Page 182 of Of Iron and Moonlight

She had looked at him without revulsion, without fear. She had seen who he was and not turned away. And he had led her straight into Oorlon’s grasp. If she still lived, she likely suffered now because of him. If she did not live… he did not allow himself to finish the thought.

Now, with iron at his wrists and death approaching, he finally understood peace would never have been handed to him. It was something he could have only claimed for himself.

“I apologize for intruding on your tragic contemplation,” Elara’s voice said from somewhere near his elbow, “but we really must be on our way.”

Njall jerked upright.

“The virtue of iron,” she continued, voice drifting through the room as if she were merely commenting on the weather, “is that it still respects an ordinary key.”

“Elara?” Njall looked toward the hook by the door. The keys were gone.

“Indeed,” she replied. “Unfortunately for your enemies.”

There was a soft click at his wrist. The cuff sprang open. His arm dropped, blood rushing back with painful force. The second lock released. Warmth threaded through his limbs. Some of his strength returned. Magic began to hum faintly through his veins again.

The air before him shimmered, and then she was simply there—braid tangled, freckles smudged with dirt and exhaustion. Yet pretty. Very pretty. And impossibly alive. Despite the heaviness in his body, Njall found a smile forming.

“It has been a remarkably productive afternoon,” she informed him, hands settling on her hips as though she had just concluded a minor errand. “Gavriel and Kalaetzu are safe. I collected them along the way, like the damsels in distress you all insist on being.”

A sound escaped him that was half laugh, half disbelief, just as an alarm began to toll.

Elara flinched at the first strike, though she did not look startled so much as vindicated.

“What happened?” Njall asked.

“The favorable news,” she replied, glancing toward the door, “is that we found Lorrain.”

“And the unfavorable?”

“We may have broken a cell door.” A sheepish pause. “And subdued a guard.”

Njall pushed himself upright. The room wobbled briefly before righting itself. Elara’s hands shot out to keep him from swaying. “Where are Gavriel and Kalaetzu?”

“In the laboratory.” She drew four vials of green from her pocket, pressing three into his hand. “Concealment draught. It should carry us that far. From there, through the storage warehouse to the docks.” A pause. “Beyond that… I’ll think of something.”

They swallowed the potion in quick succession. Njall retrieved his sword from Haskir’s desk and secured it across his back just as the edges of his form began to blur.

The world thinned around them, their steps muffled by the draught, as they passed guards running in frantic disorder. Elara’s voice guided him through turns and intersections, and they reached the laboratory door just as the shimmer began to fray.

Kalaetzu immediately looked at Njall’s arms, where darkened veins crawled beneath the skin from prolonged contact with iron. Without comment, he pulled a cup from above a low brazier and thrust it toward him. Thick steam curled upward in harsh spirals.

Njall inhaled and nearly recoiled. The scent was acrid, like burnt radishes. “This is dreadful.”

“For iron poisoning,” Kalaetzu explained briskly. “I suspected you might need it.”

Footsteps thundered down the outer corridor.

“Hurry,” Gavriel insisted, voice unsteady.

Njall grimaced but downed the bitter tea. It burned unpleasantly, then struck his core with insistent clarity. The lingering heaviness from the iron broke apart. His vision sharpened. Strength surged through his muscles with familiar force.

He crossed to Lorrain and lifted her in his arms. Then he drove his foot into the laboratory door leading to the catwalk, bursting it open.

As they ran, the alarm rolled through the fortress in waves, answered by shouted commands echoing from stone to stone. The whole island seemed to vibrate with pursuit.

Elara reached the final door first. She seized the handle and twisted it. “It’s locked,” she hissed, panic rising in her voice.

When she turned back, whatever she saw drained the color from her face. The clatter of approaching armor told Njall enough. He set Lorrain carefully on her feet and transferred her to Elara’s hold. “Stay behind me,” he said, then drew his sword and turned.