Silverblood Page 9

  Lysander swallowed to moisten his dry throat, but it didn’t help. “I would have been the worst possible husband, and our marriage would not have prevented the Sacrificial War.”

  He ignored Ryon and read Brooke’s response from her lips. “I would have done my best to love you anyway,” she said.

  Brooke downed the rest of her tea, shoved the cup and saucer at her handmaiden, and turned on her heel.

  Wait!

  Lysander thrust the thought at her with all the will he could muster—with all the desperation and sorrow that threatened to drown him.

  She paused. Glanced back at him over her shoulder. Blinked in surprise.

  Had she heard him?

  You have natural talent for aether. Brooke’s voice rang like a song through his mind. Her eyelids drooped. Such a waste.

  Lysander struggled for composure. Set me free in secret. I can become one of your guards—invisible. I can help you establish peace with the Emberhawk. No one would—

  I will not defy the will . . . of my people. Her voice was firm, yet accompanied by a maelstrom of emotion. You will . . . meet the . . . creator. I’m . . . sorry.

  Confusion and fear branched out from her thoughts like twigs from a dying tree. But they weren’t directed at him. Weariness overwhelmed her, bleeding out from her presence and infecting him with exhaustion.

  Abruptly, the mental connection was severed, leaving Lysander alone and empty within his own mind once again.

  Brooke swayed and Ryon caught her. She put a hand to her head as she slid to the floor.

  Lysander rushed to the bars, ignoring the protest in his muscles. “What’s wrong?”

  Dimbae reappeared and cradled Brooke. He and Ryon spoke so quickly that Lysander couldn’t read their lips.

  “What’s happened?” Lysander yelled.

  “She’s exhausted,” Ryon signed as Dimbae held a hand to her forehead over peacefully closed eyes. “Just needs sleep.”

  “No, something’s wrong. She didn’t just pass out; I felt her fear.” Lysander reached his hand through the bars. “Give me that cup.”

  Ryon looked doubtful. “We’ve been trying to get her to rest—”

  “Give me the cup!”

  The handmaiden’s eyes were as wide as the shaking saucer in her hand. At Ryon’s nod, she carefully held the cup out.

  Lysander snatched it and dunked his finger into the last remaining drops. Tiny fragments of crushed leaves clung to his skin. He smelled it, tasted. Closed his eyes.

  Beneath the strong flavor of yaupon, between the layers of citrus and ginger and faint sweetness, lay a mild taste undetectable by most: dreamthistle.

  Perennial herb. Purple leaves. White buds. Roots infused with concentrated poison. His favorite for silent assassinations.

  “She’s been poisoned.” Lysander glared at the horrified handmaiden and shoved the cup back at her. “The antidote is on my belt. Give it to me, and I’ll save her.”

  Ryon looked from him to Brooke and back again, then at Lysander’s equipment hanging from hooks in the wall below the sconce.

  Dimbae lifted Brooke’s limp form as if she were a child. He said something to Ryon, then turned to leave.

  “Did you hear me?” Lysander yelled. “It’s dreamthistle. She’s going to die unless you let me treat her now!”

  Dimbae opened the far door with one hand as he cradled Brooke to his chest, unhindered by the warning—as if he couldn’t hear it.

  Lysander closed his eyes and reached out to the Phoera element. Sound vibrations echoed all around him. He honed in on noises from Brooke’s direction. The soft rasp of her breathing was too faint. The fluttering beats of her heart too far apart.

  “Check her pulse!”

  Dimbae paused. Ryon slid beside him and placed two fingers on Brooke’s neck. His face drained of color.

  Lysander hoped his voice sounded as deep and authoritative as his father had taught him for addressing a large crowd. “Set her down and open this door.”

  Ryon said something to Dimbae, and the response included something about another healer.

  “There’s no time!” Lysander gripped the bars and tried to rip them open to no avail. “She’s already asleep which means we have only seconds. Open the bleeding door, and you can kill me after I save her!”

  Ryon’s signing was sloppy as Dimbae yelled something at the handmaiden. “Tell me which vial—”

  “Open the door!” Lysander roared.

  Ryon grabbed a key from the wall and rushed to the cell door. Dimbae moved to prevent him, but couldn’t stop him while holding Brooke.

  The lock clanged open.

  Lysander burst through the door and ran right into an invisible blade. Pain seared across his neck as a second guard flickered into vision, this one wearing the azure mask of Brooke’s elite. He held the handmaiden by one hand and a sword at Lysander’s throat with the other.

  Icy terror shot down Lysander’s spine. How deep was the cut in his neck?

  He raised one hand above his head in a show of innocence and stretched the other out to the leather sash hanging from the wall. Glass vials clanked as he skimmed over them. Blissroot, aloe, fadeleaf, muddlewort . . . He pulled an oiled herb mix free with his mouth and slowly backed toward Brooke. The blade followed him.

  Lysander eyed the azure-masked guard and uncorked the glass bottle with his teeth. “Tilt her head back.”

  Ryon gently opened Brooke’s mouth, and Lysander poured the oil onto her tongue.

  She didn’t respond.

  Warm blood trickled down Lysander’s neck. Creator, if you’re there, and you’re her god, then let me save her!

  Brooke’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Her brow furrowed. She coughed and moaned.

  Tangible relief engulfed the room. “Lay her down,” Lysander said as he looked at the handmaiden. “Water. Quickly.”

  The second guard might have said something behind his mask, but Lysander couldn’t see his lips to read them. He kept his grip on the girl’s arm and his blade to Lysander’s throat.

  “Quickly,” Lysander repeated as he fumbled for a pouch at the end of his leather sash. He doubted the horror-stricken handmaiden was the assassin. But even if she were, she couldn’t escape the city any more than he could.

  A moment passed, and the azure mask released the handmaiden. She ran.

  Dimbae and Ryon gently laid Brooke on the floor as Lysander tore into the pouch and found a bulbous rhizome. “I need a thin slice of this.” He held out the paper-skinned root to the azure mask, who moved only to press his cold steel deeper into Lysander’s skin.

  Ryon grabbed the rhizome and cut it with his dagger, producing a thin slice of orange flesh. Lysander grabbed it and slowly leaned over Brooke, wincing as the blade’s edge drew more blood. Ryon yelled something, and the azure mask’s sword hesitantly retreated.

  “Brooke.” Lysander held a finger over her pale face, but her eyes didn’t focus on it. “Can you hear me?” He gently opened her mouth and slipped the rhizome slice under her tongue.

  He dared to touch her neck, searching for her pulse. As he waited, it grew stronger. Faster.

  Brooke’s eyes closed tightly. She coughed and swallowed, her jaw fumbling with the rhizome under her tongue. Her eyes opened again, cleared of their former haze. She squinted at the faces hovering over her.

  “We’ve got you,” Lysander murmured, his battered muscles relaxing. “It’s safe to rest now. You’re okay.”

  A tentative presence reached out to his mind, bewildered and weak. Did you . . . do this?

  No. A dart of pain pricked him—did she really think he’d try to murder her? Hopefully she could determine the truth in his claim. But I think I know who did. We’ll get him.

  Brooke’s aether slipped from his thoughts as she fell back into unconsciousness. Dimbae cradled her as the handmaiden returned too late with water.

  Lysander’s relief smelted into something darker as he struggled to remember the phrasing of Xavier’
s note.

  Flames dine on the city in the sky

  Twin slaves the only to survive

  The chieftess sleeps, the slaves meet

  And return with freedom and pride

  Anger flared inside him, incinerating every competing emotion. He’d interpreted it wrong. The chieftess sleeping hadn’t meant they should meet after dark. It had meant dreamthistle and death.

  Lysander cursed Xavier and his stupid riddles aloud.

  Ryon glanced up at him. “You know something.”

  Bile rose in Lysander’s throat, and he swallowed with disgust. Why would Xavier do such a thing after the attack was over? They weren’t bound by Zamara’s will any longer.

  He must want true freedom. Killing the chieftess would mean Zamara’s assault hadn’t been a failure. Returning with victory to the Emberhawk monarch—whoever that might be—would be equivalent to returning from battle with their enemy’s head on a platter.

  But in exchange for Brooke’s blood . . . it wasn’t right. She wasn’t some bloodthirsty enemy warlord—she was the Alliance leader who’d strived for peace at every opportunity. The Emberhawk had razed her city, and she still hadn’t marched on Quin’Zamar, for the love of the sky.

  “Xavier.” Lysander muttered. “I know where he’s hiding.”

  Lysander adjusted the makeshift bandage on his neck. The cut hadn’t stopped bleeding yet, but he wouldn’t pause and risk letting Xavier escape. Neither would Ryon or the half dozen azure masks all invisible on the crowded street behind him.

  He didn’t want harm to befall his comrade, but what Xavier had done to Brooke felt somehow . . . personal. Conflict tore at his soul. But if helping the Katrosi capture Brooke’s attempted killer would be one of the last things he’d ever do, it felt like a good choice. Why should his loyalty remain with the Emberhawk after his people’s rejection and Zamara’s abuse? At the very least, this last taste of freedom was better than spending his final hours in a cell.

  Lysander took a steadying breath and opened the door to the Jolly Satyr.

  Scents of pork, freshly baked bread, and spilled alcohol buffeted him. The wide room seemed as lively a tavern as any, with a collection of cheerful patrons, a polished bar, and a healthy fire in the hearth. Sound vibrations from dozens of different sources made Lysander wince and weaken his connection to the Phoera element.

  At least the noise made the private booth in the corner the perfect inconspicuous meeting place. It was the go-to spot for Emberhawk assassins and spies who infiltrated Jadenvive, but it was empty at present.

  Lysander slid onto the leather-clad bench and felt underneath the table’s furthest side, near the metal support in the center. His fingers met a slip of folded parchment, held in place with sticky tar. He pulled it free.

  It appeared to be blank. Lysander summoned warmth to his hand and held the paper over his palm. Faint ink bloomed across the parchment.

  Have a way out. Waiting until you find me or they end you. Vanya platform, storage barn beside tanner’s workshop. Hurry up. I’m craving pitas.

  Lysander snapped, lighting the candle in the center of the table. He propped the note up beside it, wagering that the Katrosi were familiar with the invisible ink. No doubt the azure masks would retrieve the note and follow him.

  He left the Jolly Satyr casually enough to prove he wasn’t trying to escape. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel their eyes on him like owls in the dark.

  The rope bridges and streets on the way to the great tree, Vanya, were crowded and busy enough that no one seemed to notice Lysander under his hood. Or maybe one of the masks was extending invisibility to Lysander, since the risk of someone recognizing a man on death row entailed consequences they weren’t willing to risk.

  Lysander glanced down at himself and did a double-take. Yeah, someone was definitely making him invisible. He made a note to avoid bumping into anyone in the crowd who had no idea he was there. Or did he look like a floating pair of eyes to any onlooker? Well, maybe that wasn’t such a rare sight in Jadenvive considering Brooke’s invisible soldiers.

  Had he been invisible in the Satyr too? The azure masks should tell him these things. Or maybe it was Ryon, who was so skilled at light-bending it was practically an art.

  Lysander reached out to his element to silence his footsteps. He wove through the masses until Vanya towered before him with platforms and bridges and buildings clinging to her ancient white bark. The oldest part of the city: the trade district.

  The tanner was on the south side of the main platform, if memory served. A constant thrumming buzzed over the rest of the sound energy as he approached—perhaps the neighboring blacksmith’s hammer?

  Lysander struggled to calm himself as he spotted a storage barn behind the storefronts. He released Phoera and fell into deafening quiet. If Xavier were here, he wouldn’t make any noise anyway. And that rhythmic banging was rattling his bones.

  He moved to the door and paused. It was unlocked.

  For Brooke, he told himself. Obviously she didn’t care for him, but she represented the most precious thing he could fathom: a second chance. Hope. Even if she couldn’t prevent his execution, she’d told him of another way to communicate and connect with people. A magic he would have given anything to learn.

  And she reminded him of a better time . . . before he’d lost his family. Before the war. When all he’d had to worry about was palace politics and not publicly shaming his father, the king. If only he hadn’t squandered it all.

  Lysander’s feet felt glued to the frost-chilled platform. Regardless of how jumbled his feelings toward Brooke were, she was as close to his enemy as one could get. How could he betray his own tribesman for the sake of a Katrosi? Xavier was his fellow survivor of Zamara’s cruelty and the one who’d had his back for years. The friend who’d managed to slip him a lockpick under the tightest security in Jadenvive. The comrade who’d risked his life by staying and waiting for him before escaping to safety.

  Lysander swallowed hard. No backing out now. He could practically feel a dozen eyes of the most elite warriors in the city drilling into his back.

  He glanced down at his hand. The invisibility was gone.

  He slid the barn door open.

  Scents of cedar wood and leather oil welcomed Lysander into the dark, dusty space. He stepped inside and recognized xavi saddles hanging from a loft as his eyes adjusted. Skins stretched like canvases across the wall on his right beside a tool-strewn workbench. Crates and barrels had been stacked in the area on his left.

  Lysander pulled his hood down and hesitantly reached out to the flows of sound energy once again. He saw no one, but this must be the place Xavier had meant.

  The fact that he’d left the door open behind him would be Xavier’s first warning that something was wrong.

  A flicker from the loft caught Lysander’s eye. A young man’s face smirked at him from the rafters.

  “Took you long enough,” Xavier signed.

  Lysander’s heart slammed against his ribs. He crossed his middle fingers—their wordless sign for danger. If the Katrosi knew it, he’d feel a blade through his back any second.

  “Did you poison Brooke?” Lysander asked.

  Faint light gleamed from the ajar back door, accenting Xavier’s silver pony-tail as he tilted his head. He didn’t respond.

  Lysander glanced at the loft’s ladder. A large crate blocked the top.

  “She just wants peace. We can have it now that Zamara’s dead,” Lysander said.

  Xavier frowned at him for a long moment, then signed, “Why are you using present tense?”

  Sweat trickled down into the bandage on Lysander’s neck. It cooled as something passed by him—either the breeze or a whisper of death.

  “I saved her,” Lysander said as he clenched his fists, erasing the subtle sign in his fingers. He’d given Xavier enough clues—his life was in his own hands now.

  Xavier hopped up on the railing, revealing long stretches of fabric between his
arms and sides. A Katrosi glide suit.

  Lysander recognized the word “traitor” on Xavier’s lips. Then the assassin jumped and flew out the back door.

  Masks appeared all around the barn. One jumping to slash a sword at Xavier and missing as he passed. One halfway up the ladder. One with a bow whose arrow slammed into the barn door’s edge.

  Lysander bolted out the back door and watched as Xavier—with his arms and legs outstretched and glide suit billowing between each limb—slowly floated downward beyond the lower platforms and drifted toward the forest beyond the colorful fields below.

  Bursts of sound energy exploded behind Lysander, followed by thumping vibrations of sprinting footsteps. Ryon appeared beside Lysander, leaning over the railing and squinting after the disappearing figure. The archer nocked a second arrow but didn’t fire, probably not wanting to risk the lives of civilians below if he missed.

  Pain sliced into Lysander’s shoulder blade. He grimaced and raised his hands.

  Now he would pay for Xavier’s escape. But at least his friend and the chieftess were both alive. For now.

  The pain subsided as Ryon stepped between Lysander and whoever had attacked him. Lysander slowly turned away from the railing to face whoever had cut him, his hands still raised.

  A slender man had pulled his mask back to yell at Ryon. Lysander caught the meaning of some of his words, which were more difficult to lip-read through his anger. “ . . . signaled him somehow! . . . your cousin, Emberhawk.” He accentuated the word “cousin” with a slow dip of his head, like a predator who’d identified its prey.

  Lysander couldn’t see Ryon’s face from his position, but his response was just as animated.

  Whatever Ryon said stunned the man. He paused for a half-second before his snarl returned. “You do not command us, boy,” Lysander read from the man’s lips.

  Ryon stood up straighter and began signing, though it was still difficult for Lysander to interpret from behind. “You don’t respect me—I understand that. But you will respect the title I hold if you claim to be a man of honor. The advisor may not command you, but the law does, and I speak the truth.”