Chapter 23 Thyra
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thyra
For a breathtaking heartbeat, Antony remains right where he stands, his left hand gripping my wrist, his head lowered to mine, his lips a mere inch from my mouth.
For a heartbeat, I inhale his savage breaths, his furious rage that I dared to reach for him, that I came so close to cupping my palm to his jaw.
A heartbeat from closing the gap between us.
Then he jolts back with a savage, “What is this trick?”
I try to force sound from my mouth, fighting to focus through the overwhelming intensity of his nearness and the haze of the vision I experienced only moments ago. “What trick?”
“You did this in the village, too.” His other hand, the naked one, reaches for my face, but still he doesn’t make contact, his palm hovering infuriatingly close to my cheek. “Your hair, your eyes, your skin. This trick.”
“I don’t…understand…”
He gives a growl, and I read his renewed distrust in the narrowness of his eyes, the twist of his lips. Lips that came very close to brushing mine.
At that moment, his brother reappears, stopping abruptly as he seems to take us in. “Antony?”
“Victor,” Antony snaps without taking his eyes off me. “Describe to me the Oracle’s features right now.”
Victor’s voice is wary. “Brother?”
“Do it!”
With every passing second, my mind returns to me, and with my sanity comes fear.
I closed the gap when Antony warned me not to.
I tried to touch him when he told me not to. The brief temptation and defiance I experienced before the vision took control came to full fruition while my will was not my own.
“Tell me what color her hair is?” Antony demands of Victor. “What color are her eyes? What does she look like?”
“Like a lowborn,” comes the answer, hurried but faltering. “Dull hair, faded blue eyes, average height. Brother, she looks just as she did when I left the room. She even has calluses on her hands, which you’re on the verge of breaking.”
Antony’s grip on my wrist is so tight now that tears spring to my eyes.
He shakes his head. A slow side-to-side motion.
I don’t understand why he’s asking Victor what I look like or why he told me my appearance is some sort of trick.
“Now it fades again,” he mutters. “This fucking illusion.”
What fades? My eyes? My hair? What?
I raise my head, refusing to let my tears fall. I’m not in so much pain yet that I’ll sacrifice my pride.
Antony’s voice remains perilously low as he directs another command at Victor. “Give me the ruby circlet.”
Victor quickly puts the new pieces of armor to the side.
Then he extends his left hand, palm up toward Antony.
A fine silver chain rests in Victor’s palm. It appears to have been wound around so many times, it could be several feet long when stretched out.
If it’s the ruby circlet Antony asked for, I’m not sure where it gets its name. It looks to be made of very fine, interlocking, silver links. No crimson jewels in sight.
Antony scoops the chain off Victor’s palm, neatly plucking it by its end with his naked fingers.
In the blink of an eye, he flicks that end toward my right wrist—the one he’s holding.
The chain snakes around my limb, and then it clicks as it fits itself around my wrist, forming a bracelet while the rest of the chain remains loose.
“What is this?” The question has barely left my lips when Antony snaps the other end of the chain toward his wrist. The armored one.
The metal whooshes through the air, making a threatening hissing sound, before there’s another click.
Finally, he releases me, leaving my arm upraised in the air.
I wince as my bones shift slowly back into position.
Antony takes a step back from me, his features smoothing out, his anger seeming to drain away, and, if I didn’t know better, I might even imagine a hint of regret enters his eyes while I flex my fingers and bite my lip.
Resolutely, I lower my arm, but it’s impossible to ignore that the chain is now attached to both of us, wrapped around my right wrist as well as his left wrist.
“This is a ruby circlet,” Antony says, his expression suddenly blank and his voice emotionless. “An innocent-looking chain. But should you try to cut it, you will trigger its metal teeth for five full inches on either side of the attempted cut.”
He takes another step back, and then one more, demonstrating that it only takes three paces for the chain to pull taut between us.
“If its metal teeth are triggered, it will saw through your limb,” he says. “It can’t be stopped. Not so bad if you only lose a hand, but I’d advise you not to do anything that might prompt me to put it around your throat.”
I’m frozen at his threat, the blood draining from my face.
“It’s called a ruby circlet because of the blood it spills,” he continues, and then it seems he’s finished threatening me because he falls silent, his face utterly blank.
Only moments ago, my body was alive with heat, but now an icy chill has fallen over me.
Until this moment, I had a sense of calm because, despite the danger around me, no real harm had come to me.
What an illusion.
I will never be safe here.
Never.
A hollow forms in my heart.
I don’t try to shake it off. I tell myself it’s important. This hollow reminds me I’m alone and my survival is up to me.
Unbidden comes the memory of whispers…
You will fight them. Rip and tear at their hearts. You must destroy them before they can destroy you.
I will fight when I need to. The hardest part will be deciding when that is. When I should sway and bend, or when I must snap back with everything I’ve got.
It’s possible Antony was right: My promise not to fight him could end up being false after all.
If I have to defend myself, I will.
Without taking his eyes off me, Antony quietly raises his right hand and forms a fist.
I brace for the strike that will confirm how he intends to treat me from this moment on, the punch that will shatter my vow to obey him, because there’s no fucking way I’ll meekly take a beating.
Instead, he thumps his own chest, right where the leather strap is the widest over his heart.
It’s a vicious hit, and the thud of his hand on his chest is loud in the fraught silence.
It’s the same action he took when we flew through the bloodlands.
I have no idea why he would strike himself like this.
In battle, it appeared as if he was demonstrating his strength, beating his chest at his enemies, but it’s a curious move in this environment.
His face pales, and I’m confused by the tightening of his features, as if he’s caused himself pain.
“My armor,” he says to Victor through visibly gritted teeth. “Now.”
His brother seems even more wary of him, hanging back for a second before he sets to work, slipping the new chest plates into place, covering Antony’s broad torso, helping him slide the arm coverings back into place, and handing him a new helmet.
The metal slides over Antony’s forehead, then his cheeks, lips, and jaw.
No longer can I see his brutal smile.
All I have are his savage, green eyes.
Is his anger caged now?
Impossible to know.
He reaches for his axe, slipping it into the holder at his back, before he tips his head a little, considering me for a long moment. “You won’t be able to get the protective coat back on now that we’re connected by the circlet.”
It takes me a moment to remember the overly large coat he dressed me in so he could carry me safely through the forge.
I can’t stop myself from tensing at the possibility that he’ll make me walk back through the forge without its protection.
“Don’t worry.” His voice remains flat. “There’s another way out. It won’t take us back to my eagle, but it will take us toward the Constellation, where Mother will be waiting.”
“Are you sure you want to go that way, brother?” Victor ventures. “I could cut an opening in the suit to allow for the chain.”
“I’m sure. This is the path we need to take.” Without further elaboration, Antony tugs on the chain and tells me, “Through here.”
He gestures to the room where Victor got the replacement armor.
Victor snags Antony’s arm before we can make it two steps in that direction.
“Brother.” His voice is suddenly hard. “The next time you meet the Ember King—”
“Of course, Victor.” Antony’s reply is smooth. “The next time I see Maxim, I’ll kill him.”
Victor steps aside, but he darts forward and snags my arm, too.
Antony halts, glancing back.
I wait for Victor to speak, but his shoulders sink. All he does is give me a quiet nod, and then he releases me, allowing me to follow Antony through the internal door and into a second chamber.
Like the first room, countless drawings cover the walls, but this time, they depict the blade that’s inked into my skin. As for the workbenches, half are covered in pieces of metal and fine tools, while ancient-looking books are scattered over the others.
One book is open to a page with a finely detailed sketch of a woman, but I’m surprised to see that she’s gripping what looks like the Dragonstone Blade.
Her hair blows across her face, obscuring her features, but she wears a crown on her head.
The words ‘False Queen’ are scrawled across the side of the page.
Who is she?
And why is she pictured holding the blade? If, indeed, it is the Dragonstone Blade and not an unrelated dagger.
Also curious is the rough and seemingly unfinished sketch of what looks like a hammer at the base of the page. Its handle appears partly etched with runes, but the drawing ends halfway along, the handle unfinished.
When I glance again at the drawings on the wall, the ones of the Dragonstone Blade, I make out the same partially-drawn hammer on many of them.
I want to stop and ask questions.
I desperately need answers.
But Antony doesn’t break his stride, heading toward the door on the other side of the room, and I have no choice but to follow now that the gap between us can’t extend more than three paces.