Another face, this one a male, “Tell me who you are.”
“I’m nobody.”
“Liar,” the mob says as one.
My throat is swollen and achy, making every breath a struggle. I wrap my arms protectively around my head and squeeze my eyes shut.Please, stop. Please let me go,I think to myself.
“Then tell me who you are,”a deep male voice says in my mind. My head snaps up. The figures remain crowded around me, but they’re all still. Completely and utterly still, like living statues.
That’s when it hits me. Someone else is controlling them, someone who can see me. I crane my neck back to look over and around the guards, but there’s no one. “Please, let me go,”I beg the voice, mind-to-mind.
No.
The figures seemingly come back to life. They grab my arms, my hair, my dress, my throat. They wrap arms around my waist and torso and grapple with my kicking feet, then squeeze and twist and turn me in a billion different directions. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My shoulder muscles scream as they’re stretched to their limit and fiery pain blazes along my scalp, where my hair is being ripped out.
Frantically, I attempt to push out my power, searching the minds of the fae ripping me apart for someone, anyone I can control enough to make them stop, but every time I try to get inside somebody’s head, I’m met with a wall that no amount of pounding will break through.
Panic burns through my veins like wildfire. I’m twisting and bucking and arching and kicking. Black spots burst across my vision. I’m going to pass out. I need air now, or I’m going to pass out and die.
Then the hands are gone and my stomach dips as I’m dumped onto the floor, my head and spine cracking painfully against the stone. My lungs expand, drawing in air so quickly it makes me cough, but I can breathe. Sweet Mother, I can breathe. I roll overonto hands and knees, fully expecting to find my brains littering the floor, but there’s only a small smear of blood.
“You are a fighter; I’ll give you that.”
I look up at the sound of that voice to find King Khalmos looming over me, tapping his ashari sheathed fingers together. The room begins to spin, and vomit rises in my throat. I close my eyes and lower my head back down until my forehead meets the cool floor. Taking deep breaths through my nose, I try to stem the wave of nausea before I throw up all over his fancy satin slippers.
“Water,” he says with a snap of his fingers, and a few seconds later, a glass of water is set in front of me. I glance up to see a guard walking back to join the contingent flanking the king. I probably shouldn’t drink it. It could be poisoned. Then again, Khalmos could have me killed as easily as he got that water, so subterfuge would be pretty useless right now. I lift my head just enough to bring the glass to my lips and drink. The water is cold and soothing against my raw throat, and I guzzle the entire thing before returning the glass to its spot on the floor.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I say, eyes downcast, so the only things I’m really getting a good view of are the hem of his silky red robe and his slippers.
Those shoes pivot and walk out of my field of view, so I peek up for only a second to see where he’s gone. The soldiers have moved back against the wall and Khalmos is standing in front of one of the arena’s outer windows, looking down on the city. The sound of muted voices shouting and cursing carries through the glass, as does the faint scent of smoke. There’s a crack, followed by a crash that rattles the walls. What is going on out there?
“I have been king for over five hundred years, and do you know what I’ve learned in that time, child?”
It sounds like a rhetorical question, so I wait.
“There is no power greater than the ability to control the minds of others. And in my long-long life…” He steps away from the window and takes a seat in a massive chair that must be a stand-in for his actual throne and crosses his skinny, pale legs. “I have only ever known one other mentalist, my father.” His eyes narrow. “Until you.”
I look up at him then, shock overriding good sense, but he doesn’t appear angry at me for meeting his eyes. In fact, his lips curl into a smile. “So, I will ask you once again, who are you?”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, sire. I’m nobody special. I didn’t even…”
I stop, realizing I may have said too much.
“You didn’t what?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His expression is—dare I say—eager.
“I didn’t know I had this ability until after I came here.”
“What’s your mother’s name?”
Do I lie? If I tell him the truth, will he go after my family—if there’s any family left to go after. “Alise,” I say, giving him the name of the magi from Duje.
His lips purse. Does he know I’m lying? Can he hear my thoughts?
The shuffling of many feet sounds behind me, and I twist around to see where it’s coming from. A group of about ten black-clad guards steps into the room. I notice that these don’t have the glazed-over look in their eyes like the others. Are they not under his control, then? At the head ofthe troop is a fae male with a white beard braided to his waist and zero hair on his head. He wears a green belt over his black uniform and blue and white horizontal stripes on the shoulders that I’m guessing mean he’s in charge. He bows and the rest of the guards follow suit.
“Yes, Garothe,” the king says.
Garothe rights himself. “The tunnels have been swept. There was a minor fire that’s been put out and the remaining prisoners disposed of, sire.”
