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And find Myron’s gaze even more alive, more intense, like the waves near the rocky shores just south of the Horn of Eroth.
He opens his mouth to speak, grip on my shoulders tightening as he sucks in a steadying breath.
Instead of words, blood spills from his tongue, and his knees buckle, his weight pulling me to the stone floor with him as he loses balance and collapses right in front of me.
Twenty-Nine
“Myron!”My voice bounces through the room in high, shrill echoes as I grab for him too late to keep him from falling over. But it isn’t my human speed keeping me from reacting in time to protect his head from hitting the floor—Royad took care of that, thank the Guardians—it is the vise tightening around my chest as if a lump of glass exploded into thousands of shards between my ribs.
It hurts. Guardians, does it hurt. For a heartbeat, I wonder if some sneaky Crow ran both of us through with a blade and we were too busy to notice it. But my vision fills with black dots; then I sway on my knees, tumbling over a groaning Myron.
Royad is saying something I can’t bring myself to make sense of, but as he places a claw on my forearm, I open my eyes and attempt to focus.
“It’s all right, Ayna. You’ll be all right. Just breathe.”
I understand him now, noticing the panic in his voice as he lifts me off Myron’s wing and lays me down on the stone. Then he’s back by his king’s side, brushing back his hair and wiping blood from his chin and mouth. “Hold on, Myron. Think of sunrises in Askarean spring. Think of fairy wine. By Shaelak, think of the last time you fucked a female if it helps, but stop thinking of telling her.”
I’m lost. Even if I weren’t half unconscious, I would have missed the meaning of what Royad is trying to get Myron to do.
“Sariell was a pretty one,” Myron chokes out, and the vise on my chest loosens the slightest bit.
“She was,” Royad agrees, his full attention on Myron as if all our lives depend on it.
“A bit bland in her attitude, though,” Myron continues in a voice so breathless I want to roll to the side and check on him myself, but my body won’t cooperate. Every breath still slices through my chest like little blades. But I don’t taste blood, so that’s a good sign, I suppose.
“You like your females with more spice, I know.” Royad laughs, but it isn’t a humorous sound, more one of devastation.
“More spice, more spirit, more…” His words fade as he heaves a breath like it’s hard to push even those few through his pale lips.
Air floods my lungs like I haven’t breathed in days, and the sensation of shards vanishes with one final assault as I blow out that deep breath. I try to push myself up, manage to brace my weight on my good hand and partly on my bad one as I roll to the side and lift my torso off the floor.
When I dare glance at Myron, his eyes are on me, blood drying on his cheek and chin, and brows slanted as if he’s still struggling. At least, he no longer seems to be dying.
As I study his pale features, the serious look in his eyes, I realize that he wasn’t the only one in danger. His condition … that was what took the breath from my lungs, as if there’s a direct connection between him and me. Between every Crow in this palace and the bride who might save them.
“That’s what you meant when you said that, if any Crow said too much, I might die.” Because of the curse that is keeping them from helping themselves by handing out information that might aid the one supposed to aid them. It’s not a question, and neither Myron nor Royad feels the need to disagree or confirm. Their silence, actually, is more of a response than I’d hoped for. But eventually, Myron says with a hoarse voice, “We’re connected in a way. Whatever someone says could mess with the curse to a degree that threatens the speaker’s life as well as the savior’s.”
If only I knew how to save them.
For a long moment, Royad and Myron share a glance that tells me any further word might start this whole debacle all over again, and neither of us is in the condition to go through it after just getting away with our lives.
“Not all of us want to be saved.” Myron’s tone is barely more than a whisper, and I have to strain my ears to pick up the meaning.
“What do you mean not all of you want to be saved?” Blood wells on my lip as my teeth cut into the sensitive skin, biting back more questions. I can’t push them, or they’ll suffer. Can’t push them to risk their lives or mine.
But both Myron and Royad have mentioned it before. Not all Crows are happy with the way things are. With the lack of freedom and the prospect of waiting for Myron to provide it. It seems like the faction against the Crow King might be the one not caring to break a curse as well.
I start voicing my conclusions when it hits me?—
When I asked if Ephegos meant Myron no longer cared about marrying, I guessed wrong. “You no longer care about breaking the curse.”
Exhaustion takes over Myron’s features as he closes his eyes, allowing the Crow feathers to take his appearance and the beak to take that sensuous mouth. He doesn’t shake his head. Doesn’t nod. For a long moment, he just lies there, chest slowly rising and falling as he breathes in and out like that’s the only thing he can bear for now.
When I throw Royad a questioning look, he shakes his head—not in response to my assumption, nor in denial of an answer. He seems as preoccupied with the tiredness plastering Myron’s form to the floor as I am.
And can I just say, it scares the shit out of me to see him like that? To see both of them like that—like two dogs beaten, at their limits. Resigned.
Resigned.
