Furyborn (17 page)

Audric.
Rielle groped for the trident.
Ludivine.

Yes
, Corien said, nastily now.
Go to them, ease their pain. They love you so.

Rielle forced her eyes open. Lungs burning. Vision dimming. She pushed herself up. She kicked and fought, clawing through cold water, and when she burst up above the waves, she remembered to hold the completed trident above
her head.

The sunspinners’ beams shone down upon her. Her arm shook under the trident’s weight, but she held it fast.

This time, the crowd’s roar was deafening.

In an instant, the rain stopped. The waves flattened and calmed, clouds rolling away to reveal a mild blue sky.

Rielle saw through her burning eyes the nearby pier, crowded with figures. One dove into the water, swiftly
heading her way. Those still on the pier shouted after whoever it was.

Rielle could hardly swim, the trident slowing her. She’d only gone a few feet when a strong arm gathered her up against a body that radiated so much warmth it could only belong to one person.

“Audric,” Rielle whispered, clinging to him, her limbs trembling from exhaustion. “You feel nice.”

He let out shaky laughter.
“We need to get you to my healer. You’re cold as ice.”

“Thank God you’re here.” She squinted up at him as he awkwardly swam back to shore with one arm, her body tucked against him with the other. “I’m tired of swimming.”

“What’s all over you?”

Rielle looked blearily at her hands. “Oh. Jellyfish attacked me. The waterworkers made them angry, maybe.”

“God, Rielle…” Audric’s voice
broke. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I stabbed them. The jellyfish, not the waterworkers.” She glared wearily at the pier, where the acolytes waited. “Though that’s still a possibility.”

He laughed again, then said quietly, “Rielle?”

“Yes?”

“Were you frightened?”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes.”

His arms tightened sweetly around her, his mouth warm against her
temple. “I wish I could—”

“Your Highness!” A waterworker acolyte knelt on the edge of the pier and extended his hand. He stared at Rielle like she was Saint Nerida risen from the dead.

Audric ignored the man, gently detaching himself from Rielle. “Here, I’ll help you up.”

“No.” Rielle grabbed the edge of the pier and turned in the water to face him. “They need to see me stand on my
own.”

He smiled and handed her the trident. “Your prize, my lady.”

She squeezed his hand, then shakily climbed up the pier, refusing the assistance offered her by Grand Magister Rosier, his acolytes, even Tal.

On her own two feet, she stood, swaying slightly, and looked up at the thousands of people lining the cliffs—waving their arms, pumping their fists, shouting her name. When she
raised the trident in both hands, their cheers became thunderous.

She turned to face the Magisterial Council, who had gathered on the pier. Tal beamed, his eyes alight with pride. Sloane stood at his side with her arms crossed, a thoughtful frown on her face, her short, dark hair plastered to her pale cheeks.

And beside her stood the Archon, beads of rainwater sliding down his implacable
face.

Rielle handed him the trident with a grin she knew was gracelessly cocky. But she didn’t care one bit.

“Your move,” she said with a slight bow. “Your Holiness.”

Eliana

“Dark-hearted Tameryn had never seen anything good come by daylight. With her daggers, she carved shadows from every corner and hollow. She breathed life into their gasping mouths, twined them around her limbs and neck, tied their newborn fingers into the ends of her hair. There the shadows whispered secrets to her, in gratitude, and so she was never alone and always safe
in the shroud of night.”

—
The Book of the Saints

Sneaking out of Crown’s Hollow during the perimeter guard’s shift change had been dispiritingly easy.

Even the tense two-mile trek through the wild, thinking that every rustle of leaves was a Red Crown scout—or worse, Simon—had gone more quickly than Eliana had hoped. Remy believed her story. Simon, she’d told him, had gone on a mission
for the nearest Empire outpost, to retrieve an important piece of information for Navi. He had left Eliana instructions: If he hadn’t returned within two hours, they were to come to his aid.

“Even me?” Remy had asked.

“Especially you.”

His eyes had narrowed. “Why?”

“Because you’re sweet-looking, and no one will suspect you of lies. You can sneak around in very small spaces. And
you’re a storyteller. You can improvise as I need you to.”

“And we can’t tell the others?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Simon said not to. Don’t ask me to explain his choices. I couldn’t possibly begin to.”

Remy didn’t look convinced, but at least he wasn’t arguing. So far, so good.

But getting an audience with Lord Morbrae without being killed for betraying the Empire? That would be
a challenge, even for the Dread.

Maybe they don’t really mind that much that I helped the rebellion’s most notorious soldier push one of the Emperor’s personal assassins out of a tower?

It was a nice thought.

Eliana scanned the moonlit forest, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her muscles burned from the sustained crouch, but it was a good burn. It reminded her: no more
rebels; no more sad stories or lost princesses.

No more Simon.

“Is that him?” Remy whispered beside her.

They’d been waiting outside the Empire outpost for two hours, watching for the arrival of Lord Morbrae as the trees around them shivered in mist and the night sky inched toward a gray dawn. And now, as Eliana looked back at the outpost through a net of wet branches, she saw what
Remy had seen.

A convoy approached the perimeter wall. Ten mounted adatrox. A coach pulled by four horses.

A door in the wall opened, admitting torchlight from within.

So. The Red Crown intelligence had been accurate.

She hoped.

“Looks like a general’s escort to me,” Eliana whispered.

Remy stared up at her from within the hood of his cloak, shivering even with the thick
night steaming around them. “Maybe we should go back.”

Eliana turned to him, bracing herself. “Listen carefully. We’re not here to help Simon.”

Remy blinked. “What?”

“I’m going to negotiate with Lord Morbrae for information about Mother and for amnesty for all of us. At least until I can get you to Astavar. Then I don’t care what they do to me.”

“You…
what
?” Remy’s face clouded
over. He stepped back from her. “You lied to me.”

Eliana sighed, glanced quickly at the outpost. “Yes, and you’d think you’d be used to that by now.”

“You’re going to give them information about Crown’s Hollow.”

“Remy—”

She reached for him, and he slapped her hand away.

“What’s wrong with you?” he whispered. “All those people—”

“The refugees? They’d do the same thing in
my position. They’d do whatever it took to keep their family alive and safe.”

Remy shook his head, took another two steps away from her. “You’re wrong. Some would. Not all. I wouldn’t.”

A call from the outpost distracted her; she turned, squinting through the shadows.

Then Remy grabbed Arabeth from her belt and ran.

“Remy!” she called after him as loudly as she dared.

Behind
her, one of the horses pulling the coach whickered and stamped its foot.

She looked to the outpost, then back out at the swamp. Remy’s small form disappeared into the gloom, running toward Crown’s Hollow. She had to chase him down. None of this was worth it if they were separated.

She stood, heard a twig snap behind her, and froze.

A male voice asked mildly, “What’s this?”

Slowly,
Eliana turned. A uniformed man stood a few paces away, silhouetted by the torchlight of the outpost’s perimeter wall. Behind him stood a dozen adatrox, rifles aimed at her heart.

Eliana put her hands in the air.

“My name is Eliana Ferracora,” she called out. “I am the Dread of Orline. I was taken captive by Red Crown soldiers and escaped. I have intelligence you’ll want.”

Silence,
then. The tree bugs hovering above her head rattled and droned. Sweat itched along her brow.

“And what,” said the man, “will you want in exchange for this intelligence?”

“Safe passage for myself and my brother back to Orline. A guarantee of amnesty. And the return of my mother as well. She was abducted from her bed two weeks ago. I want her back. Alive and whole.”

The man stood in
silence for another moment, then approached her. As he moved closer, the shadows shivered away to reveal a reedy, clean-shaven man, with light-brown skin and short dark hair. Like all the Empire’s generals—like the Emperor himself—his eyes shone as black as a deep hollow in the ground.

Whatever drugs the Emperor fed his dogs to alter their appearance so drastically must have been truly monstrous.

Eliana met his gaze without flinching. “Lord Morbrae.”

He smiled, held out one leather-gloved hand. The gathered adatrox lowered their weapons.

“Welcome home, Dread,” said Lord Morbrae, voice thin and cream-smooth. “Come. Tell me your secrets.”

• • •

He led her through the prison first.

Every Empire outpost had one, and though this one was small and plain compared to the
elaborate dungeons below Lord Arkelion’s palace in Orline, it was distinctive in one way. Instead of cells, the long, narrow rooms were lined with small, square cages that required the grown adults within to sit hunched. But not all were adults; some were children. Grotesquely thin, bellies swollen, skin red from scratching, lips crusted with blood and vomit.

They watched Eliana as she passed.
The newer ones, not so thin or broken, glared viciously, spat through the mesh of their cages. The ones who had been there for a while—filth-encrusted skin, matted hair, gaunt-faced—said nothing at all, staring blankly.

At a turn in the wall, a small child slammed into the door of her cage and gripped the mesh with bony white fingers. Her eyes were furious, the skin around them red and raw.

“Help us!” she shouted, shaking the door. The metal cut into her hands. “Get me out of here! Get me out!”

“Is there a point to showing me all this?” Eliana asked, sounding bored. But her blood raged hot inside her.

May Tameryn the Cunning grant you a swift and painless death, child
, she thought.

“I wanted to show you what will happen to you,” Lord Morbrae replied, “should you decide
to cross me during your stay here.”

Then he opened a door into a small, plain room—one chair, one flickering lamp. He held out his hands for her knives. “You may wait inside.”

Eliana peered within, raised an unimpressed eyebrow. But her mind raced with panic. She didn’t have time to wait in a cell. Remy would tell Simon everything, and they would come for her, guns blazing. They’d shoot
her immediately. She needed to tell Lord Morbrae, help him prepare his soldiers to counter the rebels’ assault—but not before she had gotten what she wanted from him.

She placed her knives into his waiting hands. “I get an actual room, then? Not a dung-smeared cage?”

Lord Morbrae’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Only the best for the Dread of Orline. I hope you’re hungry.”

When he
closed the door, Eliana was left alone and uncertain. She sat on the chair in the middle of the room and waited.

• • •

“So. Eliana Ferracora.” Lord Morbrae reclined in his chair, brought a glass of wine to his lips. Over the rim of his glass, his eyes watched her, black and unblinking. “I’m listening.”

Eliana continued cutting her venison. Blood spilled onto her plate with each press
of her knife. They’d kept her in that cell for maybe two hours before calling her into His Lordship’s dining room.

She tried not to think of the cage-filled prison, the screaming little girl with the desperate eyes.

She tried not to think of Remy or of Simon. Was he on his way by now? Or would they assume Lord Morbrae would kill her himself and write her off as dead? What would Remy think?
Would he be glad to be rid of her?

And what would happen to her mother?

Eliana imagined scraping clean her circling thoughts with the edge of a blade.

“There is a Red Crown compound,” she began, bored, “two miles southwest of here. They call it Crown’s Hollow.” She brought a bite to her lips, chewed, swallowed. Looked up at Lord Morbrae and smiled. “What a delicious meal you’ve prepared
for me. I’m grateful. Rebels don’t have much in the way of fine cuisine.”

Lord Morbrae’s laugh was barely audible. He snapped his fingers. One of the adatrox standing guard around the dining room moved to refill Lord Morbrae’s glass.

Eliana watched in silence as Lord Morbrae drank and drank. He snapped his fingers once more. Another glass refilled. He gulped it down like a desert wanderer,
then slammed the glass onto the table, curled his lip. Picked up his fork and knife, violently cut his venison, crammed bite after bite into his mouth without pausing to breathe.

At last he stopped, took another gulp of his wine, and sat staring at his plate in disgust. “More meat,” he told the nearest adatrox. “Not this.” He shoved the platter of venison away. “Something that actually tastes
good for once. Can you manage that?”

The adatrox bowed, gave a slight, jerky nod.

Once he’d gone, Lord Morbrae returned his gaze to Eliana, dark eyes heavy and lidded. Red wine stained his lips. “You lie.”

A frisson of fear skipped up Eliana’s throat. She smirked, incredulous. “I don’t. What good would it—”

“If there were a rebel compound two miles from here, we would have destroyed
it long ago.”

“It’s underground. And well guarded.”

Lord Morbrae blinked at last.

Ah
.
Didn’t know that, did you?
Eliana continued eating, examined the dining room blithely. “Lovely little space you’ve got here. Nice solid table. Impressive molding work. Did they make it up especially for you?” Fork in hand, she gestured at the nearest wall. “Do they change the art according to each
visiting general’s tastes?”

“How many?” Lord Morbrae’s soft voice was an explosion in the silence.

“Three hundred and sixteen refugees.” She took a sip of her own wine. “Fifty-one rebel soldiers. Small bands—anywhere from two to eight rebels—come and go every day. There are ten on patrol in the woods beyond the compound, forming a perimeter. Five roam; five sit in blinds they’ve constructed
in the trees.”

“Ammunition and supplies?”

Eliana grabbed a red apple from a gleaming silver bowl on the tabletop, took a bite. “Sorry, my friend. I’m afraid I can’t offer you more information until I’ve a guarantee for our safety. Me, my brother, my mother. Otherwise”—she shrugged—“no deal, I’m afraid.”

Lord Morbrae’s gaze traveled across her mouth as she licked the apple juice from
her lips, then to her throat as she swallowed, then down her body. Eliana’s mouth felt suddenly dry. That wasn’t desire on his face, not the kind she was used to seeing.

It was fascination, raw and ravenous, as though the sight of someone eating an apple was a thing he had never before seen.

“I could kill you right now,” he said, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “if I wanted.”

“But you won’t. I know so much more than I’ve told you.” She took another bite, made herself watch him as she chewed, despite the apprehension creeping across her skin. “You won’t risk losing that information, not now that you know a rebel compound has eluded you for so long. I know the Wolf’s plans. A secret mission, beyond the efforts of Red Crown. It could turn the tide of war.” She tossed
her half-eaten apple onto her plate. “Let me help you, my lord. What I ask for in return is nothing compared to the information I carry.”

Lord Morbrae rose to his feet. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, worked his jaw as if rolling out a kink.

Eliana watched, her stomach turning. She leaned back in her chair and picked at her fingernails. “Feeling poorly tonight, my lord?”

He moved
across the room, sank into a high-backed red chair beside the crackling fire, and watched her. Shadows masked him, drawing dark shapes across his face.

“I’m still hungry.” There was an exhaustion to his voice—and an anger, thin but simmering. “I’m always hungry.”

Eliana glanced at the table, heavy with their supper. “Then—”

“Food won’t help,” he interrupted. “Nothing helps.”

A
new silence filled the room. Eliana resisted the urge to move, matching Lord Morbrae’s stillness.

“Come here,” he said at last, holding out his trembling hand.

Eliana forced out a breezy laugh, though her heart pounded with a swift, terrible fear. “My lord, I’m wearing two coats of mud and haven’t had the chance to bathe in—”

“Shut your mouth,” he bit out, “and get over here.”

She waited for as long as she dared, then stood and moved toward him, keeping her gaze on his face. Let him know, with a carefully crafted expression of disdain and boredom, that the thought of what he would do to her in that chair didn’t frighten her.

She was the Dread of Orline wasn’t she?

But she had never touched one of the Emperor’s men.

She settled onto Lord Morbrae’s lap and
tried to turn her back on the pain in her heart where Harkan’s memory lived. But suddenly all she could think of was his laugh, his wide smile, the clomp of his boots on the terrace outside her window. How he had touched her, that first time, with shaking hands. How he had always held her afterward like she was something precious to be kept safe and warm.