Chapter 33 Amryn #2
She settled in one of the armchairs and opened the worn book. Her place was marked by the sheet of paper she’d tucked in there. Her own handwriting stared back at her. She scanned each of the stanzas she’d grouped together, once again noting that something seemed to be missing.
The Flame. The Sword. The Dragon. The Storm. That was the order Von had always written those words in, even when other lines and drawings were interspersed between them.
Amryn flipped the loose paper over and reached for the quill and ink nearby. It was only a hunch, but as she began to write—this time, alternating the lines in Von’s established order—goosebumps rose across her body.
The Flame, shaped by betrayal that ends in violent death.
The Sword, stained by the blood of enemies and innocents.
The Dragon, silenced by all and none.
The Storm has come.
The Flame must choose to heal or destroy; to sacrifice or betray.
The Sword must break; break and be mended, so it can shatter anew.
The Dragon must wake; terror will reign for all but the monster.
The Storm must rage.
The Flame will choose and burn out.
The Sword will defend and be defeated.
The Dragon will rise and fall.
The Storm cannot be escaped or survived.
Nerveless fingers dropped the quill as Amryn stared at those words. She knew instinctively they were in the order Von had meant them. And yet, there was a weight and gravity to them—a rhythm and pattern—that didn’t feel like a man had written them. They almost sounded . . . prophetic.
Unease slithered through her as her eyes fell on the first line again.
The Flame, shaped by betrayal that ends in violent death.
Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t help but see herself in those words. After all, she had been shaped by her father’s betrayal that had led to her mother’s violent murder.
Her eyes tracked down the page, her throat feeling too tight as she read, The Flame must choose to heal or destroy; to sacrifice or betray.
A chill caught her. The Flame must choose to heal . . . Like she could heal?
No. She was reading too deeply into the words of a madman.
Besides, she didn’t believe in prophecies.
They were something out of a fantastical novel—pure fiction.
Von’s words were in no way prophetic, and they certainly weren’t meant for her.
The only thing she had in common with a flame was the color of her hair.
Around her neck, the bloodstone hummed.
Heart beating too fast, Amryn closed the journal, trapping the haunting words within its pages. She moved to the wardrobe and shoved the book deep inside Carver’s mostly empty saddlebag. She wasn’t going to study Von’s words anymore. She would give the journal to Felinus when he—
A sharp knock on the door made her slam the wardrobe closed.
“Lady Vincetti?” the deep voice of one of the guards called through the door. “Rhone Quinn is here to see you.”
Fear exploded low in her gut, sending ice shooting through her veins.
Saints, what was the knight doing here? Panic gripped her.
She touched the bloodstone through her dress, as if assuring herself it was still safely tucked under her collar.
With a little concentration, she could feel the protective shield around her was secure.
It didn’t stop her hands from shaking.
Another knock. “My lady?”
A thousand excuses flitted through her mind, but none were strong enough to counteract the suspicion she’d draw if she refused to see Rhone. Clinging to the assurance that she’d survived the interview with his father, Amryn stepped to the door. Her palms were damp as she opened it.
Rhone stood in his crimson uniform, his dark hair and sharp features looking far too much like Rivard. Unease speared through her.
The knight gave her an easy smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
She cleared her throat. “Not at all. Is there something I can do for you?”
“May I come in?”
Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, but she knew she couldn’t. Her voice was a little too hoarse as she said, “Of course.”
Rhone glanced around the room as he walked in, taking in the space. His eyes lingered on the painting of Carver’s family.
Amryn closed the door, watching him warily even though she sensed no danger from him. Curiosity, maybe. Especially as he spotted the cello case.
“I’m assuming you’re the musician?” he asked. The quirk of his lips might have been charming, if he weren’t a knight.
“Yes. Carver gave it to me.” She wasn’t sure why she added that, except the silence between them was unbearable. Why was he here?
“Ah.” Amryn didn’t understand the sudden wistfulness that threaded through him. “Carver is a good man.”
“He is.”
“You’re lucky,” he murmured. “Both of you are, to have made a good match.”
She assumed his thoughts had gone to his brother, who had been married to Tam—until she’d killed him.
Amryn swallowed hard, uncomfortable with feeling Rhone’s still-raw grief. It made him feel too human. “Is there something you needed?” she asked.
Rhone straightened. “It has come to my attention that your maid from Esperance remained here with you.”
“Yes.” Anxiety whispered through her. “She wanted to stay.”
“So I’ve been informed.” His dark brows knit. “I thought all the servants from Esperance journeyed back there with my father and brother, which means your maid has yet to be interviewed. Is she here?”
“No. She has her own room.”
“Will you give me directions?”
Amryn did, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had told Rhone that Ahmi had remained in Zagrev could have probably shared where her room was.
She bit her lower lip. “If that’s all . . .”
“Actually, I was wondering if you’ve remembered anything else you might want to share with me. Perhaps you’ve recalled something you didn’t think to tell my father when you spoke with him.”
Amryn shook her head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“Well. It doesn’t hurt to ask.” His smile was smaller this time. “Do let me know if you remember anything. Sometimes, it is the smallest detail that can lead us to the empaths we hunt.”
Unease snaked through her, but she merely nodded before walking him to the door. She breathed a little easier once he stepped into the corridor. Being in view of her guards helped, though she knew they wouldn’t really be able to do anything if the knight decided to arrest her.
Rhone twisted to face her. “Thank you for your time, Lady Vincetti.” He held out his hand.
She shook it, trying to ignore the bone ring that glinted at her.
Her skin crawled even as he walked away.
Because she was watching his retreat, she saw Carver as he reached the top of the stairs. He stilled when he spotted Rhone walking toward him. His eyes immediately sliced to Amryn.
She tried to tell him without words that she was all right, but she might have failed, because Carver’s concern only swelled.
The two men exchanged simple greetings as the knight walked by him.
Seconds later, Carver was at Amryn’s side, tugging her into their room.
“What did he want?” he demanded, his voice low and edged.
Amryn told him about Rhone’s—thankfully—uneventful visit, but it did nothing to ease Carver’s tension. “Do you think Ahmi might suspect anything? Could she be a risk to you if he questions her?”
Amryn shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Carver didn’t seem reassured. He strode across the room, his hands on his hips.
“You need a way to protect yourself. I’ve been thinking that for a while, but especially after everything that’s been happening .
. .” He frowned. “There are some self-defense strategies that might work better for you. I just need to solidify some ideas.”
She stared. “You’ve been thinking about this?”
He glanced over at her. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” she admitted.
His brow furrowed. “Why are you surprised I’d be thinking about your safety?”
“I’m not surprised about that, it’s just . . . you’ve had quite a few things taking up your attention recently.”
Surprising her again, he cracked a smile. “Trust me, Amryn, you’ve had my full attention from the first moment I saw you.”
She rolled her eyes, but she could feel the slow blush rising to cover her cheeks. “Seriously, Carver. There are far more important things going on right now—”
“There’s nothing more important to me than you.”
The words hit hard. Especially because she knew they couldn’t be true.
“Carver is a man with loyalties to many. The emperor. His family. If his loyalties were tested, are you confident he would choose you?”
Ivan’s words hadn’t been spoken harshly, just with the quiet concern of a friend. It almost made them hurt more.
“You don’t have to say things like that,” she said softly.
Confusion swirled inside him. “What do you mean?”
“I know I’m not your first priority. And that’s all right.”
He blinked, incredulous. “What makes you think you’re not my first priority?”
Saints, this hurt too much. She wasn’t about to say aloud that it was all right, that no one had ever truly chosen her or put her first. She glanced away. “Forget I said anything.”
“Amryn—”
A knock on the door cut him off.
Carver growled, irritation spiking. He ground his teeth as he strode to the door and yanked it open.
Ford’s grin froze. “Bad timing?” he asked.
“Abysmal,” Carver confirmed, his tone hard. “Come back later.”
Ford stuck out his foot, his boot catching the door before Carver could close it. “As much as I’d love to follow your orders, General, mine come from someone I refuse to disobey.”
“Who?” Carver all but snapped.
Ford’s lips quirked. “Your mother.”