The crash had made no sound. Those piercing hazel eyes flew up to Tes.
“What have you done?” she asked, or at least, that is what Tes guessed she said. Her mouth formed the words. But nothing came out. Every sound in the workshop had suddenly been doused.
The queen’s gaze dropped to the music box on the table. She lunged for it, and as she did, Tes went for the cast-off manacles, grabbing them with one hand, the other pulling on the strings. The iron went soft as putty in her hands, and before the queen could reach the music box, Tes slammed the softened metal down over her wrists. The queen recoiled, but Tes had already let go, and the iron was iron again, fused to the metal surface.
Tes scrambled back, away from the table and the queen’s shocked expression.
“Solase,” she said, but the apology was nothing but a shape on her lips as she turned, and fled.
* * *
Tes ran, sound returning as she sprinted up the stairs. When the queen had come to fetch her, she’d been led up out of the prison, across a gallery, and down into another pillar. She’d seen two doors, the first, leading up into the palace above. The second, subtle as a crack in stone, and set into the pillar’s landing halfway up.
She reached it, and pulled—but it was locked.
Tes ran her hands over the iron. With time, she could have picked the lock, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she wrenched on the magic as hard as she could. The door crumpled, like paper, and tore free with a groan. Tes flung herself out, expecting to find steps, only to find nothing but air. She had just enough time to panic, to grasp that she was falling, about to plunge straight down into the river, before her boots landed on the soft earth a few feet below.
She stumbled forward, hands sinking into wet grass, the blades tinted red by the Isle’s glow. The riverbank. The sun had gone down, the sky above darkening from blue to black, casting the southern bank in deep shadow. Tes scrambled up the slope, crested the rise to find the lanterns of the night market glowing in the distance, the paths full and the tents alive with people.
Relief flooded through her.
She pulled her coat close, and started forward, intending to slip into the crowd and disappear. But as she crossed the lawn, a shadow stepped into her path. Even in the dark, Tes could see the black braid that rose like a crest over the woman’s head, the metal wrapped around her forearm. Her blood went cold.
“Well, hello there,” said Bex, strolling forward. “I told you we weren’t done.”
“I already destroyed the persalis,” said Tes, inching backward. Her heels slipped on the wet grass, only the slope and the river at her back. Or so she thought. Until Calin’s large, scarred arm swept around her shoulders, and hauled her up, off her feet.
“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” Tes gasped.
Bex inclined her head. “Let’s hope, for your sake, that isn’t true.”
Calin forced a cloth over her nose and mouth. She tried not to breathe, but soon her aching lungs betrayed her, dragging in the tainted air. Something sickly sweet coated her tongue, her throat, filled her head. The last thing she saw was the blurring lanterns of the market beyond Bex’s shoulder. And then they blinked out, one by one, and she was left in darkness.
Part Eleven
IN THE WRONG HANDS
I
Lila Bard was in a foul fucking mood.
Seven years, she’d watched Kell suffer. Seven years, without a way to make it stop. And now here one was, and he was saying no. Because there was a risk. Of course there was a risk, but that was the problem with these people born to magic, it made their lives too easy, it made things too sure. They did not seem to understand that sometimes living came with risks.
She cared for Rhy, of course, but she was tired of watching Kell sacrifice himself on his brother’s altar, as if his own life and pain meant nothing.
Fucking martyrs.
“Don’t leave the palace,” Kell had said, and for some reason she’d listened, at least at first, gone to the training grounds in the hopes of finding soldiers, guards, new recruits—anyone willing to spar. But the grounds had been empty.
So Lila walked—stomped, really, as if she could force her frustration down out of her body through the heels of her boots. She felt like a bottle of sparkling wine after it’s been shaken and before the cork bursts free. Her power churned beneath her skin, spilling into the air around her. Lanterns brightened as she passed. Pebbles shivered and skidded down the street.
She wanted a fucking fight, but clearly no one at the palace was willing, or able, so Lila did what she did best.