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“There you are,” a man—anakedman, barely covered by a cloak half draped over him—said in exasperation. “Gods, I’m starving.”
Tyr could only gape at the dark-haired man, who was around Ana’s age, if not a little younger. He was definitely naked under the cloak, but Tyr had already moved on from that because he was fixed on the thick chains wrapped around the man’s raw, red ankles.
Questions formed and were swiftly answered. The man was a Ravenwood. He was a prisoner of Magda.
“I’m so sorry, Var, I thought the last loaf of bread would hold you longer. I should have come last night,” Ana said as she went to him. She lowered into a crouch and held out a pouch that contained the remaining fry bread—Tyr understanding why she’d eaten so little herself—and a small cask of cider.
The raven tore into the cold, soggy bread, rolling his eyes with pleasure. “This is far better than the other bread you’ve been bringing.” He moaned, his mouth stuffed full.
“Uh... thank you,” Tyreste muttered in a daze.
The raven frowned at Ana. “Who’s this? He doesn’t... He’s not...”
“No, Varradyn,” Ana said to assure him. “He’s with me. This is...” She glanced back with a hard smile, but she wasn’t looking at Tyr at all. He sensed her nerves, her fear, rising with the next revelation in their crusade for shared truth. “This is the man I love, and I brought him here to meet you. And to show him I am not innocent in what Magda has done to your people. He and I promised no more secrets, and so here I am, revealing my darkest one.”
“Varradyn.” Tyr turned the naked man from fantasy to reality with one word. Hewasreal. He was a captive in the strange glass dome, and Ana had played a part in getting him there, however involuntarily. And now she was... what, feeding him? Looking in on him? “Why is he still here, Ana? Why have you not let him go?”
Ana pushed to her feet and aimed a curt nod at the chains. “Go on. Give it a try.”
“Just watch the ankles, will you? I know she can heal them, but it still bloody hurts every time,” Varradyn said.
“I don’t have the tools for it,” Tyr said but moved closer, circling the fur the raven sat upon. “We should have brought a mallet and a chisel.”
“You want a mallet and a chisel?” Ana jogged to a basket positioned under a large table. She lifted it. “You’ll find several sizes in here. I’ve tried them all.”
“So have I. It’s rather pointless,” Varradyn said. The frivolity in his voice was jarring. He might have been talking about what to wear to supper. “The crone’s magic is the only thing that will spring these locks unless I want to saw my feet off, whichhasoccurred to me, more often than I wish to admit. Ana, do you think you could regrow feet?”
Tyr shook his head to dislodge the competing questions. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Varradyn raised a hand. “Well, it’s simple, you just point the chisel at the lock, and once you have solid purchase—”
“I know how to break a chain!” Tyr cried. His skin tingled, both icy cold and furiously hot, alternating between the two sensations. He marched away toward the window, his thoughts racing wildly out of control.
“Not going to try?” Ana asked, still holding the basket. The misery in her voice was a jolt of reality.
“If you say it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.” He crossed his arms and bowed his head. There was nothing he desired more than turning around to find the raven had been in his imagination, and Ana had been toying with more illusions. But her distress was real. The raven was real. Magda’s genocidal quest was real, one that had started many years earlier, long before the crone had even been born. Maybe even before the Nok Mora itself.
And if he didn’t quickly assure Ana she had done the right thing, letting him in on her secret, he would lose her.
“Put the basket down,” he said gently. He stared out the thick panes of glass, into the snowy crags. “And come here.”
It was a moment before he heard the slow creak of reeds as she returned the basket to its place under the table. Longer still before her boots clicked on the stone. The only other sound was the animated chewing of the raven, too occupied with his meal to care about the exchange.
Tyr held out his arms, and Ana walked into them. He wrapped her tight, planting kisses in her hair. “You did what you had to do, and now we have to set matters to rights. But we’re going to do it together.” He pulled her back to look at her. “Together.You’ve lived in fear too long, Anastazja. I’ve known fear and even preferred it, because it meant I was powerless, and to be powerless absolved me of the need for action. But neither one of us is powerless. It’s time we start believing it. You understand?”
Ana nodded and tipped her face back against his chest.
“At least she’s not coming back today,” Varradyn said from the rug. He slurped a deep sip of cider and belched. “The crone, I mean.”
Ana stiffened in Tyr’s arms and turned. “How do you know that?”
“Well, she was here this morning, and she only comes once a day, so you missed her.”
Ana’s face paled, panic spreading through her expression. “You’re sure she was herethismorning? You’re not confusing time?”
“She was here long enough to add logs to the fire and glare at me,” Varradyn said with a shrug. He frowned at the empty bag. “You don’t have any more?”
“I’ll bring you more later,” Ana said distantly. She peeled away from Tyr. “We have to go. Now. She was supposed to be out of town, but if she’s not... This could be another one of her traps. Tyr, we have to gonow.”
