Chapter 22
“Well, fuck,” Taliesin mutters.
A spike of fear pierces my already-ruined heart.
I clench my hands, shifting my weight, ready to run if so much as a speck of dirt skitters across the floor.
A long moment passes where neither of us moves.
The moment stretches into another, then another, until at last Taliesin approaches the wrecked sarcophagus.
He leans over the opening and peers inside. A tense beat passes. “There’s nothing here. It’s safe to come closer.” Then he holds out his arm between me and the platform, like he’s blocking me from getting too close. “Just don’t touch it.”
“The magic protecting it is clearly gone.” Even so, I approach slowly. Despite how little I believe in fate, I have no desire to tempt it.
The sarcophagus is lined with red velvet with a small square of pillow tucked into the wider end.
Piles of grit lay inside, and the bottom half of the lid has collapsed inward at an angle.
A sudden urge to touch it comes over me.
My fingers twitch, desperate to dance across the surface, to feel the rough stone that once contained a god.
“It looks like someone smashed their way in,” he says grimly. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.”
I’m not so sure.
It confirms my fears: the Order has excavated Arawn’s body in preparation of my return, after I’ve killed and then resurrected the man standing beside me. My stomach twists. He knows I came to kill him. I don’t think he knows why, even if he knows the full truth of what I can do.
“What is it?” he asks.
For stars’ sake, I wish he couldn’t read me as well as he does.
But maybe he should know. Put it all out on the table, so he understands how far the Order has already gone.
Before I can speak, his eyes lock on something behind me. “There was something else here.”
He strides by, heading toward a large depression carved into the wall. The floor beneath it has been clearly disturbed. Tracks pattern the dust—footprints and a deep curving groove that snakes toward the exit, like something heavy was dragged away.
“The harp,” I say. “It must have been here.”
He kneels, running his finger through the dirt. Then he lifts it to his nose and sniffs.
“No, if it was the harp, the rebels would have taken it when they found this place. It was something else.” He glances up at me. “Something that smells like magic.”
A shiver goes down my spine. “So they stole a god and whatever was stored here with him.”
He nods. “Can you read how many Order members were here?”
I press the talisman embedded in my neck. Usually, power hums against my skin, even when I don’t call for it. It’s like an endless well. Sometimes low but never empty. Until now.
I shake my head, pressing harder. “There’s nothing there.”
“You’re saying no one was here? But it must have been the Order.”
“No, I’m saying the talisman’s magic is gone. Or it’s empty.” My voice spikes as panic claws up my throat. “Or they cut me off.”
“Or it’s muted.” His eyes lift to the walls. Outside, they were an endless black, but here the color has faded to a dull gray that strikes an unsettling resemblance to my dagger’s hilt.
“Iron,” I whisper.
The god’s tomb is built of human iron. Or at least lined with it. My mind spins through the implications, none of them good. Who would ever need to cage a dead god in iron? With wards? And then drag him from its grave?
Arawn is already alive.
The thought came to me before, but it was easier to dismiss. Now…now it’s as if the truth is shouting in my face.
It doesn’t explain my assignment, though. If he’s already alive, why would the Order want me to resurrect him?
So they can control him—and his access to magic.
Nausea churns in my gut. It makes sense in a way that none of this truly has until now.
Sending me after Taliesin Wynn isn’t about testing how well I can resurrect someone, or how long they can survive if they’re more than a stranger to me.
It’s about testing my full necromancy. Kill, resurrect, control.
They know my worst truth, my greatest secret.
And judging by how quickly they put my assignment together, they’ve always known.
They’ve been waiting for me to slip.
Taliesin pushes off the ground. He gently takes my chin in his hand, then shifts my attention toward him. His eyes flicker across my face. Concern furrows the line between his brow, and it’s been so long since anyone has looked at me like this, I can’t stop the tears from spilling down my cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs. “Is it the Order? Osian? Because they will answer for what they’ve done.”
Osian’s name feels wrong on his tongue. I pull away, pacing to the middle of the room.
But then his name echoes in my mind again.
Osian. He’s the only one I told about that aspect of my power.
I have never used it that way, so no one could have witnessed it by accident.
There’s only one way they know. He told them.
The betrayal cuts as deep as any sword. I grip the side of the platform, leaning against the broken stone, hissing between my teeth. I want to believe Osian would never turn on me like that, that he would take my secrets to his grave like he swore he would.
And maybe once he would have. Back at the academy. Before we were partners. Before I funnelled the Order’s strength-enhancing magic into his body every time we went on a mission.
Because he didn’t trust me. He thought my monstrous death magic would bleed into the Order’s, corrupting him and turning him into something I could control.
I sag against the stone. Everything—and everyone—I ever trusted lies to me.
Uses me.
Despises me.
“It is Osian,” Taliesin mutters from across the room. “I’m going to fucking kill the bastard.”
My eyes snap to his face. “Don’t you dare touch him.”
He laughs humorlessly. “That man could rip your heart out your chest, eat it for breakfast, and you’d still defend him.” He takes a slow step toward me, his eyes full of fire. “Tell me, Swynwraig. What could he have possibly done to inspire that kind of loyalty?”
For a moment, I’m speechless. Because I don’t know. I don’t stars-damned know why I love him as much as I do. But maybe you don’t need a reason to love someone. Maybe you just feel it.
Still, my chest tightens. There’s truth in that, but it rings hollow when I think of Osian.
“He’s my family. The only person who has cared enough to stay by my side all these years,” I try to explain. “The only one who hasn’t run from me and my magic.”
“The only one you can remember not running.”
I flinch.
“Think about it.” He takes another step toward me, slowly, like I’m a wild animal who might bolt at any sudden movement.
“How convenient that your magic takes such a toll on your mind, making you forget things. How much easier it would be for the Order to convince you to do what they want if you have just one anchor, one constant tying them to you. One person you remember caring for you, a person who just happens to be a Rhyfelwr who needs you at his side.”
The tears are storming down my face now, hot and furious on my flushed cheeks. I swipe at them, but they just keep coming. Taliesin’s words have ripped a hole in my heart, not because he’s being cruel, not because he’s trying to hurt me, but because he’s given voice to my worst fears.
Fears I’ve shoved into the furthest corners of my mind, so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge them.
Buried, bottled up, torn apart at the seams. Whatever it took to keep them down.
Taliesin’s gaze sweeps over me, and a tortured expression settles over his face. His hands fall heavily to his sides. “Please don’t cry. I said too much. My hatred of the Order made me—”
A scrape bounces off the iron walls.
I draw in a sharp breath, turning toward the passage that leads back to the outside world.
An agonizing silence follows until a gentle wind pushes a dead leaf into the chamber, its brittle edges scraping across the stone.
I release my breath, shaking my head at myself.
All of this, it’s getting to me. My nerves are frayed beyond belief.
“We got what we came for,” I say, my voice thin and strained from all the tears. “We should go.”
“Get behind me,” he commands.
My stomach drops. “Why?”
But then I hear it, another scrape. It’s far too loud to pass as a leaf this time. I pull my dagger from my waistband and fall in behind him, shifting to the side just enough to view the passageway.
At least a dozen figures pour inside. The Order, my mind screams, until the dark glaze of their eyes comes into focus. The rogues spill into the tomb, forming a line of swords between us and the exit.
I breathe unevenly, remembering the words of the enemy I faced in the tower. They want me dead. Taliesin, too. And with the passage fully blocked, there’s only one way out. Through them.
Taliesin seems to understand the same moment I do. He lifts his hand and murmurs a word, like he’s calling upon his magic. That’s all we need. He can turn them all to shattered ice. But only a heartbeat later, he mutters a curse.
Unease rolls down my spine. “What is it?”
“The fucking iron,” he snarls.
The rogues move. Taliesin grabs my arm, dragging me behind the sarcophagus.
I press my back against the stone, sucking in air through my nose.
When the first enemy rounds the right side, Taliesin drives his sword into her chest without a moment’s hesitation.
A horrible crunch fills the air, Viscous black blood seeps from her wound, carrying the stench of sulphur and rot.
I recoil. I’ve never seen—or smelled—anything like it. The other rogues didn’t bleed like this. But I don’t have time to wonder at it. A rogue comes up on my left, just as another appears on Taliesin’s right.
I don’t think. I just move.
I brandish my dagger, hissing like a feral cat.
The rogue slashes a blade at me. I jerk back, trying to avoid its path, but I’m too slow. The dagger nicks my lower cheek and heat flares across my face. Hot blood hits my lips. Grimacing, I reach up to brush it away, but the rogue’s already on me again.
A second blade swings toward my ribs. I twist away and lash out with my boot in sheer desperation, landing a blow hard enough to conjure a grunt of pain.
He stumbles, but regains his footing almost instantly, already pressing forward again.
I try to meet him with my blade, but the timing’s off.
He knocks it aside and closes the distance.
My arm feels heavy, my heartbeat far too fast. This is nothing like training, and I can feel the fight slipping out of my control.
Until a growl of rage sounds behind me, steel ringing against steel, and my opponent’s eyes flick toward the fight beyond my shoulder.
He doesn’t see me coming as I lunge with my dagger. The steel sinks into his eyeball, splitting his skull and killing him almost instantly. Another wave of sulphur rushes into my face. I try to yank out my weapon, but it won’t budge.
Horrified, my hand unclenches the dagger, and I watch the rogue crumple to the stone. His vacant eyes stare back at me, one embedded with my blade. Black blood spills down his face like tears.
But I feel no sense of victory. The pain in my face is almost blinding. Black dots crowd my vision, and the world around me starts to spin. Maybe he cut me deeper than I thought.
Wincing, I bend over at the middle, grip my knees to steady myself, and try to catch my breath.
I must gasp too loud because Taliesin looks over his shoulder, a fleeting glance to make sure I’m all right. When his eyes land on my face, he shudders, and his sword drops to his side. Several more bodies lie at his feet, but there must be half a dozen more still alive.
My mind screams, even as my voice gets trapped in my throat. He should keep fighting. Another rogue will round the sarcophagus any second now.
What are you doing? Focus! I want to say.
But then his lip curls. “They cut you.”
“Yes, but that’s not what’s important right now. You need to—”
He lifts his hand toward my face and drags his thumb across my lip, cold and burning all at once.
I find myself responding to his touch, unfolding, straightening, allowing him to lead me to a stronger stance.
His thumb makes its way to the corner of my mouth, pressing harder now.
Fury—and something I can’t name—churns in his eyes.
He looks like he might tear the world apart.
My lungs tighten—for an entirely different reason now.
Then he pulls his hand away. My blood paints his skin.
“There,” he murmurs, his eyes still locked on mine. “I think I got it all.”
A rogue rises behind him, and a sword whistles toward his throat.