49. Reznyk
Chapter 49
Reznyk
MORE BLOOD ON MY HANDS
M agic drags me through a sea of darkness studded with brief, occasional flashes of consciousness. I wake in the bottom of the carriage, my head thudding against the wall, a boot resting on the small of my back. Someone is humming a song, low and off-key, and by the time I recognize the tune as that old tavern song about cutting your heart out, sleep claims me again.
I wake at night, the darkness so thick I almost panic, imagining they’ve draped a hood over my head. But there’s no warmth around my face, no brush of fabric on my skin. Just the bite of frost in the still, silent air. I manage to lift my head, only to smack into the wooden planks just above me.
I’m still in the carriage, then. Slow waves of exhaustion radiate off the horses and tug at the edges of my bound magic. They must have stopped to rest. The sad wail of an owl floats through the air, followed by a low, muffled snort from outside the carriage, possibly a horse, possibly the man who shot me.
This is my chance to escape.
I try to turn, to move, and a brilliant bolt of pain sings out from my shoulder. I wince and try to grit my teeth around the moan rising in the back of my throat. Magic simmers like a nest of hornets inside my body. Fyrris’s sleep magic can’t escape the nightmare steel either; we’re uneasy rivals trapped in the same prison, wild beasts locked together in a cage, circling each other warily.
The taste of nightmare steel coats my mouth and tongue, a thick, acrid sting. I close my eyes against the darkness, and I see Lenore running toward the woods. Please, gods, my mind whimpers. Let her run toward the mountain. Let her climb the trail and find Tholious and Matius. Together, they could travel to Silver City?—
But my mind replies with images of Lenore’s dress tangled in thorns above a pile of bones picked clean by ravens and vultures. Cold sinks into my body. Lenore never left Silver City. Why would she climb the mountain? How would she even find the trail? Even Kira got lost in these mountains, and Kira is smarter and tougher than Lenore.
Truth cuts through me like a blade. There’s no way Lady Lenore Castinac could survive the Daggers. That’s another death on my conscience, more blood on my hands. Gods, is there anyone in my life I haven’t failed?
When sleep magic surges forward and drags me down, it’s almost a relief.
I wake again to angry voices, the thick odor of unwashed bodies, the constant jostle of the carriage. Pain throbs through my arm, pulsing like a second heart. I try to move, then clamp down on the groan slipping through my lips. A man grunts above me.
“I’m saying,” the man mutters, “he’s waking up.”
The carriage squeaks and rocks. Exhaustion washes over me; the poor horses are ready to drop.
“Dose that fucker again,” the man says.
“Do not presume to tell me how to do my job.”
Fear settles in my gut, low and heavy, like a stone. That’s Fyrris speaking.
“That much magic should have killed him,” Fyrris continues.
“That right?” the man answers.
There’s a heavy shifting sound above me, and a burst of pain explodes in my lower back. I grunt as my vision flashes red. Magic burns under my skin.
“Like I said,” a man growls. “He’s waking up.”
“Not for long,” Fyrris replies.
Captured magic hisses in the air, the angry churn of one of the Towers’s silver chains. Someone yanks back my hair. I make a sound as Fyrris presses another chain to my skin, something low and animal. Magic burns into my body and drags my screaming consciousness down with it.
Somewhere, a river chatters in the distance, rising and falling, hissing and muttering. I listen to the river as birdsong twists with the music of the water, hoofbeats, and the creak and groan of motion. Moving. In motion. Being moved.
I let the river carry me, magic swirling in my wake.