Chapter 8 #2
I bit my lip anxiously, before continuing doggedly, “So, to clarify, you believe Devereaux wants to force the Keeper’s heir to spill whatever secret might harm the council—and then kill them?
” I could see a gaping problem in this logic.
“Won’t the council realize Devereaux did this and come after him? ”
Casimir shrugged. “They would probably discover Devereaux’s betrayal eventually, but not before he unearthed their secret.”
I nodded pensively. Secrets were power. Leverage. And killing the Heir was certainly an effective way to cover his tracks. Devereaux’s cruel calculation was apparent in every aspect of this plot.
“What about the Queen?” I asked. “How does she fit into all of this?”
“Queen Nymara Pax was the first Daemon in living memory to openly experiment with bloodmagic. She rose to power because of it, and then decreed that bloodmagic was forbidden to all others. She wanted to ensure she remained the most powerful among us, and so she forbade the practice or knowledge of it. Only softmagic—glamours, as we call them—are permitted. You might think this sounds like a generous policy, but I assure you, it’s anything but.
Most Daemons don’t have access to the kind of softmagic that the Order wields.
Siphoners, Bloodweavers, Morphers—they’re very rare among our kind. ”
“Do you think the secret has something to do with Nymara, then?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past the council to keep something up their sleeves when it comes to her.”
“Devereaux must despise her,” I said, watching Casimir’s reaction closely. “I mean, she resides on the throne that was his true birthright.”
His face was carefully void of emotion, but something smoldered behind his eyes as he replied, “Devereaux held no love for Caladryn. And he has no mercy for anyone who stands between him and his claim to the throne, family or no.”
I considered this. All at once, the nature of our conversation struck me as utterly absurd.
Casimir stared at me in bewilderment. “Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just—it sounds like you’re living out the plot to some Medieval fairy tale,” I explained.
“More like a Greek tragedy,” he grumbled.
“There are no gods here,” I pointed out.
Casimir smiled at that. “Nor heroes,” he agreed.
“And—you’re not helping Devereaux search for the heir?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
His expression went cold. “Why would you even ask me that?”
“It’s a fair question,” I argued. “You both hate the Queen. Don’t bother denying it, I saw the look on your face when you spoke about her. You may decide not to give me all the details, but I’m not an idiot.”
In the flickering candlelight of the Grotto, Casimir’s golden brown skin appeared unusually pale. “Don’t speak about things you don’t understand,” he ground out.
“What did she do to you?” I asked, more gently this time. “Were you exiled from Ethervale as well?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “All you need to know is that I would never help Devereaux, even if we loathe the same ruler.”
“Prove it,” I challenged.
His answering expression was full of ironic contempt. “Just as you’re unable to demonstrate your abilities to detect liars, I have no way of proving my loyalty.”
“Try honesty,” I snapped, my temper rising in spite of myself.
His shoulders were stiff and coiled with tension.
He seemed to waver over his decision, and then the words tumbled out all at once.
“Twenty-two years ago, Devereaux staged a rebellion against Nymara Pax, hoping to reclaim his rightful place on the throne,” he said, the words coming out in a harsh, almost guttural rasp.
“I was fourteen… I didn’t want any part in it.
It wasn’t my choice. I did it for someone else.
But that was before Devereaux ruined everything. It was unforgivable.”
Anguish distorted his features before he averted his eyes, as if he didn’t want me seeing whatever darkness lurked within. When he finally lifted his gaze to mine, my breath caught in my throat. Warm amber had been replaced by a fathomless dark that spoke of untold agonies.
Speaking about this most traumatic incident had shattered his impenetrable facade, rendering him uncharacteristically fragile. A raw nerve exposed to the surface.
“Devereaux betrayed me in the worst way someone can,” he went on. “He promised to protect her and then he reneged on our agreement. The worst part of it was that nothing I did made any difference in the end.” He gave a short, humorless laugh that made my blood curdle.
“Who did he fail to protect?” I breathed.
Casimir pressed two fingers to his forehead and closed his eyes before he replied. “Someone I loved.”
He didn’t need to speak the truth aloud for me to read it etched in every line of his agonized expression. “Can you tell me about them?” I asked tentatively.
“No,” he ground out, his expression abruptly hostile. Closed off. “I—” He struggled for words. “She was the only person I needed to keep safe, and Devereaux—he was reckless. Out for blood. He’s partly to blame for what happened to her.”
I stared at Casimir, who, in the span of a few moments, had shed his carefully collected mask to reveal the grieving shell of a man.
His vulnerability was the thing that put me over the edge.
For now, this display was enough for me to trust him, even if I couldn’t taste his lies.
He fought to compose himself, dragging a furious hand through his hair, and before I could do more than give a gasp of shock, he yanked off his jacket and began tugging at his shirt-sleeve.
My eyes landed on a ghastly scar branded into the underside of his left bicep.
Harsh red lines formed the shape of an eye.
??
Pinkish-red and inflamed painfully, it was the kind of scar that only resulted from searing human flesh.
“Casimir,” I began warily, “what’s that mark on your arm?”
Glancing down at the brand, he gave a short, humorless laugh that made my blood run cold. “It’s called the Moros. It was given to me as punishment for past transgressions. A reminder that they are always watching.”
“Who are they?”
He didn’t answer, but as my eyes traced down the length of his arm, I realized there was another symbol, this one in the shape of an inverted V.
Λ
“This one is a Threxian rune,” he explained, not meeting my gaze as he tugged the sleeve back down, concealing the scars once more. “It’s the Ethervalean rune for ‘burden.’ It means I owe someone a debt.” Like the eye branded into his bicep, the Threxian rune appeared painfully red and inflamed.
Drawing his gold case and lighter from his pocket, he placed a cigarette to his lips and lit it with trembling fingers. For once, I held my tongue.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. “I don’t like talking about this, Farrow.”
I let him smoke for several minutes before resuming my interrogation. “Who branded you with the eye—the Moros?”
He looked at me for a long moment, and then stamped out his cigarette on the velvet seat. “What does it matter?”
“It matters.” When he did not reply, I switched tactics. “What did Devereaux do during the rebellion to put your loved one in danger?”
He shook his head. “Next.”
“But you didn’t ans—”
“Next.”
I gnashed my teeth together in frustration. “Okay, fine. Then tell me why Nymara’s name isn’t plastered all over your forehead? I’m assuming she’s the one who branded you.”
I expected Casimir to scowl, but he huffed a laugh instead.
“Aside from the fact that it would be incredibly impractical? Names aren’t often used to enshrine bloodbargains.
Symbols or runes are much more common. Your tattoo, on the other hand—” his gaze dipped lower and he smirked “—that was my own little addition. I thought it might be amusing.” He grinned. “I was right.”
“You—” I spluttered. “You fucking bastard!” And before I could stop myself, I was hurling an empty bottle at his head.
He dodged it with ease. “You wanted to know,” he said with a shrug, tamping out the half-finished cigarette. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
“Remove my tattoo, now.”
“I told you, it won’t come off until—”
“Until the bargain ends?” I cut in. “Why don’t you just end it now!
That way I won’t have to see you again.” I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing.
My skin prickled, as if in response to my anger.
His audacity was infuriating! He thought he could just mark me without my consent, like I was his property, and get away with it?
“You’re being ridiculous, Farrow,” he reasoned. “You already knew the tattoos would remain until the end of our agreem—”
“Yeah.” I whirled around, my vision going hazy with fury. “But I didn’t realize your name being tattooed on my skin was a choice you made! Why not use a runic symbol instead?” I knew I sounded petulant, arguing over the semantics of a magical mark, but I didn’t care.
“Are we really arguing about this?” he deadpanned. “And here I was thinking, you wanted to help August above all else. Can’t swallow your pride long enough to save him?”
“How dare—” I began, but Casimir interrupted.
“Decide now. Do you want to work with me or not?” His eyebrow was arched defiantly, daring me to walk away. “You have until tomorrow morning to make up your mind.”
And with that, he stood and left the Grotto, leaving me with only the remains of my anger and the uncomfortable prickling of my skin in the dilapidated chapel.
Casimir cornered me the next morning in the Labyrinth.