Chapter Fifty One
The High Wielders
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Dracyg Dominion, Zarynth.
Gedeon.
Concealed in his shadows and perched on the back of the carriage, Gedeon watched Dracyg Dominion pass by him. Nothing about the city felt like home anymore. He idly wondered if it ever had.
They trundled over the cobblestones, the people awake in the early hours of the morning paying them little mind. They had witnessed this precession countless times before, after all.
Slave imports from the Agni Lands were by no means a new development.
Gedeon somewhat resented those city dwellers now. Safe in their homes, their ankles and wrists free from the chains that bound most of the nation. Ignorant of the pain and torture that the desert-born Zarynthians endured, whilst sitting comfortably in certain freedom.
The resentment was merely a mirror unto himself.
It was immediately stifled when his gaze fell upon The Flaming Falcon.
Still standing and teeming with patrons as it once had, with no sign that the refuge beneath had been discovered.
He would have to tell Sunsi when he returned to Phaenon, that for now, the Base remained out of the crown’s pernicious grasp.
Down a lane left of the Black Castle, the carriage reached the barracks and came to a stop. Silently, Gedeon moved away from the barred doors and watched as two slavers removed Kyra from within, holding her limp body between them.
Gut twisting at the sight of her like that, Gedeon followed them into the shallow building.
Never had he visited the barracks before. Never had he bothered to learn what became of his students once they were moved from the castle as fledglings, to here, as full wielders. If he had done so, he would have learned the truth of his mother’s army a lot sooner.
Sunsi had berated him for that once.
The barracks were no more than a detention camp.
The wielders' rooms no more than cells, twisted iron separating him from them.
It smelt like a privy. He recognised some of his ex-students, many of them grown into young men and women.
However, the number of them not present far outweighed the number that were.
Gedeon knew what had become of the ones that weren’t.
The soldiers dropped Kyra in a cell of her own, then hastily locked the door on her, as though they could not bear to be in such a place longer than necessary.
After easily swiping the key from the unsuspecting soldier’s belt, Gedeon crouched by Kyra’s cell and waited.
Once the soldiers disappeared from view, he dropped his shadows.
His magic was already depleting, and he needed every ounce of it if they were to come out of this alive.
None had recognised him in the Agni Lands, but his face was known here.
It was why he had chosen his shadows instead of an alias.
Without his darkness, they would be vulnerable.
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Kyra.
Kyra woke to the smell of shit and piss.
Her body felt as though she’d done a few rounds in the Arc without a break. Stiff and aching, without a hint of magic sparkling in her blood.
Whatever potion Gedeon had shoved down her throat had been potent enough to still have a hold on her power. Not ideal to be without it, in this place of all places. A dragon’s nest might have been safer.
Good morning, Sunshine.
Head pounding, Kyra heaved herself to a seated position. Gedeon was staring at her through iron bars, a small smile on his lips.
I feel fucking horrible, she moaned, pressing cold fingers to her temples in an attempt to alleviate the pressure.
That potion is nasty. I am sorry, for my part. I could not have refused the order.
I don’t care. They had made it into Dracyg without being caught. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore. Rosary had never been closer. She gripped the bars and pulled herself up to standing. Where are we? Is Rosary in here?
Iron clanked as Gedeon turned a key in the lock. We are in the Wielders barracks. Rosary is unlikely to be here. In truth, I cannot be sure where she would be, but the castle dungeons would be a good place to start.
The door swung open, the hinges whining.
How far?
Not long.
Then, let’s go.
‘Kyra.’
Her name on his lips, out loud, sent a shiver up her spine. She looked up at him and hissed, ‘What?’
‘You must prepare yourself for what you might see.’ Regret glittered in his eyes. ‘Your sister may not be alive.’
Not even for a millisecond did Kyra let those words settle. ‘She is alive,’ she whispered furiously. ‘I know she is.’
As though he was pulling on a cloak, Gedeon’s arms whipped around them, casting them into darkness. A large, surprisingly calloused hand wove itself into Kyra’s. She flinched, wanting to pull away, but her vision was now clear, with the bearer of those dense shadows permitting her sight.
Gedeon’s fingers seemed to tighten around hers. I hope you’re right.
Soon, Rosary would be with them.
Soon, Gedeon’s darkness would cover not two, but three as they escaped into the night. She had to believe that. With everything that she was.
The alternative could not cross her mind.
A rain slick, gravelled path led them around the back of the mighty Black Castle.
It was an infrastructure not of beauty, but magnificence.
It was taller than Avaldale’s Citadel, a spiked, uneven crown whose spires looked to be as sharp as the tip of a blade.
Made entirely, by the looks of it, of the hardened rock that was contrived from cooling lava.
The path dove down toward a gate of congregated iron that appeared to lead under the castle. It swung inward as they approached. Abruptly, Gedeon stopped.
‘What?’ Kyra demanded. He was wasting time.
Unease lay thick on his face. ‘Where are the sentries? They should be here.’
‘Isn’t it a good thing that they’re not?’ Kyra said impatiently. ‘Please, Gedeon. We have to keep moving. She’s here, I know it.’
He gave a slow, not entirely convinced nod, and they pressed on. The gate clanged shut behind them.
Facing a dank tunnel that reeked of death, Kyra let go of Gedeon’s hand. Large brackets of blazing fire were spread evenly against the walls, casting its light into each and every cell.
Cells with people barely clinging to life. Cells with centuries old skeletons. Cells with corpses whose flesh had been gnawed at by something with little sharp teeth. Cells with people who had lost their minds, uttering the same words to themselves. Over and over and over again.
There were no sentries on guard down here either.
It was then that Kyra knew that Gedeon had been right. ‘It’s too easy,’ she whispered.
Gedeon didn’t reply. Which somehow made her feel worse.
Her pace through the tunnels quickened. Their swift footsteps echoed, the only sound in this place of the damned. It taunted her, warping in her ears like laughter.
Every time Kyra saw long hair, her heart leapt. But it was never Rosary.
Bile stung the back of her throat as despair threatened to envelope her.
What if she wasn’t here? What if she was already dead? What if Naal had been right, and it had all been a ploy to get her here?
What if she had led Gedeon and herself to their doom?
They passed another cell. There was a woman within, curled up against the wall, facing away from them.
Kyra’s legs almost gave way.
‘Rosary!’ Her hands clawed the bars that separated them. ‘The lock, Gedeon, the lock! My magic isn’t back… the lock!’
Fire surged from Gedeon’s fingers to the bars, melting the metal, and Kyra practically fell through the door as it swung, dropping to her knees at Rosary’s side.
That once curvaceous, full figure was now just a bony frame for sallow, beaten skin. Kyra tentatively pulled back the lank, bloodied hair from Rosary’s ashen face, and it was an enormous effort to not lose all control of herself at the bloody mess where her ear should have been.
Breath, however shallow and inconsistent, seeped in and out of Rosary’s mouth.
Alive.
‘Rose,’ Kyra managed to croak. ‘Can you hear me?’
Slowly, Rosary lifted her head. Bloodshot amber eyes stared at her. A half laugh, half sob retched from Kyra as she cupped her friend’s face with joy.
Alive.
Freezing, spindly fingers closed around Kyra’s wrist.
‘It’s me, Rose, it’s… it’s Kyra.’ Her voice shook. ‘Can you stand? I’m getting you out of-’
‘Kyra?’ she whispered. ‘Kyra.’ She began to cry. Then, as though a memory had abruptly surfaced, sheer panic stole over her gaunt face. ‘No… no! Kyra, you can’t be here!’
Rosary squeezed her eyes shut and clapped a hand over her remaining ear.
‘We came for you, Rose. I won’t leave without you,’ Kyra implored. ‘You have to come with us, please-’
Fervently shaking her head, Rosary attempted to wrestle out of Kyra’s grip.
Through panicked sobs, she said, ‘You shouldn’t have come!
She’ll know! She’ll know, Kyra! Please, please!
You have to go! Leave me behind, she’ll know, she’ll-’ She stilled, eyes flying open.
Beadlets like morning dew clung to her eyelashes as her pupils dilated with terror. ‘She knows.’
‘Who knows, Rosary?’
‘No, no, no…’ Rosary sobbed, clawing at her own skull. ‘Get out… get out, get out, get out!’
Kyra turned hopelessly to Gedeon, only to find he was no longer in the cell.
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Gedeon.
The tunnels were infested with horned creatures of nightmares.
They bore down upon Gedeon, black gloved hands wielding no weapon but the foreign magic pulsing through their blood.
Their shadows loomed on the walls, a counterpart to the wretched evil within.
A darkness untrue, unnatural, not like the star studded black of night.
High Wielders. Crawling toward him from both directions.
Gedeon wreathed his arms in flames.
The High Wielders pressed in. He stroked the damp ground, drawing a circle of fire around him. It sputtered and sizzled against the moisture, and he willed more of himself into the flames, letting it roar waist height. A blockade between himself and these abominable creatures.
Just shy of the blaze, one of them removed his helmet. Gedeon recognised him from his years at court. Armand Hossean, a close friend of Sekun. A noble who had apparently jumped at the chance to join the legions.
‘Hossean,’ Gedeon said coldly. Any male who called himself a friend of Sekun was, in Gedeon’s eyes, severely short of intelligence. ‘I’ve always thought you a parasite, but now it seems you have actually become one.’
Whatever the procedure for devouring someone else’s magic was, the body clearly did not respond to it well.
Hossean’s once square, traditionally handsome face was now a labyrinth of streaking black veins.
‘We can exchange insults for hours, Gedeon, traitor prince,’ he goaded.
‘I can wait, for in time your magic will fail.’
Gedeon would have to burn them all to clear the way. But if he did that, his power would diminish instantly. It was already ebbing.
Hossean exclaimed, ‘Rosary, come hither, darling.’
Behind Gedeon, a struggle ensued. He dared not look, dared not take his eyes away from Hossean and his depraved entourage.
‘Rose, no! Are you insane?’ Kyra hissed vehemently. A scuffle and a slam of a body on stone followed. ‘She’s not going anywhere. Leave her the fuck alone.’
Her friend whimpered, ‘Kyra, please…’
Armand Hossean’s dead eyes gleamed with power. ‘Rosary, darling. Stop breathing.’
The sound of choking swiftly filled the tunnels.
‘Rose…’ Kyra’s terrified voice sliced through it. ‘Rosary! Stop… Rose! Gedeon, help me!’
‘Drop your flames, traitor prince, and I’ll allow sweet air to fill dear Rosary’s lungs once more,’ Hossean said.
There was a thud. Still, Gedeon did not take his attention from the High Wielders, but he knew the sound meant Rosary had collapsed to the ground. Kyra’s scream pierced him, ‘Do it, Gedeon!’
With a snarl, Gedeon let his flames roar higher with destructive intent. Hossean took a lazy step back. ‘Burn me if you wish, but even in death my order still stands. She will be dead in less than a minute.’
‘Gedeon!’
Hossean simply smiled. The hold he had on Rosary was inconceivable. Surely the stolen magic had not somehow made him imperi?
Frantic fingernails scratched already battered skin. A heartbeat began to slow.
Kyra sobbed, ‘Gedeon, please! PLEASE!’
It broke him.
He let his fire die.
Behind, Rosary gasped long, hoarse breaths.
With his flames extinguished, the High Wielders wasted no time in shoving him, hoarding him into the cell. Hossean leered down at the one-eared woman on her back. She stared up at the cell ceiling with eyes of glass. ‘Rosary, darling, come here.’
‘Rose! No,’ whispered Kyra, shaking her head.
But there was nothing she could do.
Rosary was a marionette whose strings were soldered around Hossean’s mind.
She moved to stand by the nobleman’s side.
He took her face in his hands, and though she could not fight him, pure hatred shone through every inch of her pale features.
He planted a kiss to her brow, then took the shackles another High Wielder handed him.
‘You’re to put these restraints around their wrists, then come right back to me.
If they try to attack me, or resist you, you’re to stop breathing again until they comply. Do you understand me, darling?’
Jaw set, Rosary nodded.
Hossean released her. She walked to Gedeon first and fastened his iron shackles.
His fire could have melted them, but those were spiked bolts grazing his wrists.
If he wielded magic now, the shackles were spelled to release those bolts and shatter bone.
He had secured these shackles on a hundred of Empress Azar’s enemies, but never had he imagined he would be wearing them himself.
Rosary paused before Kyra, shaking slightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered in a thick voice. A single tear made a clear track down her dirtied, bloodied cheek.
The shackles snapped shut.
‘It’s him that will be sorry.’ Kyra’s voice was lower than Gedeon had ever heard it. Her vengeful gaze pierced Hossean as Rosary moved back to his side. ‘Do you hear me, cunt? I won’t forget this. I’ll carve those veins on your face into scars.’
It was not a threat. It was a promise.
Hossean did not have the intelligence to know that.
He smiled again. ‘I imagined the Earth Warden to possess a delicate, floral tongue, though it appears yours is forked. Your venom will not settle here, Kyraena Daeiros, no matter how far you attempt to spit it.’ He snapped his fingers and two High Wielders flanked Gedeon and Kyra.
‘Her Eminence has been most anxious to see you both. Let us not keep her waiting any longer.’
Kyra, Gedeon desperately tried into her mind.
But whether she’d meant to or not, those walls had snapped back into place. An impermeable barricade to match the thundering hardness plastered on every inch of her beautiful, fierce face.