In the Veins of the Drowning(104)

—Brittney Arena, author of A Dance of Lies

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IN THE VEINS OF THE DROWNING

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IN THE WAKE OF THE RUINED

BOOK TWO OF THE SIREN MAGE

by

KALIE CASSIDY

1

I crawled out of the sea like some graceless water creature, unused to the air and hard sand.

In one fist, I gripped Nemea’s sword. On the opposite arm, looped around it like an overlarge shackle, was his crown. I’d been delirious with pain and exhaustion, floating over the sea’s surface and through the remnants of the battle, slipping in and out of consciousness for the whole of the night. There had been no deciphering between dream and reality as bits of soldiers’ bodies bobbed on the water beside me. Ship flotsam mingled with the blood-laced foam.

It had been a strain to keep my power focused, as that spell seemed to have reduced me to almost nothing. The taste of it still sat on my tongue, an incessant hunger for more pulsing through me with each thump of my sore heart. My senses had been dulled by the fierce, terrible pain in my middle, and yet, I’d managed to force the sea to ferry me across its surface. All the while, I’d clung to the sword and crown like the dented pieces of metal were what kept me afloat. They were imbued now, anointed with Nemea’s blood. When I touched them, I remembered that I had slain a monster.

I remembered that I could do it again.

Shaking, and on all fours, I paused at the edge of the waves and looked up the dune.

The white sand rolled gently, creased by the wind, and I realized the sea had spat me out onto the very beach where Halla had performed her offering to Eusia. Where I had choked on the draught that had severed my bond to Theodore. I could make out the stairs that led to the flower garden, where the pain had brought me to my knees and blotted out my vision. The pale walls and turrets of Genevreer Palace loomed beyond in an endless, mocking sprawl.

I lay slowly onto my side and let out a sob at the flare of pain in my stomach. I could hardly stand, let alone reach the palace, traverse its halls.

“Your house is too big, Theo,” I mumbled to myself, sounding half dead.

Perhaps I was.

The moldering, sea-filled hole in my middle throbbed like a heartbeat, carrying pain from my tender scalp to my wet toes. It pounded in my lips, in my fingers, and all I wanted was to sleep on the warm sand. I closed my eyes, only to have my thoughts flicker and distort like images from a violent fever-dream. I imagined the empress on her swaying ship, and Eusia in her little pool of dark water, and Halla, warm and safe with Theodore in the palace above me. I imagined Agatha’s halo of dark curls, her wide, shining brown eyes, and there was fear in them.

A thin whimper filled my throat. Agatha, who never seemed to fear or fumble. Who was made of steely resolve. Agatha, who had given me years and years of stalwart care and friendship. Who’d done so much to ensure I would never be alone or afraid.

“Get up,” I said, the words sharp air through my teeth, “get up, get up, get up.”

With pain licking at me like wildfire, I pushed myself back up onto all fours. I knew, even as I dragged myself—and my damned sword and crown—over the sand, toward the garden stairs, that I wouldn’t be welcomed back on palace grounds. I’d threatened the safety of the Varian kingdom in more ways than one. I’d gleefully choked Chancellor Eftan in farewell. But I was too unwell to enact my plan alone, and there was only one person in the palace who cared for Agatha the way that I did.

The sun beat against my back, and still, my skin stippled from a deep, penetrating cold. I reached the base of the stairs. Though my arms shook, I lifted Nemea’s sword, and brought it down against the wooden treads with a loud clang. I did it again. And again. Tears slid down my cheeks, over my pinched lips, but finally a gold-armored soldier appeared at the top landing.

He squinted down at me. “Oy! You all right?”

In answer, the sword clattered from my hold. I collapsed fully against the wood. “I need Commander Mela.” The words were hardly loud enough to reach him.

His boots thudded his descent. Once on the tread that my head rested upon, he squatted to inspect me, then reared back with recognition—with fear. “Ahh shit.”

“I won’t hurt you.” My voice rasped, ugly and thin.

He reached out and plucked Nemea’s sword from where it had fallen. Then, he slipped the crown from its place around my limp arm. My resistance was delayed—a weak jerk and a curl of my lip.

A grave note colored his voice. “Right, but I won’t be takin’ you at your word.” He coughed in discomfort. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

There came the rattling of a chain. Fingers gripped my forearm. The biting cold of metal enveloped my wrists and squeezed and squeezed.

The sun shone behind him, and I squinted, trying to see him better. I’d not expected to be welcomed, but a nick of surprise cut through me anyway. I couldn’t ignore its sting, nor the question that accompanied it: Did Theodore order this?

I opened my mouth to ask, but the guard rose and started back up the stairs with my sword and crown in his fist. An incoherent protest shook up my throat. My arms wobbled as I tried to push myself up, to crawl to the next stair, but pain spread through my stomach in a shocking burst. My limbs gave out. I laid my cheek once more on the warm, smooth wood, and the afternoon light dimmed to black.

I woke to the sound of more boots. Boots, and clanging armor, and murmuring voices. My senses rushed with the cutting sun rays, with the warm air perfumed with the scent of Theodore’s flowering vines. The stairs I lay upon ached against my body, and my wrists were heavy with the manacles that guard had locked around them.