The Sharpest Blade (26 page)

Aren’s jaw clenches. Lorn notices it, and says, “I decouraged Lena’s recruitment drive.”

Discouraged.
I don’t know if the tranq is causing him to trip up on his words or if it was just a mistake, but I get what he’s saying.

“We screened the new recruits.”

“You didn’t screen them well,” Lorn says. “You’ve added several of my fae to your lists.”

Aren gives Lorn a tight smile. “We know.”

“Do you?” Lorn asks. “Or do you know only the fae that I want you to?”

I roll my eyes. “This isn’t accomplishing anything. We need to know if Lena’s alive.”

“You moved too quickly taking over the palace,” Lorn says. His words sound like an accusation, like he’s blaming Aren for this invasion.

“The opportunity was there,” Aren fires back. “We had no choice but to take it.”

“That’s exactly what the false-blood wanted. You weakened the king, the king’s remnants weakened you. Makes it simple for the
Taelith
and his
elari
to take over now.”

“It would have been helpful if you’d given us that information months ago.” He turns his back on Lorn, nods to me, then makes his way toward the double doors.

To the double doors that are silently swinging open.

Terror moves through me as a fae comes into view. It’s him, the false-blood. I know it the instant I see him. There’s something different about him. His face is slender, with hollow cheekbones and a high hairline. His hair is black and . . . and something about him is familiar. His eyes? They’re bright, with more color than a normal fae’s, and they’re ringed in a dark band of silver. They’re wicked and calculating, and they’re locked on me.

G
OOSE BUMPS PRICKLE
across my arms. Lorn said the false-blood was interested in finding me. He wanted to use me as an example. The way the false-blood tilts his head to the side and gives me a cruel, teeth-filled smile, tells me that’s still true.

He takes an easy, almost lazy step inside the Mirrored Hall.

“Nom Sidhe,”
Aren whispers. Then, “Lorn. Get McKenzie out of here.”

Lorn’s hands are clenched on the back of a chair—he needs my help more than I need his—but I’ve already taken a step back. When I realize I’m retreating, I make myself stand my ground. It takes a conscious effort to do so, but I’m not leaving Aren to fight on his own. He might be able to take on the false-blood by himself, but it would be stupid to leave when I can tilt the odds in his favor.

I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword and stride forward.

“McKenzie,” Lorn calls after me. I intend to ignore him—I won’t let him talk me into abandoning Aren—but then he adds, “You might consider turning around.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I spin in time to see an
elari
emerge from the servants’ corridor.

Lorn lets go of the chair and takes a wobbly step toward the fae. His sword is held ready, but it’s blatantly obvious he’s in no condition to fight.

The fae’s gaze moves from Lorn to me, then back, as if he’s considering which of us is the bigger threat: the noble who can barely stand or the human who can barely hold a sword.

At least, it
appears
that I can barely hold it. I take a step forward, volunteering as a target, and when I swing my blade, I hope the fae sees how awkward the movement is.

He does. He focuses on me, looking extremely unimpressed with my skills. Good.

I deliberately do everything wrong when I swing for his head: I stare at where I’m aiming and I prep the attack by hunching my shoulders.

He deflects my blade with ease as Lorn sweeps forward, attacking from the left. The
elari
blocks that, too, then he follows up with a powerful slash at Lorn’s midsection.

Lorn’s blade catches the blow, but the weapon flies from his hand. That’s all the diversion I need. The
elari
’s momentum carries his blade just a fraction too far to the left, allowing me to plunge my sword into the small area under his arm that’s not protected by
jaedric
.

It isn’t the easiest place to embed a blade, but I put all my weight behind the move and plunge deep enough to nick his heart. His body disappears an instant later, and my gaze locks on his soul-shadow, a white mist that twists as it rises.

“McKenzie!” Lorn shouts out a warning just as something dark parts the mist.

I lunge awkwardly for the new
elari
, stabbing forward and praying I can kill him before he can kill me.

I don’t know what happens next. Maybe he sidesteps, maybe I stumble, but somehow, he’s close enough to backhand me across the cheek.

I hit the ground, roll to my back, then swing my sword out in a protective arc of defense.

He’s out of range. He flips his sword in his hands, pointing the blade down and raising his arms above his head.

In the corner of my vision, I see Lorn grab his dropped sword. He’s too slow, too far away.

The fae’s muscles tighten, readying for the downward thrust, but then, a spasm wrenches through his body. A second later, I notice the blade protruding through his stomach.

The fae’s jaw goes slack. He drops to his knees, revealing his killer behind him.

Trev tugs his sword free of the body a second before the
elari
disappears.

“Thank God,” I say, climbing to my feet.

Trev wipes the back of his arm across his forehead. He’s sweating and breathing hard. Getting to us couldn’t have been easy.

“Lena?” he asks.

“We don’t know,” I tell him. “Aren’s—” I break off as I turn toward the front of the Mirrored Hall. He’s not here. My breath freezes in my lungs.

“He didn’t like the scenery,” Lorn says, wheezing. “He stepped outside with the false-blood.”

I start for the doors.

“No,” Lorn says, catching my arm. “You’re leaving with me. You think far too much of your skills.”

“I think far too much of yours.” I try to shake him off. He tightens his grip.

“I need her eyes,” Trev says, attempting to step between us.

“The King’s Hall,” I say. “If Lena’s alive, the false-blood would have taken her there.” That’s complete speculation on my part—wishful thinking, even—but that chamber in the back of the King’s Hall is our best chance to get out of here.

A handful of seconds tick by. Lorn looks resolute, but finally, he sighs and releases my arm. “Very well.”

We leave the Mirrored Hall, stepping out onto a balcony that overlooks a marble floor. Trev and Lorn come to a sudden stop. So do I. They’re just as stunned as I am by what we see. Or rather, by what we don’t see.

There’s no blood below. No signs of violence.

No sign of Aren.

My heart hammers in my chest. Aren’s not here, but neither is the false-blood. If one or both of them died, there would be a sign of the struggle. There would be at least one drop of blood spilled, and the fae below us wouldn’t be standing there with their weapons safely sheathed in their scabbards.

Three of those fae are
elari
. They’re speaking to the high nobles—Lord Raen, Lord Kaeth, and Lord Brigo. The nobles shift their weight from foot to foot, but the
elari
—even after they glance up at us—all look unconcerned.

“The King’s Hall looks rather welcoming,” Lorn says.

It does. The doors are wide open and unguarded.

“I think it would be wise to take that as a sign to run,” Lorn adds.

“Can’t,” Trev says. “The
elari
blocked off the exits.”

My hands are shaking from too much adrenaline and fear. I try to make them stop as I follow Trev along the balcony. I try to concentrate on my breathing, and I make my mind picture us escaping through the hidden tunnel.

Better yet, if we can kill the false-blood, we won’t need to escape at all.

A cry from below makes us stop and turn. It’s Lord Raen. One of the
elari
pulls his sword free from the high noble’s shoulder.

“Are there any other opinions?”
the fae asks.

Kelia’s father hits his knees. His right hand clutches his shoulder and the first drops of blood splatter onto the marble floor.

Trev’s eyes burn with fury. Even Lorn looks more steady, more ready to kill.

“The false-blood,” I remind them. “We have to kill the false-blood.”

Grim, Trev nods. Then he moves to my right side. Lorn falls into step on my left, and I lead the way to the open doors, keeping my shoulders back, my stride confident, and my sword held ready. My pace doesn’t falter until I step over the threshold. It’s not due entirely to what I see, though the bloodshed here makes the long, large room look like a slaughterhouse. Smears of red mar the white-stoned floor, and the blue carpet that leads down the center is wet enough to glisten in the light streaming in from the hall’s tall windows.

But my steps faltered before my mind completely registered the violence. Kyol is stirring. He’s not completely awake, but his emotions begin to travel over the bond. It’s only been a few hours since Naito gave him the drugged drink. He’s moving much sooner than he’s supposed to. Because of my adrenaline? I can feel a faint echo of it pumping through him.

Once again, I wish I could communicate with Kyol. I wish I could tell him to get the hell out of Corrist, but the best I can do is let him feel what I feel: fear and foreboding mixed with grim determination. And a little hope. Lena’s standing at the foot of the dais.

She’s not alone. I stride down the blue carpet, ignoring the way my shoes squish into its blood-soaked fibers. I have to assume Lena’s guards are all dead. The only people in here are Lena, the
elari
, and the false-blood himself. He’s waiting for us at the foot of the silver dais.

Again, I’m hit with the feeling that we’ve met before. That has to be impossible, though. I’d remember those eyes and that cruel . . .

That cruel smile. That’s what’s familiar. I’ve seen it on someone else’s face before. Whose?

I scan the other fae, hoping inspiration will hit me. There are nearly a dozen of them, all unfamiliar and all wearing the red-and-black name-cords that mark them as
elari
.

Twelve against four. These are the crappiest odds ever. Where the hell is Aren? He wouldn’t have fled, leaving Lena and me behind, and I refuse to believe the false-blood killed him.

Four of the
elari
move toward us. We can flee back out the doors, or we can continue down the carpet. Outnumbered like we are, we won’t be able to fight our way out of here.

God, we need a plan.

No, we need a freaking miracle.

We stop half a dozen feet away from the silver dais, and still, there’s no sign of Aren.

“Lorn,”
the false-blood says.

“Taelith.”
I have to give Lorn credit. He greets the false-blood like this whole situation bores him. He knows we’re screwed, just like I do, but he’s putting on a good show, acting like he’s unafraid of the fae who beat the shit out of him just a few days ago.

“I allowed you to live,”
the false-blood says.
“And you used the life I gave you to warn the shadow-witch that I was coming for her. I am not pleased.”

Lorn sighs.
“I admit that it wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made.”

I glance at Lena. She’s standing tall and regal at the foot of the dais despite a blackened eye and a deep gash over her right forearm. Her right side is stained red. I’m not sure if that’s from the arm injury or some other wound I can’t see beneath her clothes.

The false-blood turns his attention to me.
“Shadow-witch, I have a present for you.”

Every ounce of blood drains from my face. I stop breathing, terrified his present will be a half-dead Aren.

Kyol latches onto my horror. He’s moving more quickly now, his veins filling with his own adrenaline, but he’ll never reach me. He’s too weak, and there are too many
elari
between us. If he tries, he’ll die.

We’ll
die.

I force myself to breathe, to draw air into my lungs and let it out through my nose. I can’t worry about that right now. I have to worry about the false-blood, the so-called
Taelith
. He’s . . .

Oh, God.

My hand trembles on the hilt of my sword. I know who he is. Or rather, who he’s related to. I recognize the demonic spark in his silver eyes.

I try to keep my mind grounded in the present, but my vision narrows as if I’m in a tunnel, and all I can see is the image of the false-blood who first pulled me into this world. I’ve had enough nightmares about Thrain to know every feature on his face. There’s no mistaking the resemblance between him and the
Taelith
. They’re brothers. Or, perhaps, father or son. I have no idea how old Thrain was when we killed him, and I have no idea how old this fae is. All I know is he’s full of shit. He’s not
Tar Sidhe
. He’s a con man.

My mouth has gone dry. I swallow, trying to loosen my throat, when something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn my head, see two
elari
dragging a limp and bleeding body between them.

My heart stops beating. The world seems to go still as a fae yanks back the injured person’s head.

A chaos luster flashes across the man’s face. It’s not Aren. It’s . . .

It’s Shane.

I’m not sure when I moved, but Trev and I attack the
Taelith
simultaneously, Trev swinging high, me swinging low. Neither of us hits our target. The
Taelith
moves back with the uncanny speed of a fae. I hear his
elari
move forward, hear Lena yelling and Lorn cursing, but I’m already following up my attack with a lunge forward and another swipe at the false-blood’s legs. It’s a move I perfected when training with Kyol, but it’s a move Kyol always easily blocked. The false-blood blocks it aside as well, his sword suddenly appearing in his hand. And that’s when I slide into the secondary form Kyol taught me, the one I almost broke through his defenses with. I feint right, lift my left shoulder in a blatant tell, only I don’t swing my sword in a wide arc. I let it intercept the false-blood’s blade even as I spin to the left, letting go of the hilt of my sword with one hand so I can strike the false-blood in the jaw.

It’s a powerful hit, one that sends a sharp twinge through my elbow. I ignore it, try to slash my sword across his body, but his armor protects him. He grabs my wrist and twists.

My sword lands on the ground with a loud clatter, and it’s only when the echoes fade that I hear the struggle behind me. I yank my wrist free of the fae’s grip, then turn in time to see an
elari
carve a strip of flesh from Shane’s left arm.

He’s not unconscious. He screams. The two fae holding him keep him on his feet but immobile. Blood pours down his arm to the floor. The cut is so deep, it might as well be a canyon.