Concentrate, Clare. “Very well. To the carriage. Pico, climb up with Harthell and direct him to this church. Mikal, do bring Inspector Aberline, and make certain no harm comes to him.”
He set off for the mouth of the court, and his face crumpled for a moment before resmoothing itself. For he had realised something.
First, that he had sounded exactly like Miss Bannon. And second, he had no particular qualm about shedding the good inspector’s blood.
Should it become necessary.
Chapter Forty
The Cap To His Ambition
The painful, twisted wreck of a Prime shuffled away, and Emma was left to her own devices, her gaze roving over what little she could see without moving her head. Her pulse struggled to rise, again, the fact of confinement looming, a Prime’s will finding such a thing unbearable.
It is no different than a corset, she told herself. It is no different than being a woman in a world that seeks to chain every woman it can find. It is no different than your entire life, Emma. Be still. Be logical. Plan.
Did Clare feel this distress, when irrationality loomed? Perhaps they were the same–he was logic trapped in an illogical world, and she was a Prime’s will trapped in a woman’s flesh.
Enough to base a Sympathy on, I should think. Will they guess where I have been taken? I am underground. Mikal… he may not…
It was immaterial. Whether they accepted her invitation to find her or not, she had a duty here. Not to Victrix, not even to Britannia. She had chosen to be confined in this manner, offering herself as a sacrifice.
He had taken the bait. It was now her aim to become poisonous.
And you shall give me the world. What did he mean? How many times had she thought him dead? The simulacrum in Bedlam, the tower at Dinas Emrys… it reminded her of certain novels, wherein a villain was a mad reflection of the hero, and escaped death through the most fantastic of means.
The Promethean, in its egg of smoke over the lightless obsidian block, moved sluggishly. Rather like a swelling spawn in an ungodly womb. Of course it had eaten and charred the organs of generation. They were incredible sources of ætheric force, both because of their biological purpose and the importance accorded them by custom and human instinct.
If Llewellyn sought to marry the Promethean to his own regrowing flesh, why would he need her? And why, oh why, would it have such an effect on Britannia?
For the ruling spirit had been afraid. And Thin Meg, in her pit, had neatly placed Emma in a trap–or had she?
I do not know enough. Logic, Emma. Imagine Clare is here. What would he say?
Perhaps it was the wrong question. Her body twitched, her will flexing against the bonds. They held fast.
Now she remembered, unwillingly, the last time she had been held fast so completely. Dripping water, her despairing, unconscious sounds of rage and pain, and the choking as Mikal strangled his former Prime, slowly, and the horrid sounds of him tearing flesh asunder, before freeing her from the bonds.
Miles Crawford. The name of her captor. All the rage, all the terror in the world held in those syllables. She had been outplayed by him, and her Shields had paid the price. If not for Mikal’s disobedience—
Remember your purpose. Which is not to relive that moment.
Then why had she done this? Perhaps for no other reason than the one she had given a man who had not listened.
If not for luck, I could have been any one of them. All of them, or more. Or less, as the world would have it.
Perhaps he did not mean to marry the Promethean to his own flesh. And yet, marrying it to hers would be problematic as well. He could not tell, of course, that she had given the second wyrm’s heart to another, or even if she had taken it for herself. The beauty of the Philosopher’s Stone was its ability to pass undetected by even the finest unphysical senses. Just as a wyrm could lay undetected beneath a tower for aeons, as the world turned about it. Would the Stone bar another item’s introduction into the body it protected from harm and decay?
You shall give me the world.
Perhaps…
The connection trembled just out of reach. Something, some symmetry, was escaping her. Just as the nature of the Promethean had—
Wait.
If Llew had created a Promethean, and fed it on unfortunates in Whitchapel… no. That was wrong.
The only certainty was that a Promethean had been created. Perhaps it had chosen its own meat and drink, as it were.
You have more enemies than you know, sparrow-witch.
A Prime always did.
Ætheric force twitched restlessly. Come Tideturn, she might be able to find a crack or a chink in the restraints. They felt supple, slightly elastic, but any pressure against them would make the entire trap harden. Elegant, and just the thing to keep a Prime still and quiet.
If you did not mind said Prime losing her mind from the very fact of being trapped.
She might become just as mad as he was. Except he was not lunatic, really. Simply ambitious. He saw no reason to cap his ambition, any more than Emma did.
The only cap to my ambition is myself. What is the cap to his, I wonder?
The gleaming knife trembled upon the stone, turning on its tip rather like a ballerina en pointe. Its slight scraping would have sent a shiver down her back, if she could move.
She essayed a slight humming noise, deep in her throat. The gag would keep her from shaping Words, true. Much could be done with tone and—
Blackness devoured her vision. Panic, as her nose was stoppered as well as her mouth. Sorcerous training could not control the fear of strangulation, and she went limp. Air returned, as did consciousness.
There was a soft, mocking laugh. She could not see him, and the restraints made the sound echoing and unearthly.
“You think I’d leave you any opening, my darling? No.” He scraped back into sight, moving a little more easily. More damp, splashing sounds.
Emma squeezed her eyelids shut. Hot water trickled between her lashes. Then she let them open just a fraction, disliking the dark.
“I respect you. Not like that magical whore. It took me by surprise, her luring you into the open. I had hoped to bring you out a different way.” A shadow flickered between her and the yellow-rose glow of the lamps. “But here you are. And in such good time, too.”
Think, Emma. Think.
Unfortunately, he straightened, metal and bone clicking as the ruins of his body shook about him. He reached out, and Emma’s eyes opened wide.
His misshapen right hand closed about the knife, and he lifted it free of the stone with a physical and ætheric effort. He turned, and the tenderness on his features was almost worse than the glitter of insane calm in his dark eyes. Thin threads of yellow shone in the muddy irises, a reminder she did not need of Mikal.
Her Shield was most likely frantic by now. How much time had passed? Was it midnight yet? Could Clare find her? They were underground, could Mikal sense her with any accuracy once he was close enough?
Do not worry upon them, Emma. You have more than enough to occupy you here.
Llew shuffled toward her. “X—z˙’t’ks’m,” he breathed, a sorcerous Word that bent strangely as it was uttered. The knife shimmered with ætheric force, and the smoky egg containing the Promethean convulsed afresh.