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I didn’t bother replying. It had been years since a taunt had been able to anger me, and certainly not one from a murderous thug. My eyes scanned the banks, only to see more and more fey revealing themselves. I could not count them all; the tree line hid them too well, with only flickers of silver among the sun dappled leaves. But the ones I could see—
Were too many.
Had I been home, on familiar ground; had I been well, and properly equipped; had I been rested—perhaps. But here . . . no. I could not take so many, if I could take any at all. I needed another solution.
I threw my consciousness outward, as far as it would go, searching for any possible advantage.
I had not tried summoning our little capsule before, as the fey knew where it was and might be watching it. It would have been useful, without my legs, but I had been afraid that it might lead them right to us. But now that they were already here, I found that I could not reach it, after all, the little frisson I remembered completely absent.
Perhaps the fey had damaged it, or perhaps it was too far away to hear my call. I tried to contact one of their vessels instead, but the same thing happened. I could not reach them. I could not reach . . .
Anything.
“Nothing to say?” the fey tried again. He was tall as they all were, and dressed in the same silver-gray tunic and leggings as the rest. He had the same long, silver-white hair, too, unbound and blowing slightly in a fair breeze. It seemed to be a hallmark of the Svarestri, making them look like brothers or clones. At this distance, it was difficult to see much variation.
“I will talk, then,” he informed me, sitting on a large rock and resting his bow on his knee. “I was sent to retrieve you—alive. I find myself suddenly less interested in doing so.”
“Then why not . . . kill me already?” I panted. “You had . . . the opportunity.”
“Ah, so it can talk.” He smiled. “I wanted you awake for this. Not an easy death, not a quick slipping away into darkness—no. This will not be easy, and I assure you, that it will take a very long time.”
I ripped open my tunic, spilling out my breasts—and the handprint between them. It was a burn, one Dory had long concealed with a glamourie, lest her lover go mad and try to hunt down a fey prince. But I had no such ruse, and no need for it here.
Quite the contrary, in fact.
“Your prince marked me . . . as his prey, and his only. You cannot touch me.”
The leader smiled again. “Ah, yes. I seem to recall something of the kind.” He looked around at the river and spread a hand. “But as you can see, he is not here.”
“You would fail in your mission then . . . to return with me?”
“It is a dilemma,” he agreed. “Succeed, and win myself rewards and accolades. Fail, and suffer a harsh punishment. It would seem an easy choice.”
“But you do not find it so.”
“I did, until you killed eight of my men during your escape, and mutilated their corpses. I did, until you burned thirty more in those caves, turning our own weapons against us. I did, until you murdered my cousin, ripping his head from his shoulders and tossing his body away like filth, oh yes, I did.
“I find myself of a different mind now.”
He raised his own weapon, and levelled it on me. To my surprise, a fey beside him knocked his arm down, and began arguing sharply with him. I did not know their language, but judging by the gestures the other fey made at me and the heat in his voices, he was not so sure about disregarding his prince’s orders.
I expanded my call, put everything I had left into it, searching through heaven and earth for anything, anything that might serve. Not as a weapon; I did not know this world well enough for that. But as a distraction, something to allow us at least the chance of escape.
In my desperation, I even called on Nimue, my consciousness running through the deep caverns and liquid arteries of her lands. It boomed down tunnels, rippled over streams, echoed off ancient cavern walls, all the way to the very heart of the earth. But she did not answer. She had wanted to see what I could do, and I had shown her.
And as Ray had said, the gods had no reward for the weak.
“You aren’t weak!”
Ray hadn’t spoken aloud, possibly because I would not have heard. Our raft had hung up on some rocks, and the crash of the churning waters were loud in my ears. But more likely because he could not. The last arrow had taken him through the throat, and probably severed his vocal cords.
But then, vampires do not have to speak to communicate.
“Run,” he urged me, the thought echoing loudly in my mind. “Dive off and swim for the next vortex. The current will help carry you—”
“No.”
“—and you can hide in the caves. They’re so vast that—”
