The Sharpest Blade
Page 64

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.