“It’s right there on the edge of my tongue,” she says, folding her hand over his, cupping the syringe between them as if they were about to waltz. She tilts her head and his smile widens, turning devilish as she plucks the needle from his hand.
There’s no chance for him to even gasp, to scream. Like a strike of lightning, Bryn drives the needle in the boy’s chest and depresses the plunger, releasing the entire vial of poisoned blood into his heart before she unsheathes his dagger and steps back, chin high. His smile turns into a gruesome scream as he claws at the needle, knocking it loose. Dropping to his knees, he stares up at Bryn and she stares him down, unflinching.
“I didn’t remember your name,” she says softly, “because it was never worth knowing.”
Loomis chokes back a strangled gasp of surprise. Bryn rounds on him, holding the boy’s dagger to his throat as she unsheathes his sword as well. “I actually liked you, Loomis. You were ambitious in a court full of cowards.”
He stares at her, stricken. “Your majesty—”
“But then you chose my sister,” she says, gesturing toward me before handing him the dagger, holding the sword to his back. He dutifully drops to his knees and cuts me loose before she reclaims the dagger, crossing it over the blade of the sword in an X at his neck. “Greed always costs.”
“Bryndalin,” he tries, softer this time, more pleading.
Bryn presses both blades into his skin, drawing twin points of blood. “I should thank you,” she says, almost breathless. “You were the first man to show me that human life is its own commodity.”
The boy begins convulsing, clawing at his skin. Thin rivers of poison route a map up his throat, across his jaw. How long does it take to turn hellborne?
Bryn scowls at the boy before glancing at me. “Get the pistol,” she says, nodding the direction.
I hurry to retrieve it from the saddlebag, holding it for her to take.
She doesn’t. “Do you know how to use it?”
I push it toward her again. “No,” I say, and I don’t want to learn.
“I suggest you start by pointing it at his head,” Bryn replies darkly. “Pull the trigger when you’re ready.”
My spine turns to ice. “What?”
“Kill him,” says Bryn.
“I—I can’t do that.”
“Would you rather have the sword?” She pulls back, withdrawing the blade in question.
“No,” I say, emphatic. “No, I mean, I can’t—” The words tangle in my throat and I shake my head, backing away.
Bryn stares at me, mouth grim. “Once again, you harbor the illusion that you’re being given a choice.” Tossing the sword aside, she grabs my arm and yanks me forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against Loomis’s temple. “Pull the trigger. Shoot. You’d already be done by now.”
“This wasn’t part of the agreement—”
“The agreement was to start a war,” she says. “You chose your side. Now honor your promises or I’ll honor mine.”
Blood trumpets in my head, a pulsing, beating no-no-no. I’ve fought before, but always against an opponent who accepted the risks of the ring—and who knew a palm on the floor could save them if things went bad. But I can’t do this, not to an unarmed man with no chance of intervention. It will unbalance my soul.
“It’s either him or Cadence,” says Bryn. Her eyes glitter in the twilight, like twin pools of oil. Releasing her hold on the gun, she steps back, out of the way, watching me. Waiting.
Horror rakes down my back: Is she only doing this to prove she has power over me?
Loomis’s breath catches, damp and rattling. He wets his lips and shifts his weight across his knees, eyes closed, features contorted with the terror of anticipation.
Loomis or Cadence; Cadence or me. Do I want my sister enough to kill for her?
“His majesty is not a heartless man,” Loomis tries weakly. “He would show mercy for your crimes—”
“That is a lie,” I say, choking on the words as my throat closes tighter. “Perrote is a murderer.”
And now, so am I.
It’s almost too easy, it’s almost too fast. An instant is all it takes to scar my soul down to the bone as the echo of my choice screams through the trees.
There are monsters in Avinea.
Bryn is there immediately, wiping away the blood, the tears, the goose bumps that tighten my skin. Smoke twines between us as she cradles my face in her hands. “You’re all right,” she says. Wolves bay in the distance, called by the howl of gunshot, the smell of fresh meat. “Cadence needs you to be stronger than this.”
The gun slides out of my hand. I close my eyes, curling my arms over my face, squeezing back the tears and the screams. Pulling away from me, Bryn gathers her skirts to avoid the blood on the ground and crouches, frisking both bodies. The boy grabs her arm, desperation bright in his eyes.
“Please,” he wheezes.
“My father would have killed you both as soon as you returned,” she says gently, moving his dark curls out of his eyes. “You stupid boy. Nobody leaves Brindaigel.”
Standing, she offers me a dagger. “Always aim for the heart,” she says. “Be careful of the ribs. Cut the throat if you have to, but use enough force or you’re wasting your time.”
Growling, I grab her by the wrist; the bones are tiny, fragile, easy to break. Bryn pulls back, but when I don’t release her, she stops moving, expression defiant.
I can’t breathe. Blood freckles her face; pools of shadow hollow the spaces beneath her eyes. We stare each other down and though I stand several inches taller than her, she towers over me.
“I am not the enemy tonight,” she says.
Still holding my gaze, she deliberately pulls out of my grip, proving how powerless I really am.
Staggering back, I bump into a tree and bend over my knees, sucking in harsh gasps of air. Bryn turns for the horses. “We’ll ride to Nevik and continue as planned,” she says. “Nothing has changed.”
A boy lies dying at her feet. Another man is dead at mine. The whole world has shifted an inch to the side; tomorrow, the sun will rise at a different angle than it did before.
I killed a man and nothing will ever be the same.
Turning, I run, graceless and frantic. Spells are woven out of threads, I think; if I run fast enough, far enough, maybe, maybe it could snap apart and Bryn couldn’t hurt me—
A figure materializes in the darkness and I veer to miss colliding with it, my boots skidding on the cover of dead leaves before I lose my balance and fall. A woman frowns at me as I raise my dagger in delayed defense. The blade shakes in my tremulous grip and she smirks. Amused.
She’s the same deadly kind of pretty that Bryn wears so well. Moonlight-colored hair with darkened tips, silver eyes and narrow brows. Spells are woven across her arms and throat, countered by veins of dead magic that trace her face in shades of charcoal.
“Are you the daughter of the king?” she asks in a voice like smoke and screaming.
“That’s not her,” a voice says, male and familiar. Kellig. He slinks out of the shadows, prowling behind the woman.