Fadey tilted his head. “You understand, don’t you? I know it is unnatural and you are no warrior, but to meld your bones to mine will give me the power of your soul. I won’t need your help to see and find the Wanderer’s bones, for I will be strong enough to sense them myself. Maybe I’ll even be able to keep your assassin pet.”
“You cannot murder, or it corrupts the soul.”
“Worth the risk to win the power of all crafts and kingdoms, my dear.”
Ingir hummed while she made a circle with rune stones.
Gods, they were going to cut me to pieces.
“I know it is frightening,” Fadey said, almost gently. “But when I gather the Wanderer, no crafter will ever fear cruel treaties. They will live under one king, one voice, as they once did. Your sacrifice will protect our folk for generations, Lyra.”
“You’re mad.” I sat back as far as I could possibly move away from the man.
“No.” Fadey chuckled. “Not mad. Determined.”
“You might think you can run,” Ingir said, adjusting the finalrune piece, “but remember we have your brother. We’ll corrupt him.”
Fresh tears burned in my eyes. I would give my life for those I loved. To my soul I knew it.
“You killed your bone crafter,” I said, reaching for anything to stall. “You will not be able to mark my bones with the soul cast.”
Ingir pointed to her rune circle. “There are ways to be convincing, even to bone crafters. Perhaps we’ll pay a visit to the pretty crafter you brought with you. Or her brother. Either will do.”
Tears of hate stung. They’d compel and threaten Edvin or Hilda, keeping them imprisoned when they were only beginning to start anew with their families.
“I will give you painless herbs.” Ingir stood and strode across the chamber to a row of potted plants. She looked over her shoulder. “You won’t feel the blade.”
My heart ached at the thought, the pain Kael would feel when he learned the truth.
The pain Roark might feel.
My lips trembled. Roark, who risked treason now, all to see me safe. Would he mourn the loss of me? Would he return to the stoic Sentry folk feared or resented?
I glanced at the knife Ingir left on the table beside her rune chips. The woman was a fool. There was a lesson Roark had taught me only this morning—to die for the ones we loved was honorable, but to kill for them was beautifully terrifying.
Without thought, I gripped the hilt of her knife and lunged to the other side of the table as Fadey scrambled to his feet. Ingir spun around, taken aback. She gathered her skirt and raced from her herbs, shouting at me to stop.
She would be too late.
Fadey wore the face of a Stav, but he was no warrior. Slow to react, allowing his stun to dull his instincts. I had time to ram the point of the knife through the top of his hand.
A weak strike. He cried out in pain all the same. The blade tore through his flesh. That was all I needed.
My palm covered the open flesh. Craft surged in my nose, my lungs, my tongue, a storm on the sea.
Fadey’s shouts cracked in new fear when he realized what I was doing. Bone snapped, heated.
He tried to wrench his hand away from the table.
Already too many of the small bones in his fingers, his palm, had shifted to molten material, spilling out over the wood. I made quick work of opening another wound on his leg. Fadey cursed me, hissing and spitting, but weakened by the pain of his twisted hand.
I yanked his wrist enough to touch the golden threads of craft flailing off his palm to the open wound of his thigh, where new strands of gold bled off his bones beneath the flesh.
One stitch, two, was all I managed before his opposite fist slammed against my skull, knocking me back.
Still, slivers of bone from Fadey’s hand were melded to the place above his knee, forcing him to hunch.
His skin flushed red with hatred. His eyes flashed like the burn of the molten hell when he tried to remove his hand and stand straight.
