Chapter 43 Toran
Toran
Toran sat on the floor, his back against the wall in Loriana’s old room.
It wasn’t her room anymore. New guests had arrived, the yellow trunk under the window evidence of that. But whoever was staying in this room wasn’t here now.
This would be the last time.
The last time he would enter this room and think of her. The last time he would come here to be with her. Loriana was dead. And this time, thanks to Nes’s magic, she was truly gone.
He rolled the bottle of Kave rum he’d stolen from Kohen’s room between his feet, the glass making a soft clicking sound every time it hit the uneven stone. He hadn’t opened the bottle. He’d just…wanted to hold it. Wanted to feel the weight of the liquor in his hands.
Nes’s drowning had been scheduled for three days from now. Three whole days.
It was a big deal, the King had told him. To have the real Witch. They were to build a new Witch’s Well near the Prime Fountain for what was to be a very public drowning. The people of Orlonea, King Harkett said, deserved the chance to share in their victory.
He didn’t care about victory. He just wanted it over with. He wanted to put this whole thing behind him. The longer it was drawn out, the more his brain tried to reconcile Nes, the girl he’d willingly slept beside, with Nes the Witch. He didn’t want to reconcile the two.
There had only ever been the Witch, anyway.
The bottle of rum rolled to a stop against the instep of his left foot. It was nearly as cold as the floor beneath him.
Winter had dug its claws deep into the city.
An ice storm had come through overnight.
He’d woken this morning to find the trees and fields surrounding the castle crystallized.
Ice coated every branch and blade of grass for as far as he could see.
He welcomed it, feeling as if the ice had formed a layer over his heart while he’d slept.
A layer that would thicken over time. And once it did, he wouldn’t let it crack again.
He picked up the bottle of rum and pushed to his feet. He turned slowly, taking in the room, the memories overflowing from the furniture. And then he left.
Toran closed the door, leaving his first love on the other side.
He meandered down the hall and up several sets of stairs until he came to a different bedroom door. His door.
He’d had a room in the castle since Fell first brought him here.
It was just as he’d left it. Stacks of books in the corner, pillows piled high on the bed, the hooks on the wall where he sometimes laid Cavallis to rest bare, dark curtains spread wide for him to glimpse the training fields beyond the glass.
Indeed, through the window, he could make out several recruits running laps—their heads held high, their chests puffed out.
Now that he’d proven himself to the King, he’d be expected to pick new members for his legion.
It would be a new start. And this time, he’d be smarter.
He’d do everything in his power to keep those recruits alive.
He turned away from the window and surveyed his bedroom again. It had been a year since he’d last set foot in here.
What a difference a year could make.
He glanced down at the bottle of rum cradled in his palm. The label was tearing in a corner, setting a course to slash right on through the elegant script naming the liquor. A shame. He had hoped to return it to Kohen unmarred.
He stared at the label, at the name in the center, then beyond the bottle altogether, to the wooden posts framing the canopy bed.
A year had left the room quite dusty, dust coating even the vertical bedposts.
Bottle still clutched in his left hand, he ran the fingers of his right down the grain of the nearest bedpost, collecting dust beneath his fingerprints.
His middle finger snagged on a spot in the wood, and he pulled his hand back.
A splinter, dark and thin, poked from the pad of his middle finger.
Blood oozed from where it had stuck him, but he did not move to clean it, didn’t try to pluck the splinter from his finger.
It was the same spot—the exact same spot as the last splinter he’d gotten—and suddenly, he remembered.
He’d made it to the top. All the way up to the rafters of the ballroom and the window where he and his team could escape the Tordaza palace.
Malia had been close behind him, her grip on the rope firm as she moved.
Toran had snagged his finger on the wood of the rafters then, a large splinter jutting from the skin of his middle finger.
And then beyond his splintered finger, beyond the rafters, that had been when he’d spotted her on the ground below him.
Her dark brows were arched with challenge above eyes as green as a budding wheat field. Eyes that bored into him beneath her hood. He stumbled back from the bedpost.
He knew those eyes.
The liquor bottle fell from his hands. Hit stone but didn’t break.
Perhaps he was the one breaking now.
No. He would never forget the features of the archer who’d shot down his friends. He knew those dark brows.
And he’d seen them recently. Had seen them furrow with determination and twist with fear in the low light of the city tunnels. Saw the green eyes of that Aeosch archer reflected back at him as Nes struggled on the floor of the cavern.
Grabbing the rum by the neck of the bottle, he raced from the room and ran smack into Genna. “What are you doing here?”
“Where are you going?” she countered.
“The dungeon.”
Genna shook her head. “You need to get out of here.”
But he wasn’t listening. He saw the Aeosch archer nock an arrow over and over and over again. Saw her raise those brows at him in challenge.
“She was there,” he breathed to Genna. Aside from Quint—who was still recovering—Genna was the only person he trusted now. “In Aeos. I knew she seemed familiar when I saw her at the Siren’s Hair, but I didn’t realize until now—”
“Toran, are you listening to me?”
“Genna, I am, but I figured it out. I knew she was familiar.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “It was Suri. My mission to Aeos—she was in the group that attacked my legion. She killed them. She’s an Aeosch spy!”
Genna pushed his arms down. “It doesn’t matter.”
There was a finality to her tone, and his excitement hitched. “What do you mean?”
Genna looked for all the world like she’d rather be anywhere but in front of him, relaying bad news. “Suri’s gone. She escaped her cell.”
Gone. That one word awakened a beast inside him, tearing through his excitement and sinking claws into his hope.
Toran yanked the cork from the bottle of rum and slung back two shots’ worth. The liquor burned his throat as if he’d gotten too close to a hearth, but he pressed on. The burn was a reminder. And it only fueled him.
He’d had his legion’s murderer. She’d been right there, under his nose the whole time. Now she was gone.
He took another swig from the bottle. He would track her down. Track her down and kill her himself. He’d caught the Witch. Surely a single spy couldn’t be that much more difficult.
The next time he saw Suri, it’d be his arrow in her back.
“But that isn’t important right now,” Genna said, grabbing his wrist and yanking him out of his thoughts of revenge. “We have to hide you.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned down at her. “Hide? Why?”
“Guards. They’re coming to arrest you.” Genna bit her lip. “Someone left Captain Fell’s body at the castle gate. I don’t care if it’s true, but they say you’re the one who killed him.”
No sooner had she spoken the words, a dozen guards turned the corner, heading straight for them. For him.
Toran stepped forward. He wouldn’t run and hide from this.
“What seems to be the problem?”
None of the guards answered him. Several filed past until the group had formed a secure circle around him, cutting Genna out. He waited, gaze bouncing off the nearest guards. Some he knew, others he didn’t. From between two guards, a new figure emerged. Toran straightened in an instant.
The man was bald with a light brushing of hair across his jawline and straight brows blanketing his hard cerulean eyes. He was nearly as tall as Quint, though not as muscular. If the man were a tree, he’d be a tall, slim pine—standing firm and harsh against winter’s onslaught.
In stiff movements, the man stepped forward and pulled the bottle of rum from Toran’s clenched hand. He lifted it to eye level, measuring the liquid left inside. As he lowered it, his eyes shifted to Toran.
“Drinking again?” he asked. “The King will be so disappointed in you. I warned him against giving you a second chance.”
Toran tried not to fidget, tried not to look anywhere but at the man before him. “Extenuating circumstances,” he said. “Celebratory times. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Kendrik?”
If Toran had a mirror that allowed him to peer into the future, he would see Kendrik. Sir Kendrik was King Harkett’s advisor and, once upon a time, when the King had been but a young prince, his Crown. Kendrik was what Toran would become if he lost to Kohen in the Crown Duel.
Kendrik neither nodded nor shook his head. He only continued to stare at Toran.
“Tell me,” Kendrik said and plucked something from the pocket of his pristine jacket. “Do you recognize this?”
Toran sucked in a breath. Between his fingers, Kendrik held Loriana’s engagement ring.
Kendrik’s face didn’t change, didn’t hint at a single emotion as he said, “Yes, I thought you would. I knew it was familiar the moment a guard pulled it from the neck of Captain Fell’s corpse.”
Toran kept his lips shut tight. Whatever he might say would only damn him further.
Kendrik stepped closer. “There was a note pinned to the body. The first half suggested we search your things for a certain knife belonging to Captain Fell. A good suggestion, it turned out, as not only did we find such a knife, but the shape of the blade and the wound on Captain Fell’s back were also a match.
We didn’t need the ring, too. But I wanted the confirmation.
I do appreciate your cooperation, Crown. ”
Toran swallowed. “Do you know who left the body?”
“I don’t,” Kendrik said. “But that isn’t my concern. Whoever it was took great pains to make sure we knew you were the one who killed Captain Fell. It seems you’ve made quite the enemy, Toran.”
Dread washed over him like a curling wave, a hidden current beneath the water dragging him under. His heartbeat was in his ears and his breaths came too fast. No one was supposed to know.
“Arrest him.”
At Kendrik’s command, the circle of guards tightened, and Toran’s hands were bound behind his back. Kendrik turned away.
“Wait!”
The King’s advisor paused, craned his neck to look over his shoulder.
Toran pushed forward. “What did the rest of the note say?”
Kendrik turned fully then. And this time, mild interest sparked in his eyes. “The rest?”
“You said the first half told you about the knife. What did the second half say?”
Kendrik studied him. It was all Toran could do to breathe before Kendrik answered.
“It said, ‘I’m taking you with me.’ ”