Would it free her, or harm her?
It’s tempting.
It would be so easy.
Too easy.
I can’t risk it.
So I continue to follow him as he heads down a pitch-black tunnel, and he must have the same ability to see in the dark as I do, for there are no gas lamps or torches down here, and he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest.
The aura I felt before; molten heat, as eternal as the world itself, yet dampened and suppressed, grows ever stronger.
Can Ansar feel it too?
If he does, he gives no indication.
How can he act so arrogant; so indifferent? And yet I sense nothing from him—not anger, nor malevolence.
No remorse.
“What’s wrong with you?” I growl, unable to contain my dark thoughts any longer.
“Me?” My half-brother lets out a bitter chuckle. “You, the Golden Child in Shining Armor, are wondering why I, the second son that father barely acknowledged, would lower myself to the corruption of necromancy? You have no idea how the world is for ordinary people, Corvan.”
No idea? I resist a sudden urge to yank him backwards by his hair and wrap my hands around his neck. “Ordinary? You’re a Duthriss, Ansar.” Raised in privilege and wealth. Wanting for nothing.
He thinks I’ve been handed everything on a golden platter.
He has no fucking idea.
“I’m more Talavarra than Duthriss,” Ansar hisses. “Father was never interested in me. Never wanted me to get within striking distance of his throne, because he feared grandfather would use me as a proxy. The only reason he married my mother was to appease grandfather in the first place—so he would never try and take the throne. No, Valdon wasn’t interested me at all. He might have been, had he known that the dead have spoken to me for as long as I can remember.”
This is news to me. “Just because you have a talent, it doesn’t mean you should use it like this.”
“Bit of a hypocrite, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you do, brother? The reason you’ve been able to rule Tyron is because they’re all bloody terrified of you. Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do with my talent?” He stops and turns. “You? No one person should have as much as you have. You’re fucking dangerous.”
Before I know it, I’ve moved. I’m standing right in front of him, my face just inches from his.
Is he mad?
Is he intentionally trying to provoke me?
I draw on every last ounce of my self control.
Then I raise my hand and slap him, hard.
For a moment, Ansar just stands there, staring back at me, a look of perfect incredulity crossing his face.
“Just as I know little about you, you know next to nothing about me,” I say quietly. “Don’t presume to think you know me. And do not justify your actions with presumptions. Things are not always what they appear. And I am not responsible for our father’s actions.”
Ansar’s mask slips. For a heartbeat, I see uncertainty and fear; shock and disbelief.
He’s losing control.
Down here, I’m in control.
In the cold; in the darkness, I’m in my element. I can feel the subtle changes in the air; the faint tremors that run through the tunnel walls. I can see perfectly well, and I can hear.
The trickling of water. The slithering of small creatures that have never seen the light of day.
I can feel her aura; trapped, stifled, fractured.
She’s been waiting. She’s ancient and powerful, but she’s been unjustly held captive by lesser men with treacherous devices.
They can’t let her go, because they’re weak. Avaricious. Ambitious.
I slap my brother again, just for good measure. Just hard enough to leave a red welt on his cheek. Perhaps I’ve broken something.
His left hand flies to his cheek. He staggers backward. “You fucking bastard.”
“I’ve been called much worse,” I say mildly, even though I’m still seething inside. I could have so easily taken Ansar’s head off just then.
The crimson threads no longer surround his left hand.
“If you touch me again, I’ll kill her,” he snarls, holding up his right hand—the one that’s still adorned with glowing crimson threads. “Just one of them needs to unravel, and her soul will be sucked into the afterlife.”
Try it.
I can feel her aura, and now I can hear her.
Her heart beats.
Mine doesn’t. Not right now. It only beats for Finley.
Her mother’s heartbeat is glacially slow.
I don’t really need Ansar anymore.
I just need to follow that sound.
Ba-bump.
If only he’d release her life-threads.
He’s just lost a few—the life-threads of my father and the embalmer have disappeared. That means someone’s sent them to the afterlife. The Elite Guard are more than a match for two undead beings. I even wouldn’t be surprised if Finley herself has ended them.
If she’s come into her powers, then that would be a wonderful thing indeed.
I can’t wait to get back to her.
My anger at Ansar’s stupidity turns into impatience.
Did Ansar and his family really think they could defeat me by provoking me and luring me here?
I draw my sword and point it at the center of Ansar’s back, letting him feel the pressure of the tip of my blade. It pierces his robe and makes a tiny nick in his skin.
The acrid scent of his blood fills the air. It’s strange, laced with intoxicating poison. Even if I were desperate, I wouldn’t drink it.
“It seems our little stalemate has grown more acute on your end,” I say coldly. “Lead the way, little brother.”
“If you kill me, her life-thread goes with me,” he warns.
But the necromancer still values his life, it seems, for in spite of all his scorn and fury; his sheer hatred of me, he turns and starts to walk.
62
CORVAN
The tunnel slopes downwards. We go deeper into the Earth, and the air around us becomes heavy. The sounds disappear, too. I can no longer hear the trickling water or the skittering of creatures.
There’s a certain kind of pressure here; closing in from all sides, enveloping me in darkness and silence.
Cutting out the world above.
It’s stifling.
I feel like I’m being encased in cold tar, and the tar is quickly drying.
I force myself to ignore the sensation, even though a trickle of fear has entered my chest.
Yes, even I feel fear from time to time.
Finley’s words ring in my mind.
What if she’s vengeful?
The creature I’m most afraid of is down here, in the cold, silent crypts beneath Deignar Castle.
It doesn’t matter. She deserves to be free. And I’m fairly certain she would never harm Finley.
My task is to convince her not to take out her anger on the ordinary people of Rahava.
That’s the real battle here.
Not fighting the undead or Ansar or the Talavarras. They’ve thrown their armies at me and failed.
We reach a small door set into the crude stone wall. As I look at it, a pinprick of agony enters my temple.
It’s covered in Perigian glyphs. The metal itself gives off a painful energy, like heat radiating off coals.
It must be an antimagic spell. It makes me slightly nauseous.
“Open it,” I order.