Forceful tactics would likely break the scared young woman.
Cyara had always been better with the subtle sort of manipulations, anyway.
Keeping her movements slow, her steps heavier than usual so that Diana would sense her approach, Cyara moved a few paces ahead. Until she was positioned in front of Diana, out of her reach, but not quite to Lyrena.
She grasped the rope between them and tugged lightly. Lyrena whipped around, hand already reaching for her sword. But the expression on Cyara’s face stilled her. Lyrena slid a glance up ahead to Veyka, then back again. She hummed in disapproval, but untied the rope without breaking step and handed it back to Cyara.
Lyrena watched, her bright eyes sharp, until the rope was firmly affixed to the leather harness that Cyara wore. Only then did she turn back to monitoring Veyka.
Diana blinked a few times, dark eyes—the twin to Percival’s—widening with terror. A whimper escaped her lips.
Percival whipped around at the sound, only to find Veyka pressing the tip of her dagger into the small of his back.
Veyka rolled her eyes at Percival’s glare, then followed the direction of his gaze with a lazy glance of her own. Sweeping them over Lyrena, and Diana now tied to Cyara. Veyka dug the knife in a little harder. Percival cursed under his breath and stomped off, feet crunching over the frosty wintry debris beneath their feet.
Veyka followed him without a backward glance.
But Cyara knew the decision was deliberate. Veyka had noted the change in who held Diana’s leash. She knew her handmaiden well enough to intuit that there was a reason for the switch. Cyara would either report or be questioned later. Or maybe Veyka would keep her mouth shut and wait to see what happened.
Unlikely, though.
She put Veyka’s considerations to the side, for the moment. She would deal with the queen’s tempers and expectations later.
Her focus narrowed to the woman now walking near her side, a yard or so away. Cyara had not put that space there; Diana had. Wary, even of her, the handmaiden. What had Percival told her? Did she know about the harpy?
Cyara swallowed as silently as she could, then remembered the woman’s human ears could not detect such things in any case. Even as a half-witch, Diana could not hear the thumping of her heart or scent the worry that flowed off of Lyrena, who kept looking over her shoulder.
Cyara caught Lyrena’s gaze the next time. Rolled her eyes. Nodded forward.
Lyrena stuck out her tongue and turned her full attention back toward the front, to Veyka. The queen’s safety must be prioritized over everything; especially with Arran now laying in an enchanted sleep in Avalon.
Veyka was the only one who could save Annwyn.
If she was willing to try.
If she could overcome her grief and guilt.
When she was ready, Cyara would be as well.
She waited more than an hour, until they had settled into a quiet rhythm of movement, before she began humming. Just a gentle, soft sound. The tune was one from her youth, from the times when she had played with two younger sisters, all white winged and full of mischief.
She did not dare reach out and touch the captive woman directly for fear of startling her. But she slowly increased the volume of her humming, letting Diana adjust to the resonance of her voice.
When she stopped, and the woman’s head turned slightly, almost against her will, Cyara knew the time was right.
“I am going to ask you some questions,” Cyara said, keeping her voice carefully even. Nonthreatening.
Diana sucked in a breath, her heartbeat speeding up. Her muscles went tense, easy to see even under her flowing pale purple robes.
“I am not going to hurt you,” Cyara said. “But you are at my mercy.” She tugged on the rope, just enough to apply pressure to Diana’s hands.
Veyka took the harsh approach—pinning Percival down and putting a knife to his throat. Arran had done the same before her, without even realizing it, by tying Percival to a tree before questioning him. But that would not work with Diana. She was one wrong step away from shattering, and then she would be useless to them.
And shattered.
Cyara inhaled slowly, speaking on her exhale. “How long did you dwell on Avalon?”
She watched the woman’s throat, visible just above the modest cut of her purple robes, bob up and down. But she answered without flinching, without any outward sign of pain.
