Chapter 13
F or someone who has escaped many chains, I am equally as skilled in finding myself tangled back in them. Sin had dismissed River from our rooms this morning, insisting he would be the one to prepare me. Ironic, that it was the Black Art who vowed my flesh would never again endure the bite of metal, and now it is his hands that tighten the collar around my neck.
It isn’t iron—it doesn’t have to be. After yesterday’s incident, I agreed to allow a healer to tend to me, but Sin and I both thought it should wait until after we speak with Torin. The discoloration along my clavicle and throat will make the chains appear to be iron-forged, hopefully adding an additional layer of credibility to our ruse.
Sin takes care to pull any stray hairs free from the underside of the collar and lays my mane down my back. He circles me once, his expression dark, before stopping to stand in front of me. His eyes do another quick sweep from this angle, lingering on my battered eye, the collar fitted snugly against my neck, my dress that was deliberately made tattered and stained, and the manacles binding my ankles and wrists together.
“I’d curtsy before you, Your Grace, but I’m not sure the seams of this dress could withstand it.” I grab a handful of the fabric, the silver satin torn in a few places around my hips and waist. I had expected River to bring me a servant’s dress—similar to the linen smock she and the others wore—but when I saw the promiscuous attire, I understood.
We each have our roles to play.
The captor and his captive. The lion and his wren.
He shoots me a disapproving look, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “These are coming off you the second we sever the connection to Torin. I have Anika on stand-by already. She’ll take these away as soon as it’s over.” He brushes the backs of his knuckles across my battered cheek, and I wince, the flesh there still tender and swollen.
“I suppose getting bludgeoned in the face comes with its rewards,” I say, forcing a tight smile.
“I hate it.”
I shrug. “I’ve endured worse pain.”
“The chains I can tolerate, but I hate that I must act like I did this to you. And be proud of it. It makes me sick.” He strokes his thumb softly across my cheekbone.
I step into him, reaching up to touch the side of his face, ignoring how the chain connecting my collar to my manacles drags uncomfortably across my belly. “Think of it as a game and nothing more.”
“What kind of twisted games you must play, love, if you would compare this vileness to one.”
“Get through this with me, and I’ll show you all the twisted games I like to play, Your Grace,” I say, lowering my hands to my waist.
He considers that for a moment, but my attempt to lighten the mood fails exceedingly. Then begrudgingly, he asks, “You’re ready?”
“Yes.” I command steel into my tone, refusing to allow him to think I can’t handle this. Sin would call the entire thing off if he thought for a second I wasn’t comfortable with the role I must play. Or the one that he will.
There is no other way. If we war with Baelliarah, we might as well poison our own harvests. Some will die quickly, others slowly. But they will die.
He nods, then his expression abruptly shifts, all tenderness vanishing from his face as if it were magicked away. The curvature of his lips flattens into a hard line, his jaws clenching painfully, and I know this man before me is no longer my betrothed.
This is my captor.
He gives me his back without another word, heading out into the corridor. I follow behind him at once, already falling into my subservient role.
They’re waiting for us in the throne room.
Guards span the length of each wall, half of them displaying perfectly pointed ears. A show of strength—it is important Torin sees how the elves have integrated seamlessly with the kingdom’s army to provoke the level of fear we need.
Vox and the rest of the council are seated at the rows of desks that face the dais, and a large, gold mirror sits in front of the throne. The mirror is ornate with elegant swirls carved along the top and bottom, the corners all rounded and the sides bowing inward. I scent the tang in the air immediately and wonder how a mundane king has managed to get his hands on a mirror with such a potent enchantment.
Ileana rises when we enter and walks to us at once. I look right past her, my skin turning frozen as I take in the chains that have been wound through the metalwork of Sin’s throne and the strip of leather draped across the back of it. A horse’s rein .
I was too distracted looking at the throne to notice when Ileana suddenly reached for the chain that steers my collar. I whip towards her with a hiss, flames licking my hands in instinct, my surroundings reduced to nothing more than the sensation of having my collar tugged on. She drops the chain but doesn’t step away, holding my stare with hers until awareness snaps back to me. I release my collective at once.
“Sorry,” I blurt out, suddenly blinking too fast as my chest tightens. I glance over my shoulder and find Sin and Vox now at the table pushed against the far wall, the commander pouring two drinks from the decanter. I’m grateful for the Black Art’s distraction so that he did not witness my adverse reaction.
I know that this isn’t real. The chains, the collar, the rein... I swallow thickly and turn back to Ileana. Her expression softens but only a fraction, and it doesn’t touch her eyes. Those are as razor-sharp as ever.
“Does it kill you inside that he walks free?” she asks, her voice reduced to a whisper. She intends her words for my ears and mine alone.
That tightness burrows deeper in my chest, as if someone were hammering barbs directly into my heart. I look away from her. Unable to meet her eyes, unable to see my own weakness reflected there. Ileana endured far more acts of barbarity from Cathal and his vermin followers than I ever had. Because despite my iron restraints, they still feared the bloodwitch. Feared that I would somehow force my way out of my binding, and when I did, I would use those chains to strangle half of the camp to a miserable death, while my magic robbed the air from the rest.
Ileana wasn’t as lucky. They berated and beat her, defiled and violated her, night after night after night. She didn’t have a Cosmina to come and rescue her, and she certainly didn’t have a friend when she needed it. So much had come down to that single moment, and I failed her completely, a regret I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
But Ileana never needed saving.
She is, and always will be, her own godsdamned kingdom.
“Every day,” I answer. Then with more conviction, “Every fucking day.”
She nods in my periphery, and after a few moments, says, “I need to attach you to the throne now.”
She doesn’t phrase it as a question, but she waits for my permission anyway. And it’s in this moment, my affection for her grows tenfold. If anyone deserves to lead, it’s the Black Hand herself.
I nod, and she slides my chains through the twin ones looped through the throne and motions for me to sit on the floor next to it. There isn’t much slack, only leaving me with a few feet to move around. I kneel on the dais, and she leans forward to run her hand through my unbound hair, tousling it until it is a frizzy, unkept mess. Then she turns and moves to stand before the mirror, and in a voice that envelops a queendom all its own, she trills, “Places, boys. I do believe we have a date with the king.”
Sin leans back in his throne, his leather surcoat unclasped and the laces of his black shirt pulled loose, a suggestion of his muscular brown chest on display. His long hair hangs freely down his back, and a crystal goblet dangles loosely from his right hand as he hovers the other one in front of the mirror, threading his magic through that which enchants it.
The glass turns frosted, the surface resembling a lake frozen solid before shards of color begin to puncture the ice. Piece by piece, the surface clears to reveals more of Torin and his surroundings, until the last of the frost melts, revealing the mundane king.
Torin is an ugly fucker.
It’s not that he’s unattractive by conventional standards, but rather it’s the twisted scowl on his face that makes him hideous. There’s something so smug, so arrogant, in the way he watches Sin’s image come into focus that sends the bloodwitch howling in my veins. We should be surprising him right now, but Torin appears as if he’s been expecting us.
‘Easy, little witch,’ I can almost hear Sin whispering.
From this angle, I can see the glass and the puffed-up king on its surface, but he can’t see me from my perch on the floor. Torin wears a crown that’s an inch too tall for his small head, and there is a wooden wall with a small, round window behind the striped sofa he sits on. The image flickers on the surface every couple of seconds, as if the magic tethering our connection is having to continually refocus as Torin’s environment rocks slightly.
The king is on his boat.
Well, that’s great. I’m sure nothing bad could come from an enemy king sitting in the only body of water separating our territory from his.
Sin notices too, and I don’t miss the index finger that begins to tap on the side of his goblet. “The sea treating you well… Your Highness?” Sin greets with a plastered-on grin of his own. I recognize his tone as the one he used to take with me constantly, when our relationship was every bit the opposite it is now. Cutting with just a hint of the venom that lies dormant in his gums. The Black Art has perfected blurring the line between presenting as confident and presenting as a raging asshole.
“I suppose the sea is the least of my worries given it is the almighty Black Art that has summoned me. Do I dare ask, did Marisa Langston bow to you willingly, or did you break her poor little spine, Lord Kilbreth?”
“Your Grace,” Ileana corrects, stepping next to Sin and into view of the mirror. She looks more like herself today: her dress swapped out for a set of fighting leathers, and her curly hair braided and twisted so it balances on top of her head.
“Ah, and you must be the—what do you call them again—oh yes, the Black Hand. ”
She cants her head, a sweet smile that shows off her teeth. As blunt as they are and as mundane as she may be, the assuredness in which she presents herself has me considering if she can’t very well punch her teeth through that glass and straight into Torin’s neck.
“Marisa Langston did not sell you out, since that’s what you’re really asking,” Sin says. “She is not however, a fan of torture. For herself or her daughters. I am not unreasonable, Torin. I offered her a trade, and she accepted it.”
Torin fortifies his face to reveal nothing, and he reaches for a small, rectangular box on the table next to him. Sliding the lid open, he pulls out a cigar and holds it to the flame flickering in the lantern before popping it into his mouth.
“Who am I to say you are unreasonable? You think I don’t remember your kingdom’s fondness for compromise? I remember the terms of Ephraim and your father’s treaty quite well, actually. Something along the lines of, we were to return your dogs to your isle, and in exchange, you would stop murdering our women and children in cold blood.”
Sin swirls the amber mead in his glass and chuckles softly to himself. “Amusing that you refer to us as dogs now, when before, it was our transcendents that plucked a string on your father’s heart. Perhaps you have forgotten it was he that instigated that war, Torin.”
The king inhales, drawing the smoke into his mouth before blowing it out through cracked lips. “For being such a miserable old bastard, his heart was surprisingly soft. But I am not my father, and none of that matters now, does it, because your bloodwitch killed him.” He speaks the words matter-of-factly as he settles into the couch, but they are edged in steel.
Sin tenses at that but covers it smoothly by raising his drink to his lips and sipping the mead. “Aye,” he says, lowering his glass. We agreed it was best to keep Alistair’s name unspoken during this. If Torin isn’t aware there’s another bloodwitch on this isle, that’s a monumental advantage. “The witch seems to be quite affectionate with death, so I thought what better existence for her, than to keep her permanently on that precipice. Close enough to death she can’t help but yearn for it, but far enough it can never clutch her and drag her back to Hell.”
“Poetic words to say you’ve not killed it,” Torin says, leaning back and stretching one arm across the back of the couch and propping a foot onto his opposite knee.
“You would have me kill the very thing that murdered your father and forced me to abandon my kingdom? Likewise, you must have me confused with my father.”
“And where is Lord Kilbreth now?” he asks.
“Closer to death than the witch,” Sin replies with a ghost of a smile.
“I suppose the question that remains is—did old Dusaro betray his son, or did the son betray his kingdom?” He speaks around his cigar, taking another deep pull.
“It is my kingdom; therefore, it is what I say it is. Dusaro betrayed his blood and the crown, and I will not be speaking further on the matter.” A short pause, then, “You don’t seem surprised to be speaking with me, Torin. Were you counting on the Langstons attempt to usurp me failing so miserably?”
“I’m more confused as to what you’re doing in Blackreach at all. Last I heard, the ‘white-haired witch,’ as I hear she’s being called, whisked you away into the night while you all star-gazed in an elven forest.”
Sin snorts. “Is that what my father told you?”
“And Lord Langston corroborated.”
Lies. If Marisa is to be trusted, Sterling believed I coerced Sin into killing their youngest son, then captured him once it was convenient for me. He’s trying to bait falsities out of us, poke holes into our story and see if anything rattles loose. My collective stirs within, desperate to snake through the mirror and latch onto Torin’s for my looting, to see what closeted intentions lurk there.
Embodying the image of the brute king impeccably, Sin’s legs splay open as he runs a hand across his mouth, smearing a dark chuckle. “Then allow me to right the misunderstanding. We captured the witch when she was still a Legion whore, selling her magic to them in exchange for a taste of rebellion blood and cock. I won’t criticize how you run your kingdom, Torin, and I suggest you extend me that same courtesy. Why would I kill it when I could instead harness the power of a bloodwitch and use it to squash the rebellion scum that was terrorizing my streets? Only a fool would tie something that valuable to a pyre.
“But I am also not too proud to admit I was tampering with magic I didn’t fully understand, and I allowed myself to get too close to it. The witch sunk her claws into my head and commandeered me like her personal puppet. She wasn’t fond of the youngest Langston son, and she wielded my hand to rid her of him permanently. Unfortunately, it seems that is something my relationship with the Langstons will never recover from.
“When we invited your father here, I assure you that it was to ease tensions, not spike them. Aegidale is looking to enter an era of peace, not further hostilities. I do not wish for any more death… for either of our kingdoms.”
Torin deliberates for several long moments, puffing on his cigar. My heart pounds furiously in my chest despite my attempt to slow its rate, knowing Sin and all the elven ears in this room can hear it.
Finally, the king leans forward, his hands drooping over his folded leg and his cigar held loosely between two fingers. “These elves ,” he says, waving his hand to emphasize the word, “if I remember correctly, Ephraim wasn’t too fond of them. Are they included in this proposed era of peace ?” Another baited question. The mundane king has surely heard the legends of elven magic, and the scowl on his face is forced. It’s in this moment, I know without a shadow of doubt, that Torin is terrified of them.
Sin knows it too.
He glances off to the side and extends a hand towards Vox. “Come greet our guest, Commander.”
Ileana moves to the other side of Sin to make room for the elf. Torin’s scowl melts at the sight of Vox. His stare is everywhere—taking in the pointed ears that are on full display courtesy of Vox’s hair twisted into tight plaits on either side of his head, his near black eyes, the moonlight skin that suggests a lifetime spent in a heavily canopied forest.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” Vox says. “I am Commander Fionnlagh.”
Torin promptly shuts his mouth that had popped open. “You’ve allied with them?” he asks Sin tightly.
“As I said, we are retiring the days of prejudice. Fionnlagh is a hell of a council member, and an even better warrior. The elves have taken a liking to the isle outside their forest, and my own commander tells me the elves are integrating with my army seamlessly. Would you care to see?” Sin doesn’t wait for an answer before he stands and adjusts the mirror so Torin has full view of the room in front of us, showing off the walls brandished with long lines of elven and human soldiers.
Torin clears his throat before speaking, his words coming out just a tad too quickly now. “And the witch? What of her whereabouts now?”
I swallow. We were hoping he’d ask.
“The witch,” Sin drawls, “I keep in my sights at all times. Isn’t that right, pet ?” He spits the word, and I force a smirk on my face as he turns the mirror back around, this time angling it so I am the center of Torin’s view.
Torin’s mouth parts as he beholds me, taking me in like I’m some long-lost relic, a specimen to be studied. The king studies me as he lifts his cigar to his lips, assessing me through the cloud of smoke he blows out. Slowly his eyes drag down my body, lingering on the chains at my neck, then down to the ones at my ankles.
“You sure that iron is strong enough?” he asks.
Sin huffs darkly, pacing the back of his throne like a cat prowling its quarry. I keep my gaze locked on Torin’s but don’t miss the sound of leather sliding across velvet. His footsteps come to a pause behind me.
“The witch will never again know the taste of her own magic. The only thing her mouth gets to taste these days is the spill from my cock.”
Leather wraps around my larynx, and Sin jerks my head back, my eyes forced to meet those of the dark mage. My future Mate, who right now, is desperately trying to protect me.
“Fuck you,” I grind out through clenched teeth.
Sin leans over me, yanking the rein harder and coaxing a strangled sound from my throat. His left hand comes down to grab my jaws. “So eager to have this pretty mouth fucked again, aren’t you?” And then he slaps the side of my cheek in three measured smacks. They barely sting, Sin restraining his strength as much as he can while still hitting hard enough for the sound to carry to Torin.
My head falls forward as he unloops the rein from my neck, and I bare my teeth at Torin’s ferine grin. Leather drags across my bare arms as Sin slowly steps around me, then he drapes it across his throne as he settles back into it.
Gooseflesh bursts across my skin. Not real, not real, not real. I resist the urge to close my eyes, to claw the ground next to me to remind myself it is stone beneath my knees, not soil and rotting foliage. I remind myself that the screams echoing in my head are the ones we reaped from our enemies, not the distant wails of my friend as she was subjected to the perverse appetites of power-starved men. That the man next to me is my betrothed, not my psychotic ex-lover.
He is not him. He is not him. He is not him.
“The gods really do possess such wicked senses of humor, wouldn’t you say, Your Grace?” Torin speaks, his golden-brown eyes not leaving mine. He doesn’t pause for a response. “As alluring as belladonna flowers, but as lethal as nightshade berries. Tell me, belladonna, do your teeth sharpen to fangs as the legends claim?”
I make a show of running my tongue across the front of my perfectly blunt teeth, a roguish grin on my lips. “Would you care to stick something in my mouth and find out just how sharp they can become?”
A chuckle—Ileana’s. The king at my side doesn’t react, but the one in the mirror grins wildly. Torin pops the cigar back into his mouth and inhales, a poor attempt to cover his dark amusement. From my periphery, I note that Vox is watching me closely.
“Excuse the mouth on my pet,” Sin says with a dismissive wave. “If it wasn’t so practiced, I’d have carved out her tongue already.”
Torin shrugs his shoulders. “Aegidale wants peace—allow me to remind you this is not the first I’ve heard that claim—but I also don’t believe the son should suffer for the crimes of the father. I offer you this,” he says, burying his cigar in a dish of sand and leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees. “Let us meet in the flesh, face-to-face, man-to-man, without this magic ”—he waves his hand idly in front of him—“between us. Then we’ll discuss the clauses and fine print for what an alliance looks like between us , not our predecessors.”
“We can have accommodations ready for you at once,” Sin says, nodding to Vox who is still watching me with that same unreadable expression.
“A little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we? Forgive my cautions, Your Grace, but the last time a Baelliarah King was invited to your isle, he ended up a meal for that lovely belladonna flower you keep at your side.”
I don’t allow my worry to show on my face. We prepared for this, after all. Torin would be a miserable excuse for a king if he followed the same footsteps that led to his father’s death, and Sin would never have earned his reputation as the ruthless leader without a strong political sense.
“Of course,” Sin replies smoothly. “Neutral territory, then. My emissary can make arrangements with Wildefall to host us for a few evenings. Should be no problem, given both our territories contribute handsome funding to the trade embargo.”
“That journey is lengthy for both of us. Given the civil state of your isle, it would be unwise to leave it for long,” Torin responds cooly. Sin’s hand tightens on the arm of his throne, but it’s the only sign the passing remark bothered him at all. “I’m already in the water, and since your kingdom is in no state to be without its leader, I will voyage the remainder of the way to your waystone. Call it a show of good faith.”
That chisels away at Sin’s mask, and he shifts his weight. “Interesting choice, but I’m afraid a waystone must be touched by the magic of both parties. Given your mundane nature, and the lack of a waystone on your ship, I don’t see h?—”
“Have you forgotten we are speaking through an enchanted mirror right now, Your Grace? I may not be magic-born, but I have it at my disposal nonetheless. You let me worry about the logistics of getting to your waystone. We meet in three days. Dusk. The glare on the water is atrocious in daylight.”
Sin is quiet for a few long seconds as he deliberates. “How many should I be expecting to receive at the stone?” he asks. A careful question.
“Two guards each. For if no reason other than to ease our paranoid minds, yes? I do have one further condition, however,” Torin leads, turning his attention back to me.
“Go on.”
“Bring the witch. I do wish to meet your belladonna flower in person.”