As they reached the top, another explosion rocked the earth. It was quickly followed by two more. The first wall collapsing? Cannons at the wharf? It was impossible to know, tucked in the walls of the Archives. But luckily, Eira knew where she could get a good vantage.
They emerged from the hatch that overlooked the Flame of Yargen, burning in its massive brazier at the apex of the Archives. Eira slowed for a moment, the heat of the fire battering her cheeks.
Eira led Cullen away from it, back toward the ladder that ascended to the final room of the Archives—the room Eira suspected Wynry and Ulvarth would’ve hid Yonlin within. And, if not Yonlin, then perhaps Ulvarth himself. This room was hidden and well protected, both things he’d desire if he didn’t have his magic still. Especially with suspicion of an attack incoming. The coward would want to hide, ride out the storm, and then claim he’d managed to survive because of his own skill.
“Be ready to strike, just in case,” Eira whispered. “There’s a room just up that ladder. When we ascend, let me know if you can feel any movements in the air that would suggest a person inside.”
Cullen nodded and they climbed. At the top, they paused on the tiny landing. Cullen crouched, resting his cheek against the floor. It looked almost as if he was trying to peer through the crack of the door, but Eira could sense every shift of his magic.
Without a sound, he eased away and gave her a slight nod. Eira bore a hole in the door with her stare, bracing herself. There was no sound coming from within, making it impossible to tell who was inside.
Unsheathing the dagger, Eira slowly pushed open the door. The room was empty. Cullen dipped his chin slightly toward the door diagonal from them in a gesture that read,There. Stalking through the room, Eira shifted her grip on the dagger as her palm splayed across the ajar door. There wasn’t enough space for her to peer through.
She held her breath, listening. A faintclankingsound, almost like a glass being set on a table, or perhaps chains. Only one way to find out which.
In one swift movement, she threw open the door and lunged into the room. Wind was under her heels, propelling her. The dagger flashed in the first morning light streaming through the window.
She stopped short. It wasn’t Ulvarth.
But it wasn’t Yonlin, either.
“The goddess’s red lines of fate are certainly tied in interesting knots to bring us together again in this forsaken place,” Taavin, the Voice of Yargen, said almost nonchalantly.
39
Asmile arced across his face, causing his eyes to crinkle ever so slightly in their corners. Dark circles hung beneath his sharp green eyes; they matched the bruising that covered his skin.
“Your…Majesty.” Cullen struggled, either from not knowing the proper honorific for Taavin, or from shock.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Eira blurted, sheathing her dagger and kneeling to inspect the runic shackles that were clamped around Taavin’s wrists. They were the same as what had been in Qwint, and the mines. “Another gift from Carsovia, I see,” she muttered.
“He has many of those,” Taavin agreed. “We knew he’d attempted courting the Empress’s favor, but we doubted he was successful, given her nature.”
“Her nature seems to be cruelty. I’d imagine they’d get along exceptionally.” The chain the shackles were attached to was bolted to the floor, giving him an extraordinarily short leash. Eira continued to willfully ignore the squalor he’d been forced to exist within for her own benefit and his pride. “Do you know where the key is? On Ulvarth, I presume?”
“It’d be my guess.”
Eira sighed heavily. “Of course.” She was regretting sending Alyss off. But it wasn’t as though she could’ve known she’d need the woman’s skills. “Cullen, there was a torch in the main room. Get it, light it from the brazier, and bring it back.”
He sprang into action without question. Eira’s eyes drifted up to Taavin’s.
“I can get this off,” she continued, “but it will be painful. I cannot promise you won’t have scarring, at the least.”
“We all have our scars,” he said easily. Did he fully comprehend what she was going to have to do to get the shackles off? Part of her hoped he didn’t. It might be easier that way. But she suspected he did—Taavin was clever and knew what was coming next.
His wrists were only one link apart, but Eira brought them closer together anyway, holding metal and flesh with a single hand.
“I’m going to do my best to make this as painless as possible,” she said.
“I’d rather it be as fast as possible.” His brow was already set with determination.
Eira nodded and allowed her magic to pour over the shackles, drawing from the deep well the rune on her chest provided. It flowed through his veins and up to his elbows. Eira imagined it like waves lapping against the shore. His hands and wrists were fully submerged, slowly numbing. The sensation would be more mild up to his elbows before completely wearing off on the rest of his arms.
The transition was so fast and seamless that he didn’t even wince as sensation left him. But tiny tremors did have his biceps twitching. Eira kept her grip fast. Frost was beginning to coat her flesh and his, collecting into crystals of ice.
Cold, cold, colder still. As cold as the bleak dawns in the high mountains where the air was so biting that it was impossible to feel your face the moment you emerged. Colder than snow or ice.
As cold as the hatred Eira felt for Carsovia and Ulvarth.
