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"What do you mean?"
"Unlike yourself. Angrier? Sadder? Perhaps more emotionally needy?"
"No," I blurt but then think yes…or maybe… but there’s been a lot to process tonight.
The possibility of facing the man who murdered my family.
Ezra’s erratic behavior.
Letting someone physically handle me for the first time in years.
And crying… that alone is hard to process. My mind being everywhere is normal. Rational.
But the soldier doesn't look convinced. His gaze skirts over my body, looking forsomething. “Your mask, where did you get it?”
I reach up and touch the gilded lace. "Ezra gave it to me shortly after you and I met."
The soldier reaches for the ties that bind it and tugs at the strings before I can move away. Something inside me shifts as soon as it's removed. It's like a blanket that had been weighing me down is lifted. I feel lighter. More in control of myself. Less desperate. My mouth falls open at the change, but I quickly shut it.
"Feel better?" he asks with a coy grin, holding the bindings of my mask between two fingers.
I can't answer, not without understanding what happened to me. I look down at Ezra, still feeling bad for him, but that longing, the burning desire to be with him, is gone. "What did you do to me?"
"I set you free, little bird."
Free.
I can feel it, the odd release of the spell that manipulated my emotions letting me go. With each passing second, my thoughts become my own again. The loopholes in tonight's mission clear. The truth of how far I've missed the mark with Graves evident and the red flags Ezra had thrown along the way… well, those slap me in the face.
Did his odd behavior this week have something to do with the gilded mask? I hope not. But hope is a fickle beast, blurring reality with desire.
"Free from what?" I ask, knowing the answer I refuse to accept.
I want to cling to the lie that Ezra was ignorant and stole the mask versus purposefully entangling me in a curse. I want him to have stumbled upon a Blood Witch, not sought her out before we left.
Stars above. I swallow hard. If Ezra knows what he’s done, if he searched for the Blood Witch out, that means one lives in West Arcane. Close enough to the manor to be less than a half day’s travel.
I chew on my bottom lip and try to recall the faces of any new travelers in our province. I’m sure the witch isn't a resident. There would be whispers about someone so odd-looking. Talks about someone with hideous warts, maybe even scars. Blood Witches aren’t like the Cerise.
We are born with our gifts and blessed to be chosen.
Blood Witches tip the scales of balance and steal from the well of magic. Their spells require sacrifices to work. The stronger the spell, the greater the sacrifice. It's why those witches are easily recognizable. The tithe takes pieces from the caster.
“I know it’s a hard pill to swallow, but don't pretend you’re ignorant, little bird. I can see you figuring it out all on your own."
"I don't know what you're talking about." I lie. I have to. The king’s guards are paid to hunt witches, but they don't know that there are those born with the gift and those who meddle with the hands of fate. We’re all evil in their eyes. “What happened to me?"
The soldier from the woods looks down at Ezra again, worry etched on his face. I get the feeling he doesn't believe my lies, but he doesn't press me to speak my truth. Nor does he answer my question. Instead, he lifts Ezra's lips and exposes his gum line. Black spots dot his pink flesh. It's horrible looking, and the smell…
I cover my mouth to keep from gagging. Ezra's mouth smells like burnt flesh.
"Riot!" the man from the woods calls.
A skinny man with hair the color of sand approaches. I'm not sure how he hears the soldier's voice over the clatter of music and the Keep's patrons from across the room, but he’s there before the last syllable of his name is spoken. “Sir?”
“Take him to Aisha.” He pauses and stares at Riot as if trying to decide what to say next. Ezra isn't a member of the king's guard. He isn't granted access to their doctors or their treatments. If anyone catches him in a healer's tent, he'll be considered a thief for having stolen medicine and hung. “We’ve got another one.”
“Yes, sir.” Riot crouches down, picks Ezra up, and effortlessly slings him over his shoulder. I’m taken aback because this man is rail-thin. His clothes hang loosely on his body, highlighting his humble beginnings and lack of muscle, and yet he acts as if Ezra is featherlight.
