Chapter 23
Emmeric
Shit.
Emmeric had been so lost in his thoughts, going over his conversation with Altair—again—that he hadn’t seen Prince Zane heading towards him until they ran into each other. Once Emmeric realized who it was he’d hit, fear suffused him and the vial full of Iyana’s numbing draught fell. Time slowed as he tracked it tumbling to the ground, luckily not breaking, but making the loudest possible noise. Silence followed. Emmeric’s hands began to sweat, and he really wished he wasn’t holding a tray so he could wipe them dry.
His heart hammered furiously as Zane glanced down towards the draught, then picked it up. Emmeric’s confession was on the tip of his tongue; any possible excuse fled his mind the moment he saw the prince. He watched Zane inspect the vial, turning it over in his hands. There was no label, but his green eyes sparked with recognition.
Emmeric was fucked. There was no good reason to have a numbing draught on him while taking food down to a prisoner. If it were for his own personal use, he would have it safely tucked away in his room. Rapid flashes of his future flickered through his mind—a trial, lying in a cell next to Iyana’s, standing at the gallows. There’d be no funeral, not for him and the crimes he’d committed. Talon weeping. Snapping back to the present, Emmeric noticed the odd expression on Zane’s face—a mixture of curiosity, fear, and determination.
Zane placed the vial gently on the tray. Placing a hand on Emmeric’s shoulder, he leaned in close, whispering into Emmeric’s ear, “You didn’t see me.”
Emmeric managed a small nod, and the crown prince went on his way without another word. Emmeric’s breath whooshed out of his lungs, hands trembling. Zane could still potentially get him into a large amount of trouble, or use him for blackmail, or… or he might know exactly what Emmeric was up to and who he was aiding, and he didn’t care. It might be a minor act of defiance against his father, or even something he deemed not worth his time. Emmeric didn’t want to place his trust in the prince. He’d been working for him the past decade and had seen a sulky, seventeen-year-old scrawny boy grow into a brooding, bookish man; granted, one who was good with a sword. But he’d seen Zane’s moods over years becoming more and more sullen, and he’d watched him stand by Uther as he’d committed atrocities. Emmeric knew he was just as culpable, never standing up for anything, never speaking out, but men like him didn’t have a say. The voice they possessed held little weight, and saying the wrong thing threatened to silence them permanently. So nobody said anything. But Zane, as the crown prince, he did have a voice. A powerful one. And he chose not to use it. Emmeric couldn’t trust Zane’s motives were altruistic.
For the moment, however, Emmeric was still a free man, and Iyana was still in pain. The previous numbing draught had run dry last night, and so her ‘session’ this morning had been more painful than the past few days. His back hurt, and he was concerned by what he would find. Emmeric needed to put his eyes on her, make sure she was surviving, make sure that after this was over she’d still be whole. Plus, he needed to convey important information. Information she would find vital—that, four nights prior, Altair had breezed into The Dancing Cat, rudely magicked the booze out of Emmeric’s blood, and asked for his and Talon’s help. Which was laughable, seeing as he was an all-powerful star, and Emmeric was the human equivalent of a hamster running in a wheel to provide someone else with energy.
“Fuck off,” Emmeric had said.
“Is this…?” Talon had asked, slurring, eyes hooded. Altair hadn’t whisked away his fun. No, only Emmeric’s.
“The bane of my existence? Yes. Now, fuck off.”
“Listen,” Altair said, “the feeling is fucking mutual. If I didn’t absolutely need your assistance, I wouldn’t be here.”
Emmeric scoffed, taking another gulp of his mead, trying to get the fuzziness back, only to find the star had transformed it into water. “Fucker,” he mumbled. “I want nothing to do with you.”
“Then tell me that I’ve read you completely wrong, and you don’t give two shits about Iyana,” Altair said, his voice becoming more irate as he talked. “Tell me that, and I’ll walk out right now.”
Emmeric couldn’t let that stand. “And what about you? What have you done to show she’s anything to you other than a tool, someone to be used for whatever ulterior motives you might have?” He poked Altair’s chest. Godsdamn, the man was solid as a rock. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Why didn’t you come for her after Huton? She put her faith in you.”
Altair’s anger leaked out of him, slouching forward slightly. “I…I couldn’t.”
“Why?” Emmeric asked, pissed on Iyana’s behalf.
“The why isn’t important,” Altair snarled. “But every second she’s been away from me has been pure agony. You think I don’t know what’s being done to her right now, while you’re here drinking?”
“Phaedros take you, Altair. At least I’ve done something to actually help her.”
Altair inhaled deeply, and Emmeric welcomed his tirade. It felt good to be mad at someone he could actually yell at. Talon interrupted, “As much fun as it is watching this dick measuring contest—which I’ll happily judge if you want to drop your pants—I believe you came here for a purpose.” He nodded at Altair. “And every minute you two spend arguing is another minute she’s cold and alone.” Looking Altair in the eyes, he said, “Whatever you have in mind, I want in.”
Altair squinted at Talon. “Do you trust him?”
“With my life,” was Emmeric’s immediate answer. Altair nodded, accepting Talon into the crazy scheme he was hatching. Oh, now he wants my opinion.
“There’s just under a week until the autumnal equinox,” Altair began. “It’s my understanding there’s a large festival?”
Talon nodded. “It lasts all day and through the night, typically until dawn.”
“That will be our best option, then.”
“For what?” Emmeric asked.
Altair looked at him like he was stupid. “To get Iyana out.”
Emmeric shook his head. “There’s absolutely no way we can get her out of there. One,” he started counting on his fingers, “it’s crawling with armed guards. Two, she’s locked in the dungeon. Behind iron bars. Three, even if we do sneak in and free her from the castle, how do we transport a naked woman, who has obviously been abused, out of the city without anyone noticing?”
Altair’s eyes darkened and swirled back into his normal golden color. The hair on Emmeric’s arms raised as small sparks surrounded them. Talon touched the star’s arm gently, Altair whipping his head towards him. Emmeric was halfway out of his chair, ready to defend his friend, but Altair calmed at the sympathy in Talon’s gaze.
“We know,” Talon said gently. “We don’t like it either. But you need to hold it together. If you’re captured, you won’t be any good to Iyana.”
Gold eyes melted back to brown, the electricity in the air cooling. Several people at tables next to them looked around in confusion. An old man muttered something about lightning; a storm was coming, his knees always knew when a storm was coming.
“You can’t kill the man hurting her,” Altair told Emmeric.
“Why not?” Emmeric asked, brow furrowed. He’d fucking strap Azazel to his own table and see how he liked to be on the receiving end of his tools.
“Because I’m going to kill him,” Altair said matter-of-factly.
“Whoever gets to him first gets to kill him,” Emmeric conceded. “On the condition that he hurts before he’s sent directly to Phaedros’s pit.” Altair didn’t even know who was responsible, and Emmeric wasn’t going to tell him, so he already had a leg up.
“Deal.”
“Altea save me,” Talon said, breathless. “That was intense. And scary. And kind of hot?” He frowned in thought, then nodded. “Definitely hot.”
Emmeric rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan?”
“I can deal with any guards we come across,” Altair said, “but I need your help with the layout of the castle.”
“Fine,” Emmeric said.
“Your friend over here…” Altair said, nodding at Talon.
“Talon Strom,” Tal said, sticking his hand out for an introductory shake, which Altair ignored. Talon mouthed nice to meet you too and lowered his hand awkwardly.
“Talon,” Altair continued, “can secure us horses. I want to be in and out as quickly as possible, without drawing too much attention to us. Otherwise we’d never make it out of the city, festival or no.”
After that first night, the trio had met several times to hammer out details. How to get Altair in and through the castle without notice, how many horses to get, how to break Iyana out of the cell, which gate to leave by… Emmeric only needed to let Iyana in on the plan, helping her to cling to any sort of hope she may still possess.
And so he’d ended up back down in the dungeons the first chance he could, having stopped by the apothecary first. The strange pain in his fingers hadn’t gone away yet, he’d told the woman there, and she’d happily supplied him with another numbing draught. Still shaken from his encounter with Zane, he hurried the rest of the way to Iyana’s cell.
Emmeric cursed when he arrived. Iyana was again lying naked on the cold stone floor, but this time her back was to him and the evidence of a flogging was apparent. A whip had flayed some areas of her back down to the muscle. Her breathing was ragged, labored. Emmeric didn’t care what Altair said, he was going to get to Azazel first and pay everything back tenfold.
“Iyana,” he whispered.
Moaning, she pushed herself to her knees, moving stiffly to avoid hurting her back further. She gingerly placed his cloak over her from the front so her back was still open to the air. He was happy to see she still had the cloak, that they hadn’t confiscated it, and he hoped it provided her some small measure of comfort. But he saw the change in her immediately. Iyana’s face was sallow, skin pale, hair tangled into one big knot. Ribs were now visible. Her eyes, though. Her fucking gorgeous caramel-colored eyes were dull, lacking all of her normal fire, her energy.
Emmeric knew she wouldn’t last much longer. And she was stubborn enough to die instead of giving Uther anything.
“Mouse,” he said, sadly.
“I hate that nickname,” she mumbled. The corner of his lip twitched up, thinking he could goad her into an argument. Help her back from the brink.
“Is it because you hate mice, or because it was me who gave you the nickname?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, shoulders slumping forward. His heart sank—there’d be no enticing her into an argument.
Speaking lowly so only Iyana heard him, he said, “Two days, Mouse. That’s all. Two more days. Your…boyfriend is here.” The word tasted like ash in his mouth. But a small spark returned to her at the mention of Altair.
“He’s here?” she whispered.
Emmeric nodded. “Help is coming. Two days.” He handed the draught to her through the bars.
“How do I know I can trust you? That he’s really here, and you’re not working with Azazel, telling me what I want to hear, so I give information?”
“Why would I do that when it would damn me as well?” he asked.
She shrugged, then winced. Taking the cork out of the vial, she took a small sip. She’d been rationing it, and Emmeric felt terrible he hadn’t come back sooner with more. There was no other way to help her at the moment. A raw desperation to prove he cared filled his body, but he didn’t know how to express it. Instead, he looked upon her with pity as she lay herself down carefully and slept.
Emmeric closed his eyes, too. “Two days, Mouse,” he whispered. Who was he trying to comfort—Iyana, or himself?