When he did, she growled at him, her words more animal than human. “What did you do, Devery? How could you?” She pulled another dagger from the sheath on her ankle.
Devery’s shoulders slumped as he met her gaze, then looked away. He looked everywhere but at her as he began to pace the small room, his feet making no sound despite what appeared to her to be plodding, weary steps.
Gemma’s hand twitched on the hilt of her dagger. Her blood was pumping through her veins with such fierceness that she could hear it pounding in her ears. She allowed the rhythm to fuel her rage as she stared at him.
“I need to explain something to you, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t stab me, but …” He looked at her once more, a wealth of emotion in his eyes. “I understand if you must.” He spread his arms wide. “I am without a weapon, and I offer myself to the queen for judgment.”
A lump formed in her throat. She nodded. Tears stung her eyes, and she found her hand gripping the hilt of the knife in her lap until her knuckles turned white.
Devery opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it closed. He walked the length of the room, then back again, before kneeling in front of her. His face was a white mask, his eyes vulnerable and panicked. “I’ve practiced these words a thousand times.” His voice trembled, but Gemma refused to let him see that it pained her.
He continued slowly, the words pulled from him with great effort.
“I planned and prepared and the words … they’re inadequate. Nothing I say will ever change what I’ve done.”
Her mind raced. Was he responsible for the king and Melnora? Did he set the fires? Why? Her heart ached as the most painful question bubbled to the surface. “Did you kill Fin?”
His eyes went wide, and he nodded as tears slid down his cheeks. He shook with sobs as he said, “I didn’t want to, Gem. I … It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. He was supposed to be asleep, just like everyone else. Like you were supposed to be. I planned and worked my ass raw making sure this whole thing would be as bloodless as possible. I—”
She found her gaze pinned to the throbbing of his pulse in his throat. If she reached out with her blade, she could end this, right now. She’d never have to hear what else he had to say. Her voice was low despite her urge to scream. “Not entirely bloodless. There was Melnora.”
He sighed. His hands cupped the back of her legs as he said, “No. Not entirely.”
“Keep your prickling hands off of me, you bastard,” she growled. “You killed Fin! He loved you, and you killed him!” Vomit stung the back of her throat and she gasped for air, but there was none in the room. Every inch was filled with betrayal and rage and agony, and there was no room left for anything else.
He leaned away from her, his eyes streaming tears. “I had no choice, Gemma. I was protecting …” He trailed off, his eyes flickering in panic. “Gemma, I love you. I would never hurt you. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you!” He shook with emotion and Gemma couldn’t tell whether it was fear or anger or something else.
“You’ve already hurt me! You may as well have sliced me open the way you cut Fin!” she screamed, slapping at him and pushing the hilt of her knife into his hand. “Go ahead and kill me like you killed Fin. Get it over with. It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than this.”
“Gemma,” he sighed. “If I wanted you to die, you’d be dead already.”
He said it without threat or malice. Just a statement of fact. All the fight drained out of his eyes as he met her gaze.
Her heart turned to stone. She flung the dagger that he refused across the room, and it stuck in the wall beside the first. He might have lost the will to fight, but she was just getting started.
“Tell me about your daughter, you lying shit! Is she the one who was worth killing Fin for?”
He stared at the dagger still quivering in the wall. The rage that rolled off her filled the room with black energy. Death lived in rooms like that. Death and words that couldn’t be taken back. He didn’t touch her again. “How did you—” he croaked.
“I overheard you and Brinna arguing. In Vagan. I heard the girl arrive, and I …” She choked on a sob.
There was an ache in his eyes, a depth of emotion that was too much for her to look at. It wasn’t fair that he could dampen all the rage within her with just one expression, but she had loved him too long not to see the devastation within him. A wisp of pity snaked its way through the barely caged violence within her, and she hated him for it, even as she allowed it to grow.
“Will you let me explain? I want to tell you everything. And then I swear by the goddess, if you think I should die, I will bare my throat for your blade.”
She forced herself to look into his blue eyes, which suddenly seemed like an unknown sea, when she had so often swum in their familiar depths before. She nearly gagged as she thought of Melnora—ashen eyes staring blankly at the sky. And Fin—gutted from neck to navel.
Her mind cleared. She had trained for this all her life. She was good at what she did—good enough to be queen—and she wasn’t going to sit here and heave yesterday’s luncheon all over his lap. Prick that.
She stared into his eyes and was filled with regret. She couldn’t tell him about the baby now. That future was lost to her. Her words sounded like a death rattle. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“Yes, you do,” Devery said, leaning toward her once more. “But there were things I could not share with you. I’m so sorry, Gem. May I?” he asked, reaching for Gemma’s hand. “I want to show you something.” He moved slowly. Gemma had produced another blade that was bare in her hand, and she could almost see his blood coating its edge. It wouldn’t take much to push her to violence. “Put your hand here.” Yesterday, that would have turned into a lewd jest, but today, she doubted that Devery would ever hear her laugh again.
She nodded, though she kept her right hand firmly on the handle of the knife in her lap. She placed her fingertips on his scalp.
He moved closer, his gaze never leaving hers. “I was born in Vaga sixty-eight years ago.”
She couldn’t help her shock. She had expected nearly anything but what he said.
“Here,” he said, bending his neck and guiding her fingers along his scalp. “Do you feel this one?”
Her lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. The tips of her fingers brushed through his tangled hair, and the moment she felt the raised scar on his scalp, she knew what she was feeling. It had been easy to assume that they were the scars of his trade, but she began to weep as he said, “That is the mage mark for long life. It was placed upon me when I was twelve, and it has slowed down my years to a crawl.” She hated that he had unnerved her. She hated that that wisp of pity was growing within her, even though she couldn’t explain why.
He reached out and brushed away a tear that ran down her face as he moved her hand to another scar. “This is the mage mark for speed,” he said, then moved to another, “and this is the mark of the light-footed.” He moved her hand half a dozen more times, naming scars for strength, stamina, intelligence, dexterity, calm and cunning, while tears continued to stain Gemma’s face.
“Who did this to you?” she choked, though she was sure she already knew the answer. A new, darker hatred was growing within her as she thought of the woman downstairs.
He licked his lips, then looked down at the floor and said, “My mother. What do you know of mage work?”