In the Wake of the Ruined (The Siren Mage, #2)(9)

Lachlan only rolled his eyes. Some terrible tension built through him until his pacing came to a sudden stop. There were too many emotions on his face for me to decipher. He was a tapestry of feeling, and I could not follow the path of a single thread. Lachlan understood the insanity and danger of my request, the near impossibility of its success even better than I did, but as I beheld him, one emotion began to pull forward, surfacing from his tumult.

Determination.

It was the determination of a guardsman, an officer’s steely resolve. The irrational kind, the kind worn in the face of mortal threats. He gave a resigned curse and made for an oaken cabinet in the corner of the armory to rifle through its contents. Out came two dark and neatly folded military cloaks with leathered shoulders. Next, he pulled out two glass vials of some draught. He pocketed one, then set the other on the table with a clack.

I recognized the little N on its label. Nepenthe. I gave Lachlan a questioning glare. “Does this mean you have a plan? Tell me.”

He swiped a hand down his face. “Not so much a plan as the terrifying realization that you are the worst and only option I have if I hope to get to Agatha.” He pointed at the bottle. “So drink up. You’re in pain and we need to hurry.” His wary gaze dipped to my stomach, making me suddenly aware of how my spine curled forward, as if that were enough to protect my wound. “We’ll fix whatever the hell is wrong with you when we’re on the ship.”

Gratitude and relief flooded me. The chain between my wrists rattled as I took the vial in my fist and shot it back. I didn’t expect it would do much for me. How could a healer’s draught touch a Mage’s spell? But I swilled it like it was liquid hope and prayed it would at least soften the ragged edges of my pain. I met Lachlan’s eye. “How will we get out?”

Lachlan swung a cloak over his shoulders and clipped it at the neck. “I’m thinking… the palace is already in a state of upheaval after the port attack. So perhaps we can add to the madness.”

I gripped the table as I worked to stand. The floor swayed beneath me, but I fought to find my footing. “Was all this thinking what kept you from going after Agatha while she was away on Seraf for all those years?”

Lachlan folded his lips in between his teeth, clearly biting back his retort, as he shoved a small flail in his belt.

I hobbled toward the armory door and let out a raw squeak as I reached for the torch on the wall beside it.

“Imogen?” Lachlan sounded leery. He grabbed Nemea’s sword and shoved it into his belt too. He reached for Nemea’s crown and the spare cloak. “What are you doing?”

I threw open the door to a burst of light.

“Imogen.”

But I was already sneaking into the entry hall, toward a shadowed gap between the wall and the stairs. There were a few servants on the other side of the hall, but it was the handful of armed guards by the main door that would prove to be our greatest hindrance.

I reached—with great pain—toward the marble statue of the Great Goddess Diantan that stood upon a low plinth at the start of the risers. The flame hissed as I rested it against the deep green swath of fabric she’d been draped in.

The movement made my eyes tear up, made me drop the torch, but the flames had caught. They climbed rapidly, engulfing her effigy so completely, that I stood in the stairs’ shadow for a moment, awestruck.

The guards surged into motion, calling for help, as a cloak landed across my shoulders. The hood pulled over my head. Lachlan gripped my arm and started dragging me along the wall, toward a narrow servants’ hall.

He spoke through his clamped teeth. “Holy bleeding Gods, Imogen.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I mumbled as we made our way down the hall and out into a side garden. The sunlight shone in a golden swirl, and while my pain remained, I realized the nepenthe had begun warping and easing it. I gave a little whimper of relief as my damp boots hit a gravel path. I might be able to sleep like this, floating over the hurt like a spirit lingering above its body.

We stopped suddenly, caged in by a ring of trees and sun-dappled shadow. Lachlan glared down at me with clear fury, but even with my head spinning, I noted the touch of worry in his eyes. “You look like shit.”

I blew out an annoyed breath. My words ran together as if I were drunk. “It’s a wonder Agatha never took you back.” The world around me began to blur and tilt like I stood upon a rolling ship in a fog.

Lachlan gripped my arm tighter, holding me up. “There’s that nepenthe kicking in.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

We were moving again. Through a high garden path, down a tree-lined trail. Time began to play strange. I caught a blurry glimpse of the stables. The daylight felt like hot fingers moving across my skin. There came the scent of horses and their whickering. The stalls swayed, and I was being helped into the back of a hay-filled wagon. My manacles gave a metallic clatter when Lachlan undid them, then I curled up in the hay like a trembling new foal.

As we lurched into motion, I soothed the frantic flutter in my chest by forcing my liquid thoughts toward Agatha. They moved in a rushing current, and I swam through them, back and back, to when I had been young. Agatha had been young too, but to me, a girl of six, she’d been a fully fledged woman. Now the decade between us was nothing, but then, she’d been some perfect amalgam of a mother and sister.

The nepenthe let me see her in flashes, in moments of laughter, or reprimand. Me, hunched over my desk, quill scratching, and Agatha, pacing before the tall windows as she rattled off the day’s lesson. Agatha, braiding my hair before bed. Agatha, hissing her dismay over how I’d made a habit of sneaking through the fort in the dead of night.