“That’s true, but did you forget that you left a corpse in the Inner Sanctum? The fresh ones are the best, because some of them still retain a will that can be manipulated. And… now there are two.”
My father. Did he just animate my father’s corpse, turning him into an undead?
“Our father and the embalmer are now under my control,” Ansar says softly. He sounds distant, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
Keeping my blade at Rhaegar’s neck, I force my body to become perfectly still. I’m like the frozen pond in Tyron Castle. One wrong step and I’ll crack and absorb everything into my abyss.
I remind myself that the Elite Guard are there, and between the dozen of them, they should be able to handle a couple of animated corpses.
And if that fails…
Finley.
The sweetest, most precious being that has ever graced my existence.
I’m so tempted to rush back to her and protect her, but that would defeat the purpose of what she truly needs from me.
And she’s imbued with the power of a god-equivalent ancient tree. I truly believe she has Eulisyn’s protection.
So I continue to force myself to be calm—on the outside, at least.
My time will come.
“So you’ve shown your hand,” I say softly, keeping my eyes trained on Ansar as he lazily rolls the crimson threads between his fingers. They aren’t actual threads, of course, but skeins of visible magic; ephemeral and fleeting. I’m sure he could make them disappear if he wanted. “What is it that you want?”
“Well, obviously I’d be overjoyed if you disappeared altogether,” Ansar replies, “but you of all people aren’t going to go quietly into the night, so let me offer a proposal that’s sure to guarantee your cooperation.”
“Go ahead.” The calmness of my own voice surprises me. “But if you hurt either of them, you know what’s going to happen to you.”
“I can only imagine,” Ansar says dryly. “Conversely, if you try anything extreme, Aralya will be no more. I know you came here for the dryad. If you didn’t care so bloody much, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. But I need someone like her. Tapping into her power makes my work so much easier. I’m loath to just give her to you.”
Rhaegar lets out a grunt of pain. Blood is tricking down his neck. Its scent permeates the air.
“It seems we’ve reached a stalemate.” Leticia walks across the dais, reaching her son’s side. She places her hand on his shoulder. “You want to unite Aralya and her daughter. We want a being we can draw power from, and we also want you neutralized, Corvan Duthriss. So how about a trade?”
“A trade.” My tone is flat; I can see where this is leading.
“I won’t harm your betrothed, and we’ll release the dryad. If you agree to take her place.”
Horseshit. There’s no way they’d allow a full-blooded dryad to go free. She’d destroy them all.
I just need to play the fool; let them think I’m easily swayed by emotion, as Leticia says.
“Let me see her first.” I inject a hint of desperation into my voice. “If you can show me that she’s alive and well, I’ll consider it. But you have to show me proof. Take me to her. Only then will I agree to it.”
Still, I keep pressure on Rhaegar’s neck. The old duke tries to shake his head, but he can’t move for fear the edge of my blade will bite him.
“Very well.” Ansar rises from his seat. “Let my grandfather go, and I’ll take you to her.”
“Deal.” I sheath my sword and release Rhaegar. The old man loses balance and stumbles, falling to his knees. A hiss of pain escapes him. “Lead the way, dear brother. And remember that if you try anything stupid, your head will be separated from your neck before you realize it.”
In response, Ansar holds up his hands, showing me the red threads. “I don’t think you’d want to do that. Kill me before I release her life-thread, and the dryad’s as good as dead. Come with me, dear brother.”
Rhaegar and Leticia start to follow.
Ansar turns around and glares at them. “Only me. I’ll deal with him alone.”
“Ansar,” the old duke growls. “We shall join you. I insist. Corvan Duthriss is not to be underestimated.”
“And neither am I,” my brother snaps, his eyes widening. “I told you, it will be only me!”
All of a sudden, he’s shouting, and yet his mother and grandfather don’t look the least bit surprised—as if they’re used to this sort of thing.
And they’re a little bit afraid of him, it seems.
Interesting. Either Ansar is unhinged, or he’s a very good actor.
“Summon what’s left of your armies, grandfather,” Ansar snaps. “We will go down into the crypts, and you will seal the entrance behind us. Do not enter until I return. Or do you think I can’t handle this? Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to become strong?” He stalks back toward Rhaegar, his feet silent on the polished timber floor. He’s completely barefoot. “Careful, grandfather. I can see your life-thread.”
Rhaegar Talavarra stops dead in his tracks. “Don’t you fucking dare, boy.”
Leticia says nothing. She just looks at her son, and her expression is strange; a mixture of awe, fear, and pride.
Ansar just laughs. “Let’s go, vampyr-brother. I will take you to the dryad, and you will give me what I want.” He dances away on bare feet, leaving me with little choice but to follow.
And so I walk after him, because all this time, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be in the same room as Finley’s mother; to see her, to feel her presence, to know that she’s alive.
To be within reach of her.
I’ve seen the effect my magic has on Finley.
I can’t imagine what it would do to a full-blooded dryad.
In my experience, wars are won not just on strategy, but on faith and risks. A commander has to know the people around him.
I know that Finley and the Elite Guard will overcome the danger they face. Power seethes just beneath her gentle surface—before I left her, I could feel it.
She’s under the protection of the godlike ancient tree.
I know that Aralya loved her daughter enough to place a seal on her—hiding her true nature from the dangerous world. And she put a curse on Lucar Solisar so that he could never harm her.
I know that my mother never wanted to hurt Aralya, even though the dryad’s potent blood drove her to madness.
It’s her power that I’ve inherited.
The Talavarras think they know me.
They don’t.
Not one fucking bit.
And neither do I know this half-brother of mine, who leads me down the dais and across the hall, through a side-door and into a narrow corridor, his velvet robes flapping behind him as he walks faster and faster.
His hands glow crimson with magical threads.
His movements are filled with frantic energy; his steps almost seem gleeful.
The thought has crossed my mind time and time again—what if this is a trap; something even I can’t overcome?
But no; Aralya’s definitely here. Ansar wouldn’t have become so powerful otherwise, and I know my father wasn’t lying.
I just have to trust that this blood of mine—this gift—can do what it always does.
60
FINLEY
A fragile stillness hangs over the Inner Sanctum of Rahava’s Imperial Palace.
Corvan’s gone.