Chapter 16
I don’t leave the isle. The isle leaves me. And then we’re spinning, spinning, spinning.
Until we aren’t.
My knees hit the ground first, then my hands, but not quickly enough to stop my face from smashing into the floor. The smell hits me before the pain. A rusty tang, like someone placed a coin under my tongue. Then something deeper—a mix of earth and wood. Cigar smoke .
“Letter by pigeon not fast enough for you?” My voice is strained, and my lungs swell, working to replace the air stolen from me.
“Send a letter by pigeon, and you’d never have seen it.” I recognize Torin’s voice from the scry instantly.
I climb to my feet and turn just as the general flicks something small and slams it down on his other palm, similar to how one might flip a coin.
“Hate to drop and run, but well, I have a feeling Rory has about seven more seconds before he’s shredded to ribbons. You’ll want to keep this short, Highness. Signal when you’re ready.” The guard waves the item he had flicked—not a coin, but a small, gray stone. He clutches it in his hand, then in a flash of the same blue smoke as before, he vanishes. The stone must be connected to the causeway somehow. He told Torin to signal when he was ready, so the king must have a twin piece that allows them to communicate.
The room grows deafeningly quiet, and I use the time to scan my surroundings. Torin sits on the same striped couch he’d been on in the scry, a cigar held loosely between two fingers while he studies me.
There’s a slender mirror propped against the wall behind the couch—likely his own scrying surface. The walls are entirely wooden, oil paintings displayed in gold-leaf frames decorating them, but the quarters are far from refined. There’s a desk off to my left, heaps of ink-splattered parchment scattered across the top of it, as if he hovered a quill over them without writing anything. Hesitant. Indecisive, maybe. Others have been inked with illegible scrawl, some of the letters bleeding deep blotches where the penman may have finished one sentence but refused to lift their quill before beginning another.
There’s a bed behind me, stuffed into a corner of the room too small for it. It is unmade, and judging from the dishevelment of the sheets, I’d be surprised if they are ever swapped for clean ones while on a voyage. For a king who flaunts a crown the size of a watermelon, you’d think his quarters would resemble the same exquisiteness. Rather, it more resembles a sty for pigs than lodging for a king.
“Are you going to continue to stand there and gawk at my things, or are you going to have a seat?” He motions to the only other seat besides the couch, a faded red armchair that matches nothing else in the room, the stitching along the arm pulled loose like a cat once favored it as a scratching post.
“Apologies, Your Highness. I was under the impression I wasn’t to sit in such lavish comforts given you summoned me here like a misbehaving puppy.”
A smile cracks across his face, his creasing skin highlighting a field of sunspots on one cheek. “A good thing your Black Art didn’t put a muzzle on you. I reckon all sorts of colorful things come out of that mouth.”
I move to sit in the chair, acutely aware of the empty space on my thigh where my blade usually rests.
He reaches for a small box partially tucked under one of the pillows and slides it open before presenting it to me. “Helps to take away the nausea from the trip,” he encourages, jiggling the box as if it were a jar of dog biscuits.
I don’t partake in smoking herbs often, only on occasion when Eldridge and I are gossiping like little old ladies after a particularly long day. It’s a delicacy I could definitely use right now, but he’s a goddess-damned fool if he thinks I’m going to trust whatever is rolled up inside those leaves. I wave him and his box off.
He slides the top closed and tosses the carton back onto the couch with a shrug of his shoulders. There’s a tear in the fabric there, a coin-sized hole along the shoulder seam, and it’s then I notice how much the king’s attire matches the disarray of the room. The laces of his tunic are pulled loose, his pants littered with dark spots around the tops of his thighs as if he wipes his hands there frequently, soiling them with tobacco, ink, and burnt herbs.
It's now I understand that Torin never had any intention of meeting with the Black Art. Not dressed like that.
Fuck. I should have attacked before the guard magicked himself away. Wrestled the stone from his hand, figured out how to work the damn thing, and whisked myself back.
Back to the tiny isle that is now holding two commanders and one very pissed-off shifter.
“I hope you have a replacement lined up for… Rory, was it?”
“Your Black Art won’t touch him,” he says, and I snort. Actually snort.
“You stole something that belongs to him. I’d say that’s an act of war if I ever saw one.”
Torin leans back, extending one arm to rest along the back of the couch. Far too casual for someone who surely has two guards being ripped to shreds right now.
“Do you believe that?” he asks, an air of thoughtfulness in his tone.
I itch to cross my legs, but the metal around my ankles prevents me. Instead, I shift in the chair, angling myself towards the door—the one and only exit. Physical exit, at least. Not that I can fight my way out of here. My chains are supposed to be iron forged. I wouldn’t exactly be selling that facade if I combust half the crew with magic and use their innards to strangle the other half. “Are you suggesting this was not an act of war at all, and that you simply wanted to have tea and biscuits with me, Your Highness?”
A soft laugh, one that seeps into my pores and sours my blood. “Do you believe that you belong to him?” he clarifies.
His question ignites an instinctual spark, one that sends every hair on my body snapping to attention. His question was guarded, so I give him a guarded answer. “These chains don’t afford me the option to have that choice.”
Torin ponders that for a moment, fiddling the cigar between his fingers before bringing it to his lips and taking another deep pull. Blowing out the smoke, he sets it on a small tray and rises. I watch him carefully, and when he begins to approach me, I shift so I’m no longer angled away from him, instead choosing to meet him head-on. I expect him to stop a few paces away from me, but he doesn’t. Without hesitation, I spring to my feet, and Torin doesn’t stop until he’s only a few inches from me. I will the magic stirring in my palms to calm, to remain tucked inside my flesh.
“And if you didn’t have these chains?” he asks quietly, his soft tone out-of-place in the sharp-cornered room.
“Are you going to take them off me and find out?” I ask, playing my role as the Black Art’s feral pet while my brain somersaults for a plan.
Torin reaches out and runs a finger down the length of the chain that trails through the valley of my breasts, and I bite back a snarl. Now is not the time to antagonize. Not when the only weapon I have at my disposal is the forbidden magic that is supposed to be suffocated by iron.
“Not yet. Not when you owe me nothing to make you reconsider killing me, and we haven’t yet gotten to know one another.”
I look pointedly to where his finger continues to lazily trace the chain down my belly. “I’m afraid we don’t have time to become well acquainted, unless you wish to sentence every man on this ship to a brutal death. The Black Art is a covetous man, Your Highness. He doesn’t like when others feed his pet.” I coat the words in venom, feigning hatred for the shifter king.
“Awfully confident in a man that no longer possesses the one thing that grants him his station. A Black Art reigning without the goddess’s blessing?” Torin purses his lips, canting his head to the side. “Believe me when I say I’ve ransacked my library, sent others to search the archives for records of such a thing occurring in the past, and you know what we discovered, sweet belladonna flower?”
“Lots of dusty books, I presume,” I answer with a sweet smile, hoping my rising panic is isolated to my gut and absent from my expression.
He knows. How does he fucking know?
Torin drops my chain and raises a hand to make a motion of sweeping off a desk. “Nothing,” he breathes. “Not a single record of it occurring before, and such a curiosity that is, wouldn’t you agree?” Lowering his hand, he turns and paces the quarters, and I shift closer to his desk when his back is turned. If there’s another stone that can activate the causeway, surely Torin would keep it in his room. Unless… dread trails a glacial finger down my spine.
Unless he’s keeping it on his person.
Maybe that’s what that godsdamned monstrosity of a crown is hiding on his head.
“Almost as much of a curiosity as why the Black Art would have confided such a thing to a foreign king.” I keep my voice controlled, disguising my bait as merely a penchant for knowledge of my captor.
“As if Singard Kilbreth would ever share such an embarrassment. Having his power ripped away by elves?” He tsks softly to himself. “I suppose the elves are hardly to blame, given they had no way of defending themselves against my impressive force without it.” Torin shrugs, as if truly satisfied with his show of wealth that night. The same one that led to hundreds of casualties, took my brother’s arm, and nearly got both Sin and me killed.
He turns when he reaches the end of the room and paces back towards me. His leather shoes barely clack as he walks, the wooden soles weathered and worn. “The stone General Marlowe carries is magicked so that only his touch can open the causeway that leads to here. His living touch,” he amends. “But given the Black Art’s impulsive and violent tendencies, I am inclined to make this quick. Aeverie was quite clear about what transpired in her letter. Clever, that high priestess is. Stabbing the wayward king when he was already wounded.” Torin tsks some more, his head shaking with each click of his tongue.
Venom simmers behind my teeth. She sold us out.
“When I read the letter, it suddenly made sense why the shifter king was so intent on keeping you alive. What is a dark mage without his dark magic?” He asks the question thoughtfully, his brown eyes distant, as if seeing something far outside this room.
Fucking hell. I’m not exactly dressed for murdering a king and his entire crew, but I’ll make do.
Torin huffs once without laughter, then begins to circle me. Slowly. Studying me like one of his beloved tomes in the archives. “I can guarantee you that he has every mage at his disposal searching for a way to transfer your magic to him, so that he can kill you and keep the best part for himself. But don’t fret, my belladonna flower. I haven’t brought you here for the reason you’re thinking. I’m sure you have overheard your shifter king say a great deal of things about me, many of which may be true, but where he can only offer you a lifetime of servitude or death, I can offer you something infinitely better.”
“Oh?” My pitch reiterates my skepticism.
Torin completes his orbit and faces me once more, a tight smile carved into his lips. “A partnership.” He pauses, probably for dramatic effect, the pompous fuck , then continues. “You bring me the elven dagger that holds the goddess’s power, help me break its enchantment, and I’ll secure your freedom.”
His words click into place, one after the other, each one sinking my nausea deeper into my gut. Torin doesn’t want my power. He wants Sin’s.
I work very, very hard to keep my expression neutral. “Do you expect me to just walk up and ask them for it, then?”
“Something tells me you are quite capable of getting what you want,” he replies, his lazy grin replaced with a much more serious set to his jaw. “But so long as you’re a slave to those chains, I suggest you sidle up to someone who knows where that dagger is. Bring it to the waystone. I advise you find a way to lose your iron so you may touch your magic to the causeway, and I’ll meet you there. Once the enchantment is cracked, we will return to seize the isle, and I will personally ensure you are retrieved from the dungeons before we take Scarwood. Then I will offer you residency in Baelliarah.
“It would be a new start for you. No one will know who, or what you are. So long as you keep those pretty teeth sheathed, belladonna. You would be free to find your own accommodations, but you might find you’d prefer to remain in the castle with me, and I”—he coughs—“I wouldn’t object to that, either.”
He wants me to betray Sin. And why wouldn’t I leap at the opportunity to ruin the Black Art? I set fire to his castle, captured him, used him as a bargaining chip against his own kingdom, then aided the elves in stealing his magic. Aided. It did not escape my notice that Torin mentioned Aeverie’s letter suggested she was the one to plunge the dagger into Sin’s chest.
Torin knows Sin is without his blessing, and the high priestess allowed us to come here without a word that she had already revealed this weakness. Rust washes out my mouth, and I swallow my magic down.
I raise my chin, looking every bit the part of someone considering his offer. “How do you intend on breaking the enchantment? You’re mundane, and I can’t say I’ve done it before.”
“I have an ally,” is all he says.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but if you expect me to risk crossing the dark mage, goddess-blessed or not, I’m going to need some kind of guarantee you have the know-how to make it worth my efforts.”
“Fair enough.” His reply comes too quickly, expecting my push-back. Torin prowls to the side table and retrieves his cigar, plopping it between his lips and inhaling. “Tell me, belladonna, are you familiar with seers?”
Only that divination is a reclusive magic, one gifted by Saiya, the goddess of shadow, death, and the in-between. Seering is a finicky art, one that requires extensive study and practice. One misguided interpretation can have kings altering battle tactics, chaos erupting where it does not belong, and paths intertwining that should have never veered together.
There is one reason mages stay far away from seering magic, and it’s the same reason others become obsessed with it. Divination is as close to altering fate as one can be, and the risk of pissing off the gods is not one most are eager to take. But with that kind of risk, also comes some of the greatest power in the realm.
For many, possession of that kind of magic is worth taunting the wrath of the gods. I’ve read about a few seers in old tomes—all men. Which makes perfect sense because women would never be that stupid.
I don’t reveal any of that. Instead, I merely answer, “A little.”
“Think of them as eyes,” he begins. “You and I, we see what’s in front of us with the two eyes in our heads. Seers… see so much more. A third eye, so to speak. Fortunately for us, belladonna, I happen to know one that I trust very much. She’s been keeping an”—he purses his lips as he searches for a word—“ eye on things for me.” He chuckles to himself, as if genuinely finding his pun amusing.
She. Interesting. Apparently there is one woman stupid enough. “She’ll foresee any tricks the shifter king might have up his sleeve. It’s quite wondrous, how she’ll be able to squirm into his mind and see through his eyes as if she plucked them straight from his head.”
Worry spreads through me like liquid iron. I don’t let it show.
“And how do you know that what she tells you she sees is actually true?”
He spears me with his stare. His expression remains neutral, but his lips pucker slightly as if rolling his tongue behind his teeth. “Because I know where her heart and her loyalty lie.”
Oh. She’s fucking him.
He reaches his empty hand to tuck a piece of loose hair behind my ear. He doesn’t stop there, his fingers moving to caress the back of my head as he takes one step closer, closing the remaining distance between us. “Just as she will know where your loyalty lies should you refuse my offer. I fear our time is coming to a close. Rory was to promise I’d have you returned in three minutes, and I reckon we’re fast approaching that. So, what will it be, belladonna? A lifetime in chains while the Black Art studies how to make you his personal siphon slut, or a partnership with me where you will be treated with decency?”
Every fiber of my being yearns to strike him. This betrayal, while entirely feigned on my end, settles in my gut like tar. Heavy. Wrong .
But the bloodwitch would see it differently. The Black Art’s plaything would be leaping to sink her teeth and nails into such a prospect. She’d never turn this down.
And so I don’t.
“I will need time. I don’t know where the dagger is being kept, let alone how to get it into my possession without anyone noticing. But I’m a quick learner, and my aim is true. If it resorts to that.” Truth rings clear in my words, because I don’t lie. I have no idea where the dagger is, and my aim puts most soldiers to shame.
Torin curls his fingers through my hair, tugging it just enough to elicit a mild sting, and I jerk my chin up, forging my eyes into liquid steel. He moves to hold his hand in front of my face, a single white strand pinched between his fingers. The king rolls my hair lazily between his pads as he grins down at it. “It is said that only a bloodwitch possesses the ability to pry into another’s collective. This, belladonna, will be the perfect conduit for her to weasel her way into the shifter king’s collective. When she’s able to channel, she’ll be able to glimpse life just as he sees it through his own eyes.”
He drops his hand, then takes one final pull of his cigar, watching me intensely through the haze of smoke between us. “I look forward to our alliance. Just one more thing.” His mouth chases my ear, and the last thing I remember is the lung-clogging smell of tobacco and earth when he blows out a final plume of smoke against my cheek. “There is no fury like that of a crossed king.”
And that’s when the earth gives out.