Page 123 of Queen of War and Ruin

Varitan’s magic.

I’m suddenly, horribly certain Varitan was there when the human kingdom attacked the dragons. That Varitan’s magic tore a hole in the Iron Mountains during that war.

Hells, maybe Varitan was there when the elven kingdom was trapped underground in the first place. Elves live forever, don’t they?

And Varitan himself was trapped underground, wasn’t he? Zarek was there when Varitan walked out of the mountain’s dark heart. Because Malrik knew there was a weapon buried in those mountains, in what we all thought was going to be the Dragon Mine. A weapon with a name, and a cold, hard smile.

“We have the power to help Lisal,” Malrik announces, with a manic gleam in his eyes. “To protect our dear neighbors. To bring them into our arms, into the warm embrace of Vsenrog.”

“Fucking hells,” Petrys growls.

With that, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. We cross the ballroom together, our heads down, our feet crunching on broken glass, as the room fills with thunderous applause.

Chapter 63

Zarek

WHAT IS HAPPENING IN VSENROG?

“What in the hells is going on?” Gerard sputters.

I shake my head. I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly what that elf bastard did to break the windows and crack the walls of the royal ballroom, but I don’t know how to even begin to describe it. Not that Gerard would believe a word I said anyway.

I pull my cloak over my head and slow to a walk. The gardens are starting to fill with people, noblemen and women in ball gowns covered with dust and broken glass.

“Put your damn blade away,” I growl to Gerard as we turn toward the open doors of the ballroom.

He scowls, and for a moment I think he’s actually going to fight me on this, the little shit. But then he slides his dagger back into its sheath. A man stumbles toward us with wide eyes and a dazed expression on his face. Lord Abbingten. If I remember correctly, he has a particularly comfortable estate by the ocean. And he hates coming to the palace.

“Pardon me,” Lord Abbingten says to Gerard. His eyes don’t quite rest on Gerard’s face. “I can’t seem to find my cloak.”

“Uh, yeah.” Gerard steps back, his hand on his dagger. “I mean, good luck. Sir.”

Abbingten turns away with a vague, soft smile. I put my hand on Gerard’s arm and pull him off the path before we blunder into any other noblemen who might be coherent enough to recognize me.

“What the fuck,” Gerard hisses at me, “is happening in Vsenrog?”

I growl at him to shut up, and we thread our way through the hedges and neat gravel paths of the garden that borders the ballroom. A few people are wandering through the gardens, sobbing. Someone is laughing hysterically. The air is thick with dust, just like it was in Ethiria, but I’m not close enough to feel Varitan’s strange energy. Thank the gods.

And then the music starts up again. I freeze, then turn to Gerard to see if I’ve actually lost my godsdamned mind.

“Music?” I whisper, my voice rough.

“I hear it too,” he replies.

I stare through the broken windows of the ballroom. One of the chandeliers sways drunkenly, dragging a loose chain behind it. A group of older gentlemen scurry past us, glancing over their shoulders at the ballroom like they’re afraid they’re being followed.

The music stops, and there’s a rush of frantic applause. It fades, replaced by the booming echo of a man’s voice. I can’t make out the words, but I’d know that resonant baritone anywhere.

King Malrik. Fuck.

The music starts up again. Gerard stares at me like he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do, and some part of me recognizes that he must be deeply disturbed by all this if he’s looking to me for directions.

Well, shit. I tilt my head toward the open doors of the ballroom, pull my hood down even further, and walk toward the sound of Malrik’s horrible laughter.

We’re nearly to the door by the time the music stops. I watch as a group of women dart through the open door, holding hands, and then vanish into the garden’s shadows. None of them even look at Gerard and me.

Light from the ballroom spills across the paving stones of the patio. It almost reaches my boots. I stare at the light and try to swallow the bitterness rising in the back of my throat.