“My brother and I pledged ourselves as acolytes after our parents’ deaths twelve years ago,” Diana said.
Her tones were naturally high-pitched, but they did not rise as she spoke. Another indication that she was not fighting the command of the witch-blood in her veins to answer the questions.
Cyara had used her time mindlessly humming to consider her questions. She certainly could not afford to spend it dwelling on her own grief, on the sisters she had shared that melody with, the sisters she had lost.
Her voice remained steady as she asked her next question. “Did you leave Avalon willingly?”
Diana pressed her eyes shut. Stumbled. Hauled herself back up.
Her voice had risen by an octave when she spoke again. “No. I was taken.”
Cyara let the words hang in the cold air between them. With each huff, they could see their breath. The words were as real as those clouds of air—real but intangible.
The words that came next were the ones that truly mattered.
Veyka’s head twitched to the side. Listening to every word. Lyrena was subtler. Both waiting. If Percival listened as well, he gave no indication.
“How did you come to be Gorlois’ captive?”
Diana’s lower lip started to tremble. Then her hand, her arm. Her shoulders and then her entire body were moving. Tears tracking down her cheeks. Shaking. The name had set her off—set her shattering.
Cyara stilled the urge to press her own eyes closed or to press her fingers to the bridge of her nose in disappointment. She did not know how much gentler she could be. She opened her mouth to retract the question, to ask something different.
But it was too late. The command of the witch curse in her veins had Diana’s mouth opening, even as tears streamed down her face.
“He lured me with the communication crystal and then he took me from Avalon.” Each word was pained, the syllables stretched until they were jagged and sharp. Diana’s face crumbled and she buried it in her hands.
Percival’s footsteps crunched through the underbrush as he stormed to his sister’s side. He tucked her in against him and glared at Cyara, telling her without words that he was unafraid of the harpy he knew she could become.
Cyara looked away from the tender moment, unable to bear the gentle shushing of Percival’s voice. It was too close, too reminiscent of the sibling bond now lost to her. She sucked in a breath, letting Lyrena step closer and keep watch on the two.
Only to find the High Queen of Annwyn staring at her speculatively, tossing her dagger idly between her palms.
One eyebrow lifted toward the crown of shimmering snow-white hair.
Cyara ducked her head, avoiding Veyka’s eyes, afraid of what she would find there. Admonition, for pushing an already fragile captive toward the breaking point. Or worse—approval, for getting information they sorely needed. She was not sure which would make her feel worse.
16
VEYKA
In the northeastern foothills of the Spine.Arran’s words, spoken months and months ago when we’d first wondered so naively about rifts. I let the meaning of the words fade to nothing, let myself bathe in the memory of the syllables scraping over his tongue, the rough stubble on his throat moving as he spoke.
Would things have been different if I had listened to Parys all those months ago? Would I still be standing in a brutally cold pine forest, alone?
Fire crackled behind me, then the hushed voices of Lyrena and Cyara arguing over who would take the first watch of the night. Lonely, but not alone, my fragile heart amended.
We were moving painfully slowly with our human prisoners in tow. Diana, in particular, was a mess. Cyara was the gentlest soul among us, and even she had not been able to coax much out of her before the woman collapsed in on herself.
I had been broken like that before. Before Arran came and stitched my soul back together. Before I had friends.
Even now, it was a minute by minute battle to keep myself from falling to my knees and sobbing at the ache in my chest. Only the layer of ice I’d encased my heart in, that I’d built inmy chest, kept me upright. If I could not feel the other parts of myself fully, if I was dangerously close to that numbness I’d felt after Arthur’s death… I could not dwell on that. I had to protect Annwyn. I had to stop the succubus. I could not fall apart.
Cyara could work on Diana. I still had Percival to torture. Once he outlived his usefulness, I’d remove his head from his body. The terrestrial realm was known for its brutality. They’d probably think nothing of me spiking his head to the battlements of Eilean Gayl or Wolf Bay.
But first we had to get there.
After several days of travel, we were close.
