Chapter Twenty-Six #3
Soren does not push him. “Fine. We will have only minutes to get in, get Arwen, and get back out. The prison will be heavily guarded by Efnysien’s men, if not he himself. And, if I know my stepbrother the way I think I do, it will also be fortified with some unpredictable surprises.”
I don’t want to know; I ask anyway. “What sort of surprises?”
“His youthful fondness for cruel pranks has blossomed into a proclivity for decoys and booby traps designed specifically to take lives.” Soren runs a hand through his hair. “Trick doors, false walls, concealed blades designed to cut an unsuspecting victim in two…”
A foreboding silence descends.
“Oh, is that all?” comes Jac’s sarcastic mutter.
“No,” Soren says, very serious. “It is not. They do not call it the Iron Isle without cause. The bedrock is thick with ore. It will weaken anyone with even a drop of fae blood running through their veins.”
The collective foreboding intensifies.
“A perfect maegical prison,” I murmur.
“Precisely.” Soren’s lips flatten into a frown. “Our powers will likely not be at full potential while we are ashore.” His attention shifts to Penn briefly. “Especially those of us who are not naturally at ease surrounded by water.”
Penn’s eyes smolder. “Worry about your own weaknesses. I will handle mine.”
For the next few moments, we all study the map as Soren lays out specifics of the plan. How best to conceal our initial approach, where he thinks he might be able to calm the roiling surf so we can row ashore, what time we will have the best chance at infiltration without tipping off the guards.
I stare at the faded parchment, wishing I felt half as confident as he sounds. The Iron Isle is a seven-day sail from Hylios with good wind. And the wind in the Endless Ocean is notoriously finicky. Ships can get stuck in the doldrums for days, even weeks, on end.
Arwen does not have weeks.
She may not even have days.
But none of us speak of that as we discuss ideas and walk through possible outcomes, laying out contingencies and exit strategies with the limited intel available to us.
What little we know about the prison’s interior layout—painstakingly sourced by Soren’s best spies over the last half century—is outdated at best, inaccurate at worst.
“I want to make it clear, this is a voluntary mission.” Soren pauses to glance around at everyone gathered. “I cannot guarantee any of your safety should you choose to take part.”
“She’s my sister.” Vaughn sounds affronted. “I’m coming along.”
“Me, too,” Yara puts in. Her face is a portrait of fury. “Not just for Arwen. For Umyr. For Thisobei.”
“And for my Kazia.” Harpina’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she whispers the name of her lover.
Bretiax signs her agreement.
I clear my throat. “I’m in, too.”
Jac, Farley, Mabon, and Cadogan keep silent, their attention on their king. They cannot—will not—agree if he does not. But their expressions clearly communicate that they have no desire to stay behind while the rest of us sail straight into the jaws of danger.
Penn meets Soren’s eyes, holding them for a long time. No one seems to breathe as we wait for him to give his decision.
“Dyved sails with Ll?r,” he says firmly. “We are allies in this war, whatever form it takes.”
I let out a long sigh, undeniably relieved.
“Besides…” The dark flames in Penn’s stare leap higher as he continues. “I would not squander a chance to introduce your stepbrother to the length of my blade, should the opportunity present itself.”
“You will have to beat me to him,” Vaughn cuts in, grinning wolfishly.
Soren expels a breath. “If we are all in agreement—”
“I shall sail with you.”
We all turn as one toward the archway where Melité stands watching us. Her eyes gleam solidly black as she glides into the kitchen, hips swaying with preternatural grace. Even from across the room, I hear Cadogan’s abrupt intake of air.
“Melité.” Soren’s lip curls with distaste at just the sight of her. “You are not trained for combat.”
“So? You expect me to stay behind, doing nothing? One of my sisters is in captivity,” she hisses, hostile. “Another is gravely injured.”
That is a bit of an exaggeration. I tended Tethys myself and, while the slice to her arm is deep, it closed easily with the help of a few stitches. She will heal quickly.
“I will be on that ship at dawn.” Melité’s gills flare as she huffs. “You cannot stop me. And you may, in fact, find yourself grateful for my presence. For while your powers may be weakened by the ore of that prison…mine are not.”
“She has a point,” Vaughn mutters, grimacing. “The guards can’t very well pick up their blades if they’re clutching their cocks, caught up in the thrall of siren song.”
Cadogan makes a choking sound.
Mabon claps him soundly on the back until he resumes breathing.
“Fine,” Soren growls, voice threaded with annoyance. “Then I will see you all at first light. Gather your weapons and get some sleep, if you can. We will not have much time to rest once we are underway.”
The pervasive quiet of my bedchamber is punctuated only by the occasional brays of desolate Paexyri.
Each time I hear them, my heart pangs. I know they will not stop until the funeral rites on the cliffside are concluded.
Until the pyres for Thisobei and Umyr flicker out, their souls returned to eternal flight in the aether.
Everyone dispersed after the meeting broke up, heading to their respective quarters to prepare for departure, or tending to their dead.
I wonder if the others are able to quiet their minds enough to sleep or if they, too, are plagued by visions of bodies being carried away, of blood being wiped off the flagstones.
Of the horrors still to come in the south.
I lay atop my bed, fully clothed in my formfitting gray leather getup—boots laced, daggers holstered, whip coiled. My small pack sits by the door, at the ready. My eyes are fixed on the coffered ceiling as I count down the time until we set sail.
Three hours until dawn.
Two hours.
One.
I swing off the bed, no longer able to remain still, not even for another second.
Before I make the conscious decision, I’ve crossed the chamber, scooped my bag from the floor, and stepped into the hallway.
My eyes do not shift from the crystalline doorway at the end of the corridor as I cut a path toward it.
My mind stretches out, seeking Soren down the bond, trying to discern whether he is behind that thick barricade. If he is, I cannot sense him. Not there, not anywhere.
He is blocking me out.
That realization sends a ripple of unease through me.
I raise my hands, laying them flat against the warded door.
It emits a strong maegical signature, one unique to Soren.
Only he can trigger the locks. And yet, as my palms rest against the smooth white surface, the glyphs gouged into its handle begin to glow, pulsating in reaction to my presence.
I do not even consider the consequences of what I am about to do. I send a shot of maegic straight into the slab. Instantly, the door cracks open under my touch.
Strange.
I push it wider, hesitation slowing my movements.
The chamber beyond is entrenched in darkness, not a single candle to illuminate it.
No one appears to be inside. I know I should turn around, that it isn’t right to snoop—especially not in the one place I was warned to stay away from.
But I’m already halfway over the threshold…
Nerves race up my spine as I step fully inside, allowing the heavy door to swing shut at my back with a low click.
The room is large, triple the size of my suite, with a wall of north-facing windows that offer an unmitigated view of the moonlit sea.
The furniture is opulent, from the wingback chairs that face the vast stone fireplace on my right to the elaborately carved bed that takes up a good chunk of the floor space to my left.
It looks big enough to accommodate a Titan.
In the corner, there are soaring bookshelves stocked with tomes and trinkets from Soren’s many travels, surrounding a cluttered desk where several pots of ink sit beside tidy stacks of parchment.
Unlike the rest of the villa, the walls in this room are not covered in artwork.
Instead, a single mural spans one entire wall opposite the imposing four-poster bed.
In the silver-blue shades of starlight that pour through the glass panes, I cannot make out much in the way of detail.
I wander closer, wanting a better look at whatever warrants such a large canvas… and feel my mouth drop open on a gasp.
It is a scene of battle.
A scene of pure annihilation, in fact.
The foreground is full of bodies lying on black sand.
Fae and mortal alike, tangled together in a tableau of horror.
Monsters, too, I see as I peer closer. Arachnidae legs twitch skyward beside putrid white cyntroedi carcasses.
Ice giants’ hoarfrost hands lie slack with death, still reaching toward the equally large corpses of Titans who’ve succumbed.
My eyes shift higher, to the center of the frame.
In the sky above the carnage, a sole figure fills the tempestuous sky.
In her golden armor, she looks like a goddess.
I think it is Arianrhod at first, but the hair is too light.
Not honey blond, but the pale platinum that flows from my own skull.
Blood pours in rivulets from a set of all-too-familiar storm-cloud eyes. And the look on her face…
On my face.
For it is my face, staring back at me. Impossibly, incomprehensibly, I am staring at a portrait of myself. And judging by the holocaust depicted at my feet…
I am no savior.
No, I am the very source of this doom.