Devery stopped a few feet in front of his mother. “Let Katya go, Mother, and I’ll come willingly. You don’t have to hurt her. She’s … she’s a gift, remember. She’s just a little girl.”
Brinna chuckled. “You’ve always been soft, Devery. My little experiment with you failed, and I didn’t make you nearly hard enough. You were an excellent killer, love, but you still thought you had choices.”
The fire in Brinna’s hand went out unexpectedly, and a small wave of mage work washed across Gemma’s face. Brinna released the girl, who crashed sobbing into Devery’s arms. He bent and whispered something into her hair, and she nodded. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on the forehead. Then he released her. She ran toward Gemma with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Gemma caught Katya, and wrapped her in her arms. Brinna turned Devery around and pushed him to his knees. She placed one hand on his head. “I never should have left you with free will,” she snarled as she began to trace a character in the air with her fingertip. “I’ll give you back all of your gifts just as soon as I have a tighter leash on you.”
Gemma stared at Devery, paralyzed. Her heart caught in her throat, terror and pain roaring in her mind for her attention. The blood in her veins pounded so loudly that it was all she could hear, and all she could see was the fear in his eyes. It tore at her soul.
Devery’s eyes widened, holding Gemma’s gaze with his own. Brinna continued to draw her elaborate mark in the air. Devery began to snap his fingers.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
He stared into her eyes, as if willing her to understand. Gemma shook her head, defiant. It was the code they’d never used.
One meant “run!”
Two meant “I’ve got your backside.”
Three meant “have patience.”
And four meant “kill me.”
Katya was sobbing into Gemma’s shirt, her fingertips running aimlessly along the skin of Gemma’s arm. Gemma wanted to push her away. She needed to get to Devery, to save him from whatever evil his mother was going to make him do. She was not going to kill Devery, no matter what he asked her to do.
“No!” Gemma screamed, just as fire raced up her arm, a wave of mage work nearly knocking her from her feet. She looked down, meeting Katya’s gaze.
Devery’s daughter grinned up at her. Then she stepped aside. She snapped her fingers just once.
Run!
Gemma could feel magic coursing through her. Her body felt capable of anything. She was beside them, blade in hand, before Brinna had any idea that the tide had turned. Gemma reached out, pushing Devery aside. It took no more effort than shooing away a fly. He dropped out of the way, wearing a smile as wide as the room.
Gemma didn’t give the woman time to speak. She didn’t give her time to draw a last breath. “Prick you, Brinna,” she growled as she drove the knife into the mage woman’s belly and lifted upward, gutting her just as she’d promised she would. She didn’t pause to admire her work. She turned back toward Katya just in time to see the Void break loose.
Tollan had watched Isbit slump over, and he felt as if he was supposed to do something. But in truth, all he’d felt was relief. Her headfirst dive into destruction had been halted, and while he hoped she would be all right, he was glad that she wouldn’t be dragging the people he cared about down with her. He ignored the maid’s whimpers and moved next to Elam, who knelt beside Isbit.
“Is she all right? What happened?” Tollan asked.
Elam rolled Isbit onto her back and placed his fingers on her throat. He nodded, his brow furrowed. “She’ll be fine.” Something in his tone made the hair on Tollan’s neck stand up, but he didn’t have time to analyze it because he heard someone speaking to Gemma.
Whatever was happening, Tollan suddenly knew that it was his responsibility to help them. It was House Daghan that had held the mage women as slaves. His grandfather and great-grandfather had forced them, against their will, to serve the crown. He would not sit idly by while the Under bore the brunt of his family’s failings. “We have to help them,” he said, meeting Wince’s gaze.
To his credit, Wince simply nodded and drew his sword. Tollan stood, looking down at Elam. “I’ll be right back,” he said softly. And he was grateful that his voice trembled only a little.
They strode into the room with more bravado than Tollan felt. Katya was sobbing against Gemma’s chest, and Lady Brinna had Devery on his knees. She was drawing a mage mark in the air, and Gemma was trembling.
Across the room, someone shrieked. Princess Elsha stood before the throne, wearing a crown of silver that he’d never seen before. “You!” she screamed. “You’re dead! You’re … you’re ruining everything!” Where once had been the cool, poised princess he saw a woman who had given over to madness. She looked at him with such a particular hatred, as if he had personally done something unforgivable to her, as if he’d murdered all that she loved. The intensity of her gaze sent a shiver through him.
Suddenly, both mage women were scrawling characters in the air. “You have to die,” Elsha said, as her mark began to take shape. Her voice had taken on a mechanical quality. “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve given up. You have to die.”
Then Gemma shrieked, and he couldn’t help but look at her for an instant, even though Elsha was taking aim at him. But it was only an instant. Because suddenly, Gemma was moving toward Lady Brinna with the same awe-inspiring grace and speed that Devery had once possessed. “Balls!” Wince groaned, drawing his attention back to Elsha, who wore an expression of glee.
The mark that she drew was intricate and terrifying. It bore all the characteristics of the other marks he’d seen, but there was something sinister about it as it took shape. The pattern shivered with dark sparks and even his untrained eye could see the menacing nature of it as she made the elaborate swoops and curving lines.
As she finished the mark with a flourish, Elsha stepped back, watching as the writhing black miasma she had made took on a life of its own. It pulsed and throbbed, waiting to be released by its maker. Elsha smiled coldly at him. “Time to die, Tollan. There’s nowhere to escape to this time.”
Before Tollan could do anything, Wince pushed his way in front of him. He didn’t even have his blade up—he just thrust his chest out, waiting to catch the death mark as it raced toward them.
Their friendship flashed through Tollan’s mind. The hours they had spent training together, the endless games of tag and Four Fat Fathers. Their rides with Uri and their secret trips into the city. Agony erupted in the pit of Tollan’s stomach. He would not let Wince die for him. Wince had accepted him for who he was even when he could not accept himself. He wouldn’t let that be stolen from the world.
“I love you, brother,” he said, as he pressed his foot into the back of Wince’s knee and watched his oldest friend tumble to the floor. It was a damned dirty trick, but one he had played on his friend a dozen times. He stepped over Wince to meet his fate, and as the darkness swallowed him, he felt no pain. He felt pride for the man he’d become.
Wince could see that Tollan was dead, could tell by the vacancy in his eyes. Whatever brightness the goddess had breathed into him upon his birth had gone as the swirling black death mark struck him.
The throne room was silent. Wince tried to breathe but air refused to move in or out of his lungs. He pressed a hand to his mouth and bent over, trying to unsee what he’d seen. Tollan couldn’t be dead. He’d only just begun to live.