51. Reznyk
Chapter 51
Reznyk
COWARDS
I ’m aware of my aching body first and voices second. A woman is talking. I follow the cadence of her voice as her words slowly take shape.
“No reaction to the amulet,” she mutters under her breath, as if she’s talking to herself. This voice is familiar, in a distant sort of way, as if we’ve met in dreams. Not particularly pleasant dreams.
“Of course, that could be the nightmare steel,” she continues. “But we should still see a reaction to this?—”
Something heavy hits my leg. I ignore it, breathe in and out, slow and steady.
“No, not there either,” she says.
There’s a rustling sound. My mind fills with white robes and a dark scowl. That’s Bethyl’s voice, an Exemplar. I lived in the Towers for years and hardly ever saw her.
There’s something heavy on my chest. I must be in Silver City, in the Towers. The taste of nightmare steel coats the back of my throat. My shoulder throbs, and my arms and legs are splayed out. I would guess I’m pinned like a rabbit in a trap, but I don’t dare move to find out. Not with Bethyl muttering above me.
“So how do we get it out?” Bethyl continues.
There’s a creaking sound from behind me, as if someone has just risen from a chair. Or perhaps opened a door.
“We have to take off the manacles,” Bethyl announces.
The proclamation is so sudden that I almost flinch. Behind me, there’s a gentle sigh, a sound of disappointment that might as well be burned into my soul.
“Oh, do we?” Fyrris asks.
I can almost see the expression on his face, one eyebrow raised, his lips pulled back in a smile that manages to look almost exactly like a snarl.
“It’s the only way,” Bethyl huffs from somewhere near my legs. “The magic won’t come out of him with nightmare steel blocking the way. It’s like trying to take a shit with a cork up your ass.”
“You have such a way with words,” Fyrris purrs.
Bethyl grunts. “I’m right. You know it.”
Something cold taps the center of my chest, then trails downward. My skin trembles; magic skitters through my body like it’s trying to run away. I force myself to breathe. Don’t react. Don’t think about Lenore, or Tholious and Matius, or Kira?—
“How long has he been awake?” Fyrris asks.
Bethyl grunts again. As I remember, her conversational skills were always a bit limited.
“Open your eyes, Master Thorne,” Fyrris says, in the gentle tone you’d use to speak to a child or a small animal. “Or I’ll open them for you.”
I do as he says. The world slowly swims into focus. I’m staring at rough stone, like the inside of a cave. A lantern flickers from somewhere behind me, but it’s not enough to banish the shadows clinging to the ceiling. It’s cold in here, and it smells like piss and desperation.
This has to be the Towers. There are more dank holes hidden beneath those white spires than even I managed to discover. They’ve stuck me in one of them and wrapped nightmare steel around my wrists and ankles. A shiver pulls my skin tight. The dim ember of pain in my shoulder turns into a flash of agony.
This is an awful place to die.
“Welcome home,” Fyrris says, “Master Thorne.”
I tilt my head enough to see Fyrris standing beside me. He looks quite proud of himself.
“You left her,” I growl. My voice sounds worse than the squeaking rattle of the carriage that must have brought me here. “Lady Castinac. In the woods.”
“Yes,” Fyrris replies. “I don’t like to ride in a crowded carriage.”
“You pus-filled sack of shit,” I spit.
Fyrris moves fast. I flinch, only realizing my hands are pinned to the ground when his palm hits my face. It’s like running into a brick wall. White sparks explode across my vision. My skin burns as my head snaps back. My vision floods with hot, angry tears.
“Watch your filthy mouth,” Fyrris snaps.
He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket, then rubs it delicately across each one of his fingers, as if touching me has soiled him. The taste of blood spreads slowly over my lips and tongue.
“There’s another way to get the magic out of him,” Fyrris announces.
He’s looking at Bethyl, looking directly over me, as if I’m not here at all. I swallow. Blood coats the inside of my throat.
“In fact, it would solve several of our problems at once,” Fyrris continues.
Bethyl frowns. I’m not sure if she doesn’t understand, or she doesn’t like this idea, or she just thinks Fyrris is a prick in love with the sound of his own voice. Perhaps all three.
“This,” Fyrris says, waving his hand over my body with a disgusted sneer, “is a problem. First him, then Pytr, then Tholious.”
“They aren’t supposed to leave,” Bethyl says.
“They are not,” Fyrris agrees. “But Reznyk, well, he inspired them.”
His voice twists as he speaks, making it clear this inspiration is for fools and cowards. Bethyl grunts again, a perfectly noncommittal sound.
“Because of him, we had to rush with Aveus and Syrus,” Fyrris continues. “And just look how that turned out with Aveus.”
I try not to respond to the names of the men who’d become my closest friends over our shared years in the Towers. Nothing good would come from Fyrris knowing I still care for them. Just look at what my care did for Lady Lenore.
“We only need one,” Bethyl says. She turns to me as she speaks, fixing me with a look I don’t much care for.
“Yes,” Fyrris replies. His head swivels toward me as well. “Thankfully, we still have Syrus. And we’re keeping the chains on him.”
I have to force myself to breathe. Does this mean Aveus escaped? Did Pytr make his way back to his wife? Or are all of my friends as dead as Lenore, with no one but wolves to mourn for them?
“So, how do you propose we get the magic out of him?” Bethyl asks. She’s frowning at me like I’m a problem she’s considering solving with the application of brute force.
“Publicly,” Fyrris purrs.
I shiver like something with cold, sharp legs just crawled across my chest.
“We’ll make an example out of Master Reznyk Thorne,” Fyrris continues. “In the main courtyard. Just before dinner.”
Bethyl grunts, her main form of communication.
“And the magic?” she asks.
Fyrris grins at me. I feel like a gutted fish splayed on a market stall.
“Silver,” Fyrris says.
My arms start trembling. I can’t stop them.
“It worked once,” Fyrris continues. “The hollow bolt captured the old god’s magic, clearly. It just went to the wrong place.”
“Inside Reznyk, instead of inside the amulet,” Bethyl adds.
I turn my hands into fists. My pulse beats against the manacles of nightmare steel like a trapped bird thrashing against the invisible prison of a window. It doesn’t stop the tremble in my arms.
“Yes. Maybe he was the weak spot all along,” Fyrris continues, narrowing his eyes at me. “We’ll have someone talented fire the bolt tomorrow. Someone we trust.”
“Veloria?” Bethyl asks.
I close my eyes before they can betray my thoughts. Being publicly executed by Syrus’s former lover is a particularly bad way to die.
“She won’t do it,” I whisper, almost to myself.
Fyrris makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, a polite little hum of disagreement.
“Just between the three of us,” Fyrris says, “I don’t think you know that much about women, Master Thorne.”
I know enough to keep my mouth shut. There’s a rustling sound as Fyrris walks toward the door and Bethyl follows.
“Very well,” Fyrris announces. “We’ll sort out the details in the morning. If this works, we won’t need Syrus after all. And if not, we’ll still have a fine example of what happens to those who disobey the Towers.”
I crack my eyes open and twist my head. Fyrris and Bethyl stand before the closed door.
“Cowards,” I whisper.
Both of them turn to stare at me. Fyrris’s eyes widen into an expression that’s so far from what I expected it’s almost funny.
“Why didn’t you kill the old god yourself?” I say, slurring the words around my swelling lips. “Why didn’t you trap the magic in the amulet?”
Fyrris moves fast, closing the distance between us. But my tongue is faster.
“Because you’re afraid,” I say. “You’re weak, hiding behind your Towers. You’re scared, pathetic?—”
This time, Fyrris hits me with his fist. Pain sets off feast day fireworks inside my skull and my neck snaps back.
I hear the slam of the door just before the world goes black.