Chapter 28 #2
They stared at each other for a long moment, conducting a silent conversation in the language they’d developed over weeks of stolen glances and careful words. She searched his face like someone trying to decipher a map to salvation, only to find every route blocked.
“The anticipation is killing me,” Caelen grumbled. “Please tell us what our glorious supreme leader said!”
Azrian studied his hands, the evidence of service burned deep into his skin. “He wants us bonded. Sooner rather than later.”
“When?”
Azrian gestured to Caelen and Miss Celastra. “Three days after their blood vow.”
Miss Celastra sprang to her feet, hands clasped in delight. “Oh, that is wonderful news!”
“Wonderful?” Miss Almarien made the word sound like a curse.
“Yes!” Heedless of the tension, Miss Celastra caught her friend’s hands. “We shall have time to plan our vows together! We can shop for gowns, choose our flowers, hire the musicians—”
“Virelle,” Miss Almarien tried to contain her, but Miss Celastra buzzed on, undeterred.
“Sorry. But you must admit, the timing is most agreeable. We’ll get to share this momentous occasion!”
Caelen looked away from the women, his gaze finding Azrian’s with grim understanding. “You still believe…”
“That these marks will be the death of us? Most definitely.”
Miss Celastra shivered before shaking her head. She turned to face the men, hands planted on her hips in a display of spirit that surprised Azrian. It didn’t necessarily endear him to the lady, but it helped him understand why Caelen had fallen for her.
“You will forgive my forwardness, my lord.” She pointed at him, eyes flashing with conviction. “But you are the only one of us four with an awakened affinity. Surely, even if someone were murdering marked pairs, they would never be reckless enough to make an attempt on Lord Death’s life.”
Azrian’s answer was slow, measured. “Seeing as we don’t yet know who is targeting marked pairs or for what reasons, I would not make that assumption, Miss Celastra.”
“I don’t see the point in arguing hypotheticals,” Miss Almarien interjected. “We lack evidence. Finding it should be our priority.”
Caelen scratched the back of his neck. “How do you suggest we do that?”
Azrian met Miss Almarien’s gaze, felt her approval in a single nod. “The Registry claims the Bennetts died by asphyxiation and the Valdris by poison.”
Miss Celastra flinched at her cousin’s name. Caelen drew her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“What if both were a ruse?” Miss Almarien said.
Caelen blinked a few times. “I don’t follow.”
Miss Almarien stepped off the desk and crossed to Caelen. “The findings in the death records are not consistent with asphyxiation. But they are consistent with Ice weaving.”
“What are you saying?” Miss Celastra asked. “That the Registry misinterpreted the cause of death?”
Azrian scoffed. “You believe the Registry—the Empire’s utmost magical authority—would not be able to identify the effects of Ice weaving?”
“Which would mean they lied regarding the cause of death… but why?” Caelen asked.
“Maybe because the marks are not what they have been telling us. And if they’ve been lying about the deaths, and the marks, then threads know what else they may have lied about.”
Caelen understood, even before Azrian finished. “You think the Children may have been telling the truth, then.”
“Whose children?” Miss Celastra asked.
Caelen rubbed circles on her back, but hesitated before answering.
He looked to Azrian, deferring. Imperial protocol demanded secrecy regarding the Children; he’d broken that protocol before with Miss Almarien.
Then again, Azrian had done far worse than reveal the existence of a pocket of resistance in the past few months, and if their next plans unfolded as they’d expected, he’d soon do far worse.
And Miss Celastra was to be Caelen’s wife, so she deserved to know.
So Azrian nodded.
“It’s not children, but the Children. The Children of the First Flame is what they call themselves,” Caelen explained to his intended, placing a kiss on her palm with reverent tenderness. “Rebels. Heretics. Criminals.” Then he paused, looked around the room. “Or so we thought, I guess.”
“Oh.” Miss Celastra squeezed his hand back. “That sounds… scandalous.”
Caelen pinched her pinky, and she giggled. The exchange, so out of place in the charged silence, made Azrian feel like an intruder. He looked away, only to find Miss Almarien staring at him with an intensity that made his breath catch.
“So what do we do next?” Caelen asked after breaking eye contact with his bride.
“We find the Children. Speak with them. Strike a bargain if we must,” Azrian replied.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Caelen raked his fingers through his hair. “We’ve been searching for cycles, and never found even a trace.”
Azrian’s smile spread like oil on water. “ We have not.”
Miss Almarien straightened. “I, however, have.”
They met again as the city’s last light bled away, the sky bruised purple and gold above Ilvarenne.
Miss Almarien led the way, her steps confident as she wove through the maze of streets.
The city changed with each layer they descended: marble facades giving way to limestone, then brick, then crumbling stucco.
The air thickened with the scent of river mud and old smoke, the shouts of dockworkers echoing off the stone.
“How did you find them, again?” Caelen asked her as they passed yet another lichen-covered bridge.
“I found a pamphlet,” she said. “Or rather, it found me. At first I thought it nonsense, but it was a cipher. It spelled a meeting place and time.”
Caelen whistled low. “And you went alone?”
“I had to.” Her chin lifted. “The Registry’s story never made sense, and I was tired of being lied to. I wanted the truth, whatever the cost.”
Of course, she had. It was the same compulsion that drove her to challenge him, to stare down the Emperor’s Hand as if he were merely another puzzle to solve. It was the thing Azrian admired most about her, and the thing he feared would get her killed. Except he would not allow that to happen.
Cordage Lane was a wound at the city’s edge, lined with old factories and warehouses. Number twenty-six, an abandoned tannery, loomed at the end. A large, iron-wrought lock and bar kept the door shut.
Miss Almarien frowned. “This wasn’t here last time.”
She began picking a pin from her hair, but Azrian stilled her movements with a hand on her elbow. “Let me.”
He gathered threads of his magic and wove them in a series of over-under motifs.
When he pushed the weave into the lock and bar, they disintegrated into ash.
He motioned for Caelen to cover the rear and pushed the door open.
The scent of old tallow and mildew hung heavy in the air, clinging to the stone walls.
Shafts of moonlight pierced the gloom, painting pale stripes across the floor, yet most of the vast chamber remained in darkness.
They moved in silence, every footfall muffled by the film of dust and old grease. Broken vats and warped crates formed a labyrinth of hiding places. Somewhere overhead, a rat scrabbled in the beams.
Miss Almarien led them deeper. There was a stubborn set to her jaw that he recognized from their arguments; it made something in his chest twist. He wanted to tell her to stay behind him, but he knew she’d only ignore him, or worse, deliberately walk ahead just to prove a point.
She paused at the edge of the largest open space, where the floor was littered with broken leather straps and discarded vats. The faint outline of a circle was scorched onto the floor.
He opened his mouth to warn them to keep close, but before he could speak, something shifted in the dark. It was not the scurry of a rat this time. It was heavier, purposeful—the sound of boots scraping over old tallow, of a body moving with intent.
Azrian stepped forward, drawing even with Miss Almarien, his arm a shield between her and whatever stalked the gloom.
The figure emerged from behind a stack of warped crates, tall and imposing, wrapped head to toe in a midnight cloak. The hood was drawn low, but Azrian caught the glint of eyes beneath it: one bright, one dark.
“I should have known,” the man drawled, “that you’d drag the Hand of the Empire right to our doors.”
Miss Almarien stiffened, chin rising. “We came for answers.”
The man’s mouth twisted. “Has he told you how he normally extracts answers from his victims? There is little left once his magic is through with us.” He crossed his arms and stared at Azrian as if the sight of him was a personal affront. “I shouldn’t have trusted the sponsor’s words.”
The sponsor? Who was he talking about? But with so many questions to be unraveled, this one would have to wait.
Azrian met the man’s glare without flinching. “We’re not here as agents of the Empire. If you’re half as clever as your pamphlets, you’ll know I could’ve brought a hundred guards with me if I wished. I did not. I’m here for myself. And for my friends.”
A faint, derisive sound. “We all know you’re capable of being deadly all on your own. And you expect me to believe the Emperor’s Hand acts on sentiment?”
Azrian’s jaw tightened. “I expect you to listen. We have no interest in the Emperor’s orders tonight. Only the truth.”
The man moved closer, and the moonlight caught on the sharp planes of his face beneath the hood.
It was Miss Almarien who spoke next. “Marked couples are dying. We want to know why.”
The Child bared his teeth. “You think we’d slaughter our own, after all we’ve risked to protect them?”
Caelen, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “If not you, someone is. The Registry claims it’s mundane, but the evidence says otherwise.”
The Child snorted, but there was a flicker of approval in his mismatched eyes. “The truth is the same one we’ve been trying to share for cycles, and you haven’t seemed interested in hearing it then.”
“Try us now,” Azrian said.
“The marks were never the Registry’s to give, the Empire’s to regulate. The Children have been working to restore the old ways. The Registry fears us, so they lie. As for the murders… that is not our doing. We protect the marked, not slaughter them.”
Miss Almarien stepped forward. “Then who is killing them?”
The Child shook his head. “That is a question I cannot answer. But I know this: the return of the marks has frightened the Empire. Some would do anything to halt the old magic from spreading. Even kill.”
Azrian felt the words settle into him, heavy as lead. The Emperor’s paranoia, the Registry’s lies, the bodies piling up—it all pointed to a single, monstrous conclusion.
Rather than offering the Children a victory, the Empire would rather see its own die. Was it so far-fetched to believe they might’ve been the ones doing the killing, too?