Chapter 37
“Everything you’ve done?” I echoed dumbly. “What exactly have you done?”
A headache bloomed between my temples, the heavily perfumed room suddenly stifling me. I searched his features for something, some kind of clue about where this was going.
I found nothing.
Mordric sighed. “I had to take extreme measures to keep you safe, you understand.”
“I don’t—” My words stoppered in my throat. I peered closely at the closed doors behind him, the dull metal somehow familiar. My stomach dropped. “What are they made of?” I asked instead, my voice hoarse.
Mordric’s expression was unnervingly calm. “Iron.”
My blood ran cold as I remembered Enhart’s story about Beltzan. He’d told me that in its purest form, iron shackles could render a witch powerless. But he hadn’t said anything about doors.
Anger surged through my veins, but there was no magic to erupt from my fingers.
My mind raced as I pieced it together, the reason why my powers had been dulled from the moment I entered this suite.
I jerked out of Mordric’s reach, so furious I could have lit the entire room on fire if I had even an ounce of my magic. “Explain yourself,” I demanded. “Now.”
“You are safe here. That’s all that matters.”
“You’re holding me prisoner?”
“For your own protection. And besides, it’s hardly a dungeon. Just look at it.”
“A beautiful cage is still a cage, Mordric!” My voice echoed around the opulent chamber, but I didn’t care if anyone heard me.
“I had to do it,” he insisted. “Iron is the only thing that can keep the witches out.”
“What about keeping me in?” I snapped, planting my hands on my hips. “When did you even find the time to build this place?”
“While you were away,” he explained. “As a precautionary measure.”
My eyes narrowed. “Before or after I was taken captive?”
The sheepish gleam in his eyes infuriated me. “Before.”
I recalled what he’d said to me after our fight over my visit to the blacksmith’s cellar.
I swear sometimes I wish I could lock you away like a damsel of legend.
The only thing missing was the wyverns. A flush blossomed on the skin of my chest as I realized how naive I’d been.
“I should have left with Enhart when I had the chance,” I snapped.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I don’t know what he said about me, but you are safest by my side.”
“He never said a word against you,” I bit back. “But I wish he had so that I would have known how foolish it was to trust you.”
A beat passed between us. I glared up at Mordric, my thoughts turning violent as I seethed about what he’d stolen from me. Not just my freedom, but my magic. He was a liar. A manipulator.
What else had he lied about?
Betrayal splintered through me, chipping away at everything I felt for him. “Let me out,” I demanded. “Immediately.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” I pressed.
“Because your life is at risk, Finn. Don’t you see that?”
“This is because a handful of witches threatened me? How am I supposed to protect myself in here if I can’t access my magic?”
“You won’t need to,” he insisted. “That’s the beauty of this place.”
I stepped backward, unable to believe my ears. “There’s nothing beautiful about this,” I whispered.
“There are more powerful forces at play here,” he said, his tone measured. “If you will just allow me to explain, then it will all make sense.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, sizing him up. I thought of everything I had learned about the King and his court over the last six months. He was governed by his need for control, hardened by a lifetime under threat, and surrounded by conniving sycophants.
There was only one way to best him in this game.
I inhaled slowly through my nose like Ivor had instructed me to do on the lake beside Hollybrook, exhaling through my lips. As my heartbeat slowed, I forced my face into what I hoped was a placid expression. “Enlighten me, then,” I said, doing my best imitation of a noblewoman of court.
He strolled to the far wall, pausing before the towering bookcase. “Have you taken a look at the books here?”
“Yes,” I said shortly.
He turned, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to resist. That’s why I had these volumes moved here.”
It was almost impressive, how every move he made was so calculated.
He searched the books, his fingers trailing over their spines. When he found what he was looking for, he peeled open the tome, the fragile calfskin pages rustling between his long fingers. Curiosity getting the best of me, I stepped closer.
“This account is kept in my private collection,” he explained. “It’s dated nearly two thousand years ago, from the court of my great-grandfather.”
I thought of the tapestry outside the library that depicted King Daemon’s triumph over the old kingdom. His cold stare, immortalized in the brocade, as he stood on the ruins of the city he had conquered.
“Why keep it private?” I asked.
“Because of this passage.” He stabbed the page with his finger. “May I read it to you?”
I reminded myself of the facade I had to maintain. “Of course,” I said through gritted teeth.
His gaze flicked to the page before him.
“Spring, First Year of the Kingdom of Valen. His Majesty King Daemon Hellebore, the Realmmaker, was visited at court today by a woman by the name of Evenia Harborlight. A handmaiden to Eilkas, Miss Harborlight sought an audience with the King to deliver a message from the God of Divination himself. Standing before the King and his council, she bemoaned the loss that the witches had suffered during the war, cut down by His Majesty’s army so that the Kingdom of Valen might be born.
Miss Harborlight further claimed that this genocide at the King’s command had ignited the wrath of the first witch, Celene.
She foretold that the conflict would give rise to a magical being.
A witch born of flame and fueled by the blood of vampire.
Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other.
They would avenge the witches who came before in the shadow of the solstice sun, and tear apart the kingdom built on Celene’s bones from within. ”
Mordric glanced up at me expectantly.
“Is that all?” I asked.
He dropped the tome into my open hands. “See for yourself.”
I read the passage again. And again. And again until the words blurred together.
She foretold that the conflict would give rise to a magical being.
A witch born of flame and fueled by the blood of vampire.
Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other.
They would avenge the witches who came before in the shadow of the solstice sun, and tear apart the kingdom built on Celene’s bones from within.
Outraged at her words, the King commanded his loyal wyverns to—
“What does this mean?” I asked, my fingers tracing the text. “The part about the witches who were cut down by the king’s army?”
Mordric cleared his throat. “Surely you know the history of the Great Conflict?”
I shot him a wry look. “Of course I do.”
“Then you know that the ancient king, the one that my great-grandfather opposed, staffed his army with legions of your kind. Some even believed that his right-hand man, a witch, was the puppet master behind his reign of cruelty. King Daemon’s army was filled with humans and vampires alike and, well … ”
I brushed the skin of my throat with my fingertips. He didn’t need to tell me the rest.
“That’s not what they taught us in the Outlands,” I admitted. I supposed it would have made witches look far too sympathetic.
“Do you see now why I need to keep you here?”
The book fell from my hand with a clunk. “You think I’m this witch,” I whispered. “The one Evenia spoke of.”
He shook his head.
I stumbled backward as Mordric advanced on me, retreating until my back was pressed against the wall.
Iron had been installed here, too, I realized, laced into the wall somehow.
It reached toward me through the stone, eager to sap me of any threads of power that had survived when the iron doors closed.
My heart beat so fervently against my chest that I thought it might burst through my skin.
I thought of my dagger, but I hadn’t seen it since I shed my clothes to bathe hours ago. Stripped of my powers, I stood no chance against a vampire. The violence of that thought frightened me nearly as much as the look in Mordric’s eyes.
“Why keep me alive?” I accused as he pinned me against the wall. I was fighting every instinct not to cower. “Why waste your time training me instead of killing me yourself the night we met? It would have been easier for you.”
He sucked in a breath, his black eyes widening as if I’d offended him. “Finn, I don’t want to kill you,” he said, stepping backward. “I want to use you.”
I glanced around the room, plush and golden in the dwindling candlelight. My cheeks grew warm. “Use me? For what?”
“As a weapon.”
I balked. “What?”
“Did you read the account?” he asked. “Their power would be legendary, their strength rivaled by only one other.”
“I read it,” I snapped.
“This is what I’ve been training you for,” he continued. “What I trained Ophelia for. You are the ‘one other’—my champion, the one whose power can rival that of the witch in this prophecy. That is why the witches took you captive. Because they know that only you can defeat them.”
I nearly sent a prayer to Bialar, the Goddess of Fortune, as thanks for what was clearly sheer, dumb luck. If he had believed for even a moment that I was the enemy the prophecy spoke of, I was certain that I wouldn’t be standing here.
“I couldn’t tell you the truth at first,” he continued. “I needed to gain your trust.”
“You gained my trust by plying me with promises of power and a seat at your table,” I snapped. “By telling me you loved me. But you were only using me.”
He scowled. “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth.”