My hand went to my belt, instinctively reaching for the knife that wasn’t there, and I realized that I was unarmed. Of course I was unarmed: who takes someone hostage and conveniently gives them weapons? Rhys was a bastard and a butcher, but he wasn’t stupid. He never had been, except possibly in who he loved. If he hadn’t been so fond of the false Queen, he would never have declared war on the Mists—but then, he would never have been King, either. Maybe he thought it had all been worth it. I’d have to ask him, before I let Tybalt voice his displeasure with the hospitality we’d received.
The hall was long and dimly lit by sconces set near the top of the wall. Their pale, steady glow was enough to keep me from tripping or walking into anything, but only just; my night vision isn’t as good as a pureblood’s. I forced myself to keep walking confidently forward, following the blood trail. Rhys was going to ground. He wasn’t going to be slamming into walls while he did it.
The trail ended at another blank wall. “Let me through,” said Marlis. Tybalt and I stepped to the side, and she repeated her earlier trick, spreading her fingers against the wood and pushing inward until there was a click and the wall swung open. The smell of wine vinegar and meadowsweet was stronger on the other side. Marlis shook her head. “He’s been doing this for years. He teleports around the knowe like we would have built it without doors, and he never asks himself why a place that wasn’t meant for him would come so perfectly tailored to his abilities.”
“Sounds like a King to me,” I said, and stepped through the newly opened door before Tybalt could push in front of me.
The smell of blood was basically gone now, only providing the faintest of undercurrents to the much stronger scent of Rhys’ magic. It trailed after him like a string, and I followed it without hesitation, seeking the minotaur at the center of my own private labyrinth. I could feel the weakness in my knees and the lightness in my thoughts; if I didn’t finish this soon, my friends and allies were going to be finishing it without me. Even I have my limits. My body was cooperating for now, but that was more a matter of stubbornness and shock than anything else.
“This way,” I said, beckoning the others on. I was so focused on the trail I knew, the blood and magic and the promise of a conclusion, that I didn’t check my surroundings the way I should have. Tybalt would normally have caught the scent, but he didn’t have my skill at distinguishing blood from blood: I was covered in the stuff, and that was hiding Rhys’ scent from him. I stepped forward.
Rhys lunged out of an alcove to my left and grabbed me, his arm locking around my neck, pulling me backward into his chest. I gasped as the air was knocked out of me. Then I tensed, bracing for an impact that didn’t come. Tybalt was still standing exactly where he had been before, not making any move toward me or the man who held me. It didn’t make sense.
“Move, and I break her skin,” snarled Rhys. I tensed more, my eyes tracing the line of his arm until they reached his hand, and the arrow he was holding just above my shoulder.
Oh. That made sense after all.
“You don’t want to do this,” I said. “I’m a diplomat. Any act of aggression toward me is an act of aggression toward the Mists.”
“And I am a King,” spat Rhys. “You disgusting little bitch. You could have cleansed your own blood long ago, but instead you choose to remain mortal, and for what? So you can come here and taunt me with your filth, even as you plot my downfall? Stay back!” I felt him stiffen behind me.
Tybalt, who had been inching forward, stopped. “Let her go,” he said softly. “If you let her go, I will not pursue you when you run.”
“And if I don’t?” demanded Rhys. “You’re an animal. What can you do to me?”
“Follow you to the ends of the earth. For a hundred years, if I must, because I will have no better way to spend my time. When she wakes, I will press your heart into her hand, and tell her I am sorry I was not a better man.” Tybalt’s smile was slow, and terrible, and had nothing to do with joy. “I have tried to be a better man, you see. For her. But I could be a better monster, for you.”
The arrow was barely an inch above the skin of my shoulder. If I moved at all, or if Rhys did, it was all going to be over. I would either die as the potion fought against my humanity, or I would sleep for a hundred years when my magic automatically pushed me all the way toward Faerie. Tybalt would break the Law, and High King Sollys would have no choice but to put him to death.
But if Tybalt let Rhys go to save me from elf-shot, then it would all have been for nothing. Silences would remain frozen in the rule of a man who allowed changelings to be treated like chattel, who sliced up his enemies for parts—and who had, thus far, managed to serve the letter of Oberon’s Law, never going too far, never crossing the line. The war might happen or it might not. It wouldn’t really matter. For the people of Silences, the last War still hadn’t ended. Either way, we would lose. We would all lose.
Or I could put my faith in Walther and in my magic, and I could end it now.
I moved my chin just enough to let me meet Tybalt’s eyes. His smile died, replaced by horrified understanding. Then, before he could react, I slammed myself hard to the side, taking advantage of Rhys’ rigidity. The change in our positions put the arrow above the flesh over my collarbone. As I had expected, Rhys brought it down, piercing my skin. I fell forward, hooking his ankle with mine. He wasn’t prepared, and my weight drove the arrow deeper as we both tumbled to the floor, passing through the muscle of my shoulder and into the flesh of his chest.
“I win,” I said, and closed my eyes. The pain began a moment later, electric and all-consuming. I welcomed it. The pain meant my body was fighting the elf-shot, and the elf-shot was fighting my body, and as long as I was at war with myself, I was alive.
It was only when the pain began to ebb that I realized I might be losing.
TWENTY-TWO
I AWOKE WITH A GASP, one hand flying up to check the curvature of my ear while my eyes were still struggling to find their focus. It was familiar, no sharper or softer than it had been before I went and stabbed myself in the shoulder with an arrow. Either I was dreaming, or I hadn’t changed the balance of my blood at all.
Hands clamped down on my shoulders, and then a mouth was pressed over mine, kissing me with such fierce intensity that I didn’t need to be able to see to know that it belonged to Tybalt. I looped my arms around his shoulders and kissed him back, not really caring who else was in the room. I wasn’t dreaming. I dreamed about Tybalt kissing me sometimes—I dreamed about it a lot—but it was never like this, never shaking and scared and holding me so tightly that it felt like air couldn’t slide between us. I was awake.
My eyes had finished focusing by the time he pulled back and let me go. I blinked, several times. His cheeks had seemed rough when he was kissing me, and now I could see why; they were peppered with stubble, which grew in bands of alternating black and brown, like his hair.
“Even your face is striped,” I said, half-laughing. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That was when the fear began. “Oh, oak and ash. How long . . . how long have I been asleep?”
“Now you begin to worry,” he whispered. “Can’t you learn to worry sooner? For my sake, if no one else’s?”
“A week,” said a voice from my left. I turned. Walther was standing there, looking exhausted but pleased with himself. He raised one hand in a small wave. “Hi. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“You did it?” I raked my hair out of my face with one hand, staring at him. “You actually did it?”