Chapter 40 Nes
Nes
The city felt like one long maze. They’d left the Ditch behind and now it was just one cobblestone street after another, the stones blurring beneath her feet.
Nes thought she knew every street, corner, and Goddess-damned stretch of wall Gadore had to offer. She was wrong. The more she followed Toran, the more she realized how little she knew.
Toran was quiet as he led the group.
She wished he’d talk. Wished anyone would talk. She needed the distraction. Something to focus on other than the magic wracking her body. She ground her teeth so hard she’d be surprised if she had any left in her mouth by the time this was over.
At long last, they entered the westernmost edge of the Bark.
To their left, the wall separating the city sector from the monastery grounds loomed heads taller than even Quint.
Toran bent down and pressed a hand to one of the stones.
Something cracked and whined, then a section of the cobblestone path split open to reveal a set of stairs.
“This way,” Toran said, descending first, followed by Quint, Genna, and Damari. She and Suri brought up the rear.
When she reached the bottom, Toran had a lantern waiting. The light bloomed around them, creating a bubble of visibility that illuminated only their faces.
“These are just like the tunnels in the Wharf,” Genna whispered, as if she feared the dark would steal her voice. “I had no idea they ran underneath the whole city.”
“The canals, too,” Quint said. “This used to all be marshland. When building Gadore, the architects had to find ways to redirect the water or risk the city flooding every time it rained.”
“But streets still flood whenever it rains.”
Nes caught a piece of Quint’s smile, the light falling on only half his face.
“I never said they did a good job.”
They came to the end of the hall, where a slender canal yawned before them.
Quint cut to the right, the water—crisp with the scent of the sea—flowing steadily to their left.
The path narrowed the longer they walked, coming to a head with the canal at a stone archway.
There was only enough walkway for them to pass through one at a time.
Nes hung back. She tapped her fingers in a relentless beat. The same beat was inside her—her magic thumping so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if her skin jumped. The world was closing in, her magic pressing forward.
Just a little longer.
A hand came down on her shoulder, and she whirled, elbow swinging for a hard jab. Toran caught it in an instant, his palm encompassing her bone and stopping the impact.
“Whoa,” he said, his eyes alight with surprise. “You okay?”
She lowered her arm. “Yeah. A little on edge.”
She felt Toran’s gaze on her, felt the calculating way it moved from her incessant tapping to the careful rise and fall of her chest. His own chest seemed to fold in, as if preparing to wrap around her. But he didn’t move.
“It’ll be over soon,” Toran promised before slipping through the archway.
Over. She was ready for the end. Holding her magic firm, she followed him through the arch.
The narrow path opened into a large cavern, the ceiling stretching higher than she would have thought possible.
Beside her, the canal spread out into a wide pool, the water lapping at the edge of stone.
The smell of salt was strong in the air.
Her magic curled behind her ribs, hissing like a hot pan in cold water.
The room was lit by dozens of torches. The King of Orlonea sat in a simple wooden chair propped against the far wall, six guards stationed on either side of him.
At last, here was the man responsible for the years she and her father had spent on the run.
The reason her father had spent the last four in prison.
But this man wasn’t the villain she’d imagined.
Seated before her, shoulders slumped forward, King Harkett was just a man.
And an old one, at that. His black hair was speckled with gray and his gray eyes, though sharp, did not hold the raging storm she’d heard so much about.
The King’s face was weathered with old age.
There were no hard lines there, only crevices detailing moments well-lived.
Quint sank to his knees, and the rest of them mimicked his action. The six of them bowed to the King—Damari still fighting consciousness between Quint and Genna—and waited for his permission to stand.
“Rise,” King Harkett said.
Beside her, Toran shot up, but she was slow to stand. Part of her had expected one of the King’s guards to chop her head off the moment she inclined it.
The King’s eyes shifted from one person in their small group to another. When his cool gray eyes found hers, there was no recognition there. The King spared her a second of his precious time, and then his focus was on Toran.
“Captain Roada,” the King said, “you arranged this meeting, insisted I come down here.” The King glanced around the damp space as if it were a decorated ballroom in need of his approval. “Am I to believe you have succeeded in the mission I assigned you?”
Toran nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve brought you the Witch.”
His expression was stoic, but Nes had long since learned to see the tick of nerves underneath. Color drained from his lips, and his jaw tightened.
She’d known this mission mattered to him, but she hadn’t realized how much. Toran hadn’t just wanted to succeed, he’d wanted to prove he was still worthy in the eyes of the King.
“Your Majesty,” Toran said, “I present to you the one girl in all the land with magic in her veins. The Witch.”
The King didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But that was pride in his eyes as he stared at his son’s Crown.
Damari, finally awake again, shook from her spot on the floor.
Quint and Genna had tied rope around her wrists, and Nes could see how the cord chafed the girl’s skin.
Damari tried to lift her hands, but the rope only dug deeper, and she crouched in on herself, her black hair falling to hide her features.
Nes waited for the order. The one to drown Damari in the Witch’s Well tomorrow. She’d be free then, as close to freedom as she’d ever been. Damari’s death would not weigh heavy on her conscience. She would not be the one to kill her, so it would not be her fault.
None of this was her fault.
At last, the King spoke. His eyes darkened as they narrowed on Damari. “This is the Witch?” he asked. “This girl does not seem all-powerful.”
Toran took a step forward. She couldn’t see his face.
“That’s because she’s not, Your Majesty.”
Nes frowned. She studied the coiled muscles of Toran’s back, the tension between his shoulder blades.
“The Witch is strong and invulnerable,” Toran continued.
“But most of all, she is cunning. She had me fooled.” He gripped the hilt of his sword, the metal sliding out of its sheath just enough for her to glimpse the shine of it, the way it glistened as if freshly cleaned.
“Your Majesty, I have brought you the Witch as promised.” He drew his sword and held it at Damari, something dripping from the blade’s point. “But this is not her.”
Toran wheeled, swinging his sword and slashing it across Nes’s stomach.
She gasped, bending over in shock. Blood leaked through the gap in her white shirt, soaking and spreading over the fabric. Pain cracked from her wound and bit into her skin, burning like acid.
It wasn’t enough to tame the storm of magic inside her, but it was enough to hurt her.
She clawed at her middle, fingers searching for a way to peel the seawater from her wound. Because the wound wasn’t closing. It wasn’t healing like every other cut or scrape or broken bone she’d gotten. It wouldn’t, coated in the ocean. Her magic would not touch it.
Her eyes found Toran’s.
He’d betrayed her. He still stood at her side, but he was no longer on her side. The difference was agonizing.
And then she was falling.
Nes craned her neck around far enough to see Genna’s stoic expression, the guard’s arms outstretched, before she crashed into the pool.
It was nothing like the salt water she sipped from her flask to keep the beast within at bay.
It was nothing like the terrifying visions of drowning that plagued her.
Watching the water close over her head, having it fill her gaping mouth and slither in her fresh wound, it was somehow worse than that day in the rowboat. It was all so much worse.
She struggled in the water, but it fought her every movement.
The salt water felt like needles to her skin.
It wove inside her, racing through her veins, overpowering her every muscle.
That power—the one she’d always rejected—cowered behind her gut, shrinking in on itself until she could barely feel it.
Ironic, that it should run away now, when she needed it most.
But she’d never needed it before. She was strong without it, had survived without it. And she didn’t need it now.
Nes tried to focus on finding her feet. Her mind was so attuned to the agony wracking her body and so disoriented from being submerged, it took thunking her head on the bottom of the pool to find her bearings.
The water wasn’t deep enough to drown her. All she needed to do was stand and she could survive.
But moving her legs was like climbing a mudslide or swimming against an avalanche. Something no one knew about the Witch—they didn’t need to bind or anchor her feet to drown her. If they had the right person, the ocean would do it for them.
She’d lied to Toran. She knew how to swim, was fairly good at it. But she couldn’t swim in the sea. The second she was submerged in the salt water she sank to the bottom, her magic a weight she would never be strong enough to lift.
Above her, someone was talking—someone was screaming—but she could only hear the roaring in her ears.
Feet and hands found stone, found a floor, and she planted each on it, struggling to rise.
Standing felt like driving icicles through her heels.
The water lashed out at her every attempt, beating her back down just before she could break the surface.
Again and again and again. She drowned every time.
The ocean weakened her magic. It made her weak, and she hated it for that.
It wasn’t long before she couldn’t feel her magic.
Still, she knew it was there. The seawater kept it from leaving her until she was dead.
She knew that was how it worked. How it had worked for the Witch for centuries.
Only once she was nothing more than flesh could the magic escape, move on to the next poor girl.
But until then, her magic was a physical weight inside her. And that weight kept her underwater. Kept her under until she could no longer keep her eyes open. Kept her under until the light faded into darkness.