyatrix snarls.
I turn toward her and find myself lost in the utter darkness of her gaze, the tendons and muscles that stand out along her sword arm as she holds the blade perfectly aloft. Not a single tremble. Not one shake.
“She is not staying withyou,” he counters despite the threat the Lupa Nox clearly presents. “She is my prize. The only way a third son may rise to House Heir. The High Ecclesia promised.”
“Renault,” I say, my voice strained as I sink back against the stone he shoved me into just moments ago, even though it feels like anni and anni have passed. “You said I’m important. How? What could They possibly want with me?”
I resist the urge to grip my Saintess medallion, to see if I can summon a flood of that perfect divine wonder. If I’m important to the High Ecclesia, perhaps I could drive out the infection at Lumendei’s heart. Perhaps I could do more than flee.
Renault sneers. “Hard to believe, I know,” he replies, haughty as anything. “But you’re a very important tool in the First Son’s plans for the future. And I am to be the wielder of that tool.”
Atool. Of course.
Just a thing, an object, something to be milked and used up until I’m a husk. Disappointment gnaws at my soft places even though I should know better by now. Beside me, Nyatrix says nothing, her sword still held against Renault’s throat. It’s hisown ambition that drives him to this madness, that allows him to show his not-so-sharp teeth to the Lupa Nox. That’s all. Not love. Not even devotion or friendship or goodliness. Just lust for more power.
Of all things, it’s a long exhale I let out, and something in me releases, like a tightly wound muscle finally relaxing. I inhale, and I think maybe it’s the first time I’ve taken a deep breath in a very, very long time.
“I’m not an object to be wielded for your desires. And I’m not going with you, Renault,” I say, straightening, trying to hide the wince as I shift my weight to pull myself up to my full height. When I stand straight like this, he’s not even that much taller than me. “You are free to leave. I have no desire to see you slain, so please. Just go.”
He sneers at me, all arrogant derision, still somehow unaware of the threat he faces. Still somehow thinking he deserves to leave a situation like this one with more than he had upon entering it.
In my peripheral vision, I see the corded muscles of Nyatrix’s forearm flex, and a trickle of blood slides down his neck as she drives the point of her blade just a hair deeper.
Finally, Renault holds his hands up and backs away. He asks for the rest of his armor, and we allow him to take it, though Nyatrix pulls his sword from his waist and watches him carefully as he dons the brass helm and breastplate. From his belt, he pulls a small pouch free. Nyatrix tenses, her weight shifting forward, as he tosses it onto the stone floor at my feet.
“Here,” Renault says, his voice thick with condescension. “A reminder.”
I look down at the pouch just once, then return my gaze to my betrothed. Nyatrix directs him out of the bathing room, and I follow, a wisp of pale, bloodstained wool on the heels of a prowling shadow. Through the main chamber and outthe corridor we go, Nyatrix offering short, terse directions to Renault, who leads the way, the point of her blade hovering at his back.
“What does your God want with Ophelia?” Nyatrix asks as we walk, voicing the very thing I am afraid to press Renault on. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my body steady.
“She is to be a vessel,” my betrothed replies. “A most glorious vessel. And yet she shunts this divine duty.”
“A vessel forwhat?” I ask as we turn down a tight corridor.
