Page 85 of Hearts Lost

ALOSERIN

I KNOW WHEN I’M BEAT

“Wait, what?” Rowan says.

He’s staring at me with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Beside him, Phaedron is frowning like he’s trying to work out if this is a joke, and Arryn is shaking her head. We’re all crowded around the table in their little shack, sitting on boxes and listening to ice pelt the roof.

“Well,” Orryen begins. “Aloserin’s family has a, uh—”

“No, no, no,” Rowan says, shaking his head. “I wanna hear Aloserin say it.”

I grit my teeth. I’m trying not to think about how many hours it’s been since Ithronel was pulled through the portal.

“Apparently, my family has an arrangement with the dragon Rensivar,” I say. The words catch in my throat like sandpaper. “They bring him trekkers. Through a portal in their basement.”

The basement that doesn’t exist, I think but manage not to say.

“We think they’re looking for someone with magic like yours,” Orryen adds. “They want someone who’s connected to the void.”

“That’s why they’re going after trekkers,” I say. “My father thinks being in the void might influence magic.”

Rowan leans back in his chair and his expression shifts from wide-eyed disbelief to something stranger. Something that’s almost… a smile?

“Fuck,” Rowan says, drawing the word out long and slow. “I understood you the first time, you know. I just wanted to hear Aloserin say it.”

He is smiling. Bastard.

“What do you think, Phae?” Rowan says, turning to his brother. “Makes being an orphan sound pretty good, huh?”

But Phaedron’s not smiling. There’s a tight, angry twist to his mouth and lips that seems out of place somehow. I don’t know him well, but Phaedron’s been cheerful and agreeable every time we’ve crossed paths. At least, he was before he lost his sword arm to that worthless prince from the Kingdom of the Summer.

“So what are you going to do about this?” Arryn says, the words exploding from her lips.

“We have a plan,” Elanerill replies, leaning forward on her wooden box. “I’m good with illusions. I’ll say I helped to bring Rowan in, and I’ll be there with an illusion. We’ll cover its head, that’s the hardest part to replicate—”

Rowan makes a noise in his mouth that’s something like a laugh and something like a twig snapping.

“You think an illusion is going to fool Rensivar the Wicked?” Rowan asks.

Irritation flashes across Elanerill’s face. “It only has to work long enough to get the portal open,” she snaps. “We’ll demand that he give us Ithronel first.”

“Heh,” Rowan replies, the word caught halfway between a laugh and sneer. “That’s your plan? Bluff a dragon?”

“If you have an alternate suggestion, I’d love to hear it,” I say.

Phaedron’s expression turns even darker, and then he pushes back from the table, almost like he’s getting ready for a fight. Rowan leans forward, his disconcertingly pale eyes dancing.

“You say the asshole who locked all of us down here to die is holding a door open for me?” Rowan growls, and I swear the shadows in the corners of the cabin are growing darker. And larger. “I say you let me at him,” Rowan finishes.

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Then—

“Oh, hell no!” Arryn says.

The words sound like a slap. Bright spots of color dance in Arryn’s cheeks and her lips pull back into a snarl.

“There is no way you’re going into that portal,” Arryn growls. “What are you thinking? How could you—”

“Lady, there’s no one in the nine hells who’s got magic like me,” Rowan interrupts.