And then pain.
No, agony. Like scissors scraped up my veins, flooding my body with anger and hate and greed, my vices laid bare as the infection marches through my blood like banners of war. The poison burns like a rash now, fiery and getting worse, and I resist the urge to scratch, to look, to confirm what I see reflected in their faces.
It’s spreading.
“How can it possibly move that fast?” Tobek asks, incredulous.
North takes a step toward me but falters, looking down at his shaking hands still riddled with poison. If he touches me now, if he tries to withdraw the infection, he could spread it even further—either through me or through him. He stares at Bryn and she stares back, defiant.
“You’re an amplifier,” he says weakly. “That would explain why the binding spell is strong enough to read a mile out, and why Miss Locke—”
“I warned you not to touch me,” she says.
Swearing, North breaks for her but Tobek intervenes, holding him back.
“North,” I say. Or maybe I only think it; the world feels diluted, as if I’m sinking underwater.
Tobek looks between us, frantic. “What do we do?”
North stares at me, haunted, before his expression hardens. Throwing back his shoulders, he tears off his coat and begins cuffing the sleeves of his shirt. His arms are peppered with blood and scratches from the crows. “Stones,” he says.
“Sir, your blood—”
“Damn it, Tobek!”
Tobek gapes at him, wounded, before he bolts for the wagon. Drawers open and slam from inside as North sinks beside me. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.
“No!” Bryn darts forward. “My magic, my servant, my rules.”
“If we don’t extract the poison, it will grow roots and infect her blood.” North balls his coat beneath my head. “At best, she’ll die, at worst she’ll turn hellborne. And if she dies, your binding spell won’t protect you anymore, princess.” Scorn colors the word. “And it’s still a long way to New Prevast. Tobek!”
Tobek flies out of the wagon, dropping rocks that he doubles back to retrieve. When he arrives, his face is flushed and he cowers, terrified of North.
North doesn’t even notice. Grabbing a stone, he presses it to my forearm, where the skin has already started to split apart. He hesitates, eyes meeting mine.
I clutch his shoulder before nodding my agreement. Go.
Mother of a sainted virgin.
Excision feels like a hundred million of Alistair’s needles scraping the underside of my skin. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out, only a choked, muted gasp that shimmers like oil in the air above me. My back arches off the ground and every nerve inside me coils tight, ready to snap. Tobek pins me down, but I feel the infection beginning to fray at the edges and sink even deeper, hiding where North can’t reach it.
North grunts and pulls harder. Ridges begin to form under my skin, mimicking the mountains around us. Too fast—he’s moving too fast; he’s tangling the threads and creating knots. My heart races forward, galloping into rhythm like drums of war until there’s nothing in me but noise—
I claw at him. “Stop,” I cry, as threads of poison snap, recoiling up my arm like lashes.
North growls and rocks back to his feet, twisting away from me and hurling the stone as far as he can. It disappears against the sky before he presses both hands to his forehead, pacing an agitated line between me and the fire.
“You amplified the infection,” North says, shaken. “At this rate, it’ll reach her heart within a few hours. I can’t stop it, not—not while I’m like this. Not while my infection is so close to the surface.”
Ash sticks to my lips and I struggle to swallow. He speaks so clinically, impassive, but I know what it means.
I’m dying.
North looks at me, helpless, before his gaze shifts to the wagon. A debate plays across his features as he straightens. Resolved. “I’ll take her to Revnik,” he says. “There’s a transferent there who can draw out the infection. He’s clean, there’ll be no risk involved.”
Tobek shakes his head. “No. We can’t split up, not now.”
“Continue toward New Prevast,” North says, already angling for the horses. “Ride through the night; we’ll meet you in the morning.”
“I can’t fight the hellborne on my own! And if her father attacks again—”
“Take the wagon. I’ll recast the remaining ward. It’s not ideal but it’s sufficient.”
“The wagon is too slow! I’m sorry, sir, but she’s—” Tobek’s eyes meet mine in apology before he looks away. “We’re wasting time,” he says softly.
“Wood holds magic better than a horse can,” North says. “Miss Dossel will be able to make the spell stronger than it would be on its own. And once you reach the pass, Lord Inichi promised an escort.” Sucking in a deep breath, he releases it slowly, chin dropping toward his chest.
“Or,” says Bryn, and he looks up with a frown. She holds a hand above my chest, her hair hanging above my face. “I amplify that infection again and it goes straight to her heart,” she says.
North doesn’t move.
“You want this magic,” says Bryn. Her hand hovers, trembling, showing her nerves. “You need it to save this pathetic kingdom. But even if she dies, I’m still an amplifier with a binding spell strong enough to make a case for myself with the prince. With someone like me, your prince’s supply of magic could last two, three times longer and be that much stronger. I don’t need her anymore. So you want to save her life?” Her hand dips above my heart. “Make me an offer for it.”
Nobody speaks. I stare at her palm, blackened with ash and dirt, and her face, fierce as the fire behind her. She knows she can’t go home now, not without an army, and there’s a hint of unfamiliar desperation in her eyes.
North breaks the silence, his voice thin. “What do you want?”
Tobek swears beneath his breath, hands folding behind his neck as he spins away from us.
“My father’s throne,” says Bryn, triumph spreading across her face. “I win my war, Corbin wins his.”
“You have a plan, even with the loyalty spells?”
Bryn lifts her chin and smiles. “I know how to kill my father.”
North looks to me and I shake my head, pleading with him. Her throne is worthless.
But her magic isn’t.
“Prepare the horse,” he says to Tobek.
“Sir. Please don’t do this. After all we’ve done . . .”
“It is not your choice,” North says.
Tobek stares at his master, the young man who saved his life by giving him a second chance. It’s a look of finality, of farewell, of knowing that tomorrow, the world will have shifted an inch off course and the sun will never rise the same way again.
“Yes, sir,” Tobek finally says, all formality. He retrieves his crossbow and stalks toward the horses, shoulders rigid.
North watches him leave with his own sorrow etched in the shadows of his face. Rubbing his mouth, he inhales sharply and lowers his hand. “I agree,” he says.