This time the bolt of power flew silently. The air shivered as if a giant sword had whisked by me, its speed and ferocity making it invisible. I blinked. The silken bindings stretched and drooped from my fingers, then frayed into threads of gossamer that floated to the floor. Free!
But the mardane quickly gripped my arm and shoulder in such fashion that he could lay me flat should I blink wrongly. My moment’s exaltation snapped like a dry twig. The unruined half of his face twisted slightly. “It is certainly as you surmised, my lord. His nature is true. The rebellious spirit does not forsake him.”
“Erase any thought of escape from your mind, Magnus Valentia,” breathed the voice from the shadows. “Do not think I cannot reconstruct these restraints or provide more…restrictive…ones should they prove necessary. Though obedience is required by your contract, I know you disdain the rules of your kind, as well as the ordinary courtesies of honorable men.”
I tried to reclaim some dignity in word if not posture. “My word, given unreserved, is inviolate, Lord. But I do not honor promises given by others in my name.”
“Fair enough. So you will understand why we hold surety for your good behavior.”
The door opened, and one of my escorts led in a prisoner. His slender wrists were bound behind him and silk scarves shuttered his eyes and mouth. A tiny sound issued from his throat. Not a sob. Not a wail. Only the choking sound of terror tight reined, of constricted throat and bound heart, of determined courage. Jullian.
“Damnable cowards!” I yelled, rage exploding from my being’s core. “What kind of lord…what kind of man…holds a child hostage? How dare you—?”
Voushanti deftly shifted his grip, snaring my right arm in a shoulder lock, bending my neck forward so forcefully I thought it must snap.
“I do only what is necessary to compel your obedience,” said the voice from the darkness, cold and deep. “Fulfill your contract, and the lad will survive…this day.”
I wrenched free of the mardane and dropped to my knees beside the boy. Fear and anger flailed the cotton wool within my skull, so that I could scarcely articulate words. They had brutalized this boy on my account. “Jullian, it’s Valen here. Have they hurt you?”
The boy shook his head sharply.
“His safety is in your hands, pureblood,” said Voushanti, his voice stark as midwinter.
In my hands. Indeed. I gathered the rigid boy close, turning him until his back lay against my chest, laying one hand on his ruddy hair and one hand on his breast. His heart fluttered like a rabbit’s throat. “I want him free.”
Voushanti snapped, “You have no—”
“Free and healthy as he is right now,” I barked into the midnight where the master lurked, ignoring the treacherous servant. “You can throw me in a pit dungeon and lock the trap for a thousand years before I allow him to be your pawn.” I could not consider complexities or strategies, but only a certainty that swelled greater than the doulon craving—this outrage could not happen. “Your word, Lord Prince, or I do nothing for you ever and your contract gold is wasted.”
“Free, then, and unharmed, once today’s task is done.” The voice breathed malice that settled like a cold snake alongside my spine. “But not you, pureblood. Not ever. You claim your given word is inviolable. So swear to me of your own will—without reservation—that you will not run. Prove it this day, and you will have my word in exchange: I will not ever use the boy against you.”
Good that I could not hold more than one thought in my head at a time, that I was too dull witted to weigh the balance of this bargain. Yet he was not asking an oath of obedience. Only submission. I spun Jullian around to face me and gripped his narrow shoulders, quickly before I could reconsider.
“I vowed to protect you, Archangel. Do you remember? And so I’ll do. My master is noble Eodward’s son, thus we must assume he is a man of his word as well. So have courage and say your prayers. While I’m off doing his bidding, you can practice your Aurellian verbs, for I know you have difficulty with them. Teneo, teneas, teneat…teneamus… eh?”
The boy’s chin lifted ever so slightly. And then he nodded.
I rose and faced the massive dark in the corner of the room. How does a man yield his lifeblood willing, slit a vein and watch the scarlet flood sap his strength and sentience, silence the music of the world, still his feet? Madness—this foggy mantle the doulon had laid over me that allowed naught of sense, only anger to burn through—that was the only explanation. I bent one knee, inclined my back, and touched my fingertips to my forehead. “You have my word, lord prince. I will not run. Not ever.”
“Without reservation?”
“Without reservation.”
“Very well, then! Be on your way.”
Voushanti bowed to his lord, pulled me to my feet, and hurried me out of the room. “I will outline your morning’s task as we go,” he said when the door had closed behind us. “Speed is of the essence…”
Chapter 28
Blood is unique. Pureblood families insist that each child’s blood is identical either to the father’s or the mother’s, and that the only variance that prevents one of us growing into an exact copy of that parent is malleable “nature.” But those purebloods gifted to follow routes and tracks must surely know better—that blood bears the imprint of a singular being who loves and hates and quivers in terror, who sings psalms or grows parsnips or strips pigs—because blood lays down an excellent, unmistakable path to its source.
Though I had no idea whose blood it was, the clotted mess in the sooty, brick-paved courtyard was sufficient to trigger a magical response when I applied my mind to the problem. If only I had more mind.
“Which way?” demanded Voushanti, his voice muffled by the hood that draped his mutilated face. His hand encircled my upper arm with the grip of a pawnbroker holding his last citré. The engravings on his wide gold wristband seemed to writhe in nauseating rhythm with my pulse. “Where were they taken? A month you’ve squatted here staring at this puddle. We’ve—”
“—no time. I know that.” I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to focus on the whereabouts of the unnamed captive whose blood had been so callously shed in this deserted yard. But as quickly as the route to his present location took shape in my mind, the lines and turnings faded again, as if I’d drawn them in breath frost on a window glass. Twice more in the past hour on our way through the chaotic streets of Palinur, I’d felt the shattering explosion of the doulon and the almost simultaneous disintegration of sense. My mind was in tatters. “West, I think. Toward Riie Doloure. There’s an old fortress…”
Was this a true impression or was it only that talk of missing prisoners recalled a tale I’d once heard about a private jail? Aurellians had inflicted cruel torments on Navron prisoners, not allowing guilt or justice to interfere with retribution, and certain Navron nobles rued the day King Eodward had proscribed such practices. A young thief had once told me of his escape from a grim lockup such men used for torturing “grudge prisoners”—those who bore their especial ire or contempt. Determined to spread word of the dread place before he could be recaptured, the youth had spat out his gruesome story, clutching his burnt, empty wrists to his belly while a fellow vagabond dressed the poor sod’s whip-gouged back with goose fat. I’d had no other comfort to offer a lad of fifteen, facing life with no hands.
“Riie Doloure—are you sure?”
I shook my head to clear it and pressed my palms to the pavement beside the dark sticky pool. Icy water dripped on my hands from the cornice that sheltered the unseemly blotch. Hold the lines this time. Ink them on your senses. The Bastard Prince has Jullian until this task is done. The traces were so faint. Brick and cobbles did not hold impressions like bare earth. And Palinur bled from every pore this day, confusing me even more. Time crawled by, stretched like a waking cat, and then sagged into a filthy puddle. “Riie Doloure. Yes.”