42. Lilias
Lilias
THE WEAPON
The world feels like it’s rocking back and forth. Am I on a boat? Or in the back of a cart being pulled by a very slow horse?
I try to open my eyes. It’s hard to move anything at all; I almost feel like I’m pushing back against something that’s trying to hold me immobile. My chest is heavy. My arms and legs are numb.
My eyes finally open. I blink at sunlight slanting through rough wooden rafters.
Dust dances and swirls in the thin shafts of light, little flecks of gold suspended in the air.
The low hum of voices drifts in from somewhere, but I can’t make out the words.
I pull in a breath, then try to move my hands.
My fingers twitch against something rough and prickly. Old straw, I think. I try to lift my arm, but it’s too much effort. My eyelids sink, and darkness swallows the light.
Where in the gods’ many names am I? The last thing I remember is—
Zarek. On the balcony. With his arms around me, holding me after—
Oh, gods. My gut curls, and I gag on the bitterness in the back of my throat. I roll over, spitting onto the straw.
Please, let it be another nightmare. The screaming.
The sound the earth made when it tore apart.
The cloud of dust rising from the blackness that swallowed Ethiria’s army.
My eyes open, and I stare at an uneven row of straw-covered floorboards.
Dust dances all around me. I’m in some sort of barn, or shed.
I have no idea how I got here. Or where here even is.
“Sit, please,” a cold male voice says from behind me.
My breath catches. Some part of my mind screams that he won’t see me if I hold still.
The voice makes a sound, almost like a cough.
Polite disapproval, something I’ve heard a thousand times before.
I shift on the straw, trying to get my body to work.
It’s awkward and clumsy, but I finally drag myself up to sitting.
The room pulses around me, going in and out of focus. I feel like I’m underwater.
I turn slowly. I still feel like the ground is rocking beneath me, and it takes me a moment to find where the voice came from. I see a pair of polished black boots first, then hands neatly folded over an elegant, dark cape.
And then my body goes cold.
It’s the man from the balcony. The elf.
The weapon Anura told me about in the palace gardens.
My gut seizes, and I lean forward, spitting whatever was left in my stomach onto the old straw covering the floorboards. The elf makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
So, it wasn’t a dream.
The room swims around me. I bury my head in my hands and listen to the rasp of my own breathing. Voices swirl through the room, low and distant. The elf sniffs in a way that makes me think he’s losing his patience.
“You need food and water,” he snaps, like he’s trying to explain a complicated concept to a toddler.
That bored, condescending tone sounds strangely familiar. I turn toward him, blinking in an attempt to get the room to hold still. The elf scowls like all of this is beneath him. He looks like a spoiled brat being forced to clean stalls as punishment.
“Your body is too weak for my sleep magic,” he explains. His tone implies this is my fault, that I’ve somehow done this on purpose just to make his life harder. “You need to eat and drink. Now.”
He waves his hand toward the floor. There, sitting on a burlap sack, is what looks like half a loaf of stale bread and a waterskin. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing. Still, my stomach groans.
Blayne, my mind whispers. That’s why his tone sounds so familiar. That’s exactly how Blayne talked to me during our lessons.
The elf turns to leave, his elegant black cape fluttering around his polished boots.
“Wait,” I say.
My voice is thin and weak. He ignores me. Panic flutters inside my chest; this could be my last chance to find out what in the hells is going on.
“I’m not eating,” I say, as loudly as I can.
He stops in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by sunlight. He does not turn around, but I see his shoulders stiffen. My stomach groans again, like it’s trying to talk me out of this. I squeeze my hands together and hold them against my waist.
The elf finally turns back to me. Every line of his face speaks of carefully contained rage. I shiver, even as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“And whyever not?” he inquires, in a low, dangerous voice.
“Where am I?” I ask. “Why did you take me? And—”
My throat pinches around the words. I swallow, then force myself to continue.
“Where is Zarek?” I ask, in the most regal tone I can muster.
The elf’s expression shifts. And then, suddenly, he laughs. It’s as sharp and hard as a dagger, that laugh. When he turns back to me, his eyes are dancing. It’s somehow more terrifying than his rage, that look of barely suppressed glee.
“You fools,” he hisses. “You’re so easy to control.”
I shiver, but I keep my head high.
“I won’t eat until my questions are answered,” I tell him.
The elf rolls his eyes like he’s appealing to the heavens. He glances at the half-loaf of bread, then back to me.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Come.”
With that, he turns and leaves the shed.
Panic burns in my chest. I roll forward, onto my knees, and then lurch to my feet. The room sways; for a heartbeat, I think I’m about to pitch over. I brace myself against the wall, gasping as little flashes of white light swim around my head.
And then I force myself through the door.
We’re in the courtyard of what looks like a small inn. I catch glimpses of trees, blue sky, a large building with a thatched roof. Vsenrog soldiers are everywhere, all watching me stagger drunkenly after the elf’s fluttering black cape.
He leads me to a row of wagons, then pulls off the heavy canvas covering the last one. His long fingers tap the rough wood of the wagon impatiently as I drag myself forward. Finally, gasping and panting, I reach the wagon.
There are so many ropes inside that it takes me a moment to recognize the human body beneath them.
My eyes sting. I bring my hand up to cover my mouth as my eyes trace Zarek’s neck, the curve of his chin, the way his hair falls across the rough planks of the wagon’s floor.
“W-Why is he tied up?” I manage to whisper.
“Because he’s dangerous,” the elf replies. “Now, go back into that barn and eat. Or I’ll cut something off of him.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at the elf.
“An ear,” he suggests, with a smile. “Or maybe a finger. Maybe his tongue.”
I stagger backward, my hands raised in front of my chest. Like I’m surrendering.
It’s only after I’ve drained the waterskin and forced down the stale loaf of bread that I begin to cry.