Ancestors. How long had they been followed? They’d walked into a trap, clearly. But even two or three humans were easily handled. But not when she couldn’t even see them—not when she was supposed to be convincing them to give refuge and succor.
“Drop your blades,” the voice commanded.
Gwen gripped hers harder.
But as the sand settled, realization rose in its place.
They were surrounded.
12
CYARA
Taking him back to Veyka’s quarters was a risk, but it was also where she had the least chance of being disturbed. Unlike the communal sitting room or the bedchamber Cyara shared with Lyrena on the other side of the suite, no one dared to enter the royal bedroom. Cyara saw to all of the queen’s needs herself, including changing the sheets and cleaning the room. Back in Baylaur, she’d shared the duties with her sisters. Since Gawayn and Roksana’s massacre, she’d seen to it on her own.
The memory of Carly and Charis’ deaths bolstered her determination. Carly. Charis. Parys. Her father. She would not lose another beloved friend or family member. She would not lose Veyka.
Percival stood only a few feet into the room, waiting as Cyara closed the door behind them, staring around the bedchamber but rooted to the spot. He’d never been invited in here, Cyara knew. At least he wasn’t pissing on Veyka’s bed or something equally ridiculous. To say there was no love lost between the man and the queen was a gross miscarriage of truth.
“Sit at the table.” Cyara softened her order by walking to the tea station set up to one side of the uncomfortable woodenthrone Veyka avoided at all costs. “I will make us something to drink.”
From the corner of her vision, she watched Percival move woodenly to the small round table positioned in the corner of the room. He took the seat that Arran had occupied mere hours before.
A flick of her fingers and a flame rose beneath the kettle. She turned her back so he could not see as she retrieved the bottle she’d slipped into her pocket while perusing the priestess’s collection. He was none the wiser as she tipped a palmful of leaves into her mortar, crushing them along with the rest of the fragrant blend. She set it to steep.
“Have you and Diana made any plans for where you will go?” Cyara asked with feigned casualness, her hip resting against the straight wooden throne.
Percival’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware we were at liberty to do so.”
True enough. But she wasn’t intent on an argument about those particulars. “If you could, where would you go? Back to Avalon?”
She did not have him at her mercy yet; he was perfectly free to lie to her. But she’d asked these same questions of Diana in passing. And while they technically shared their witch blood, Diana contained none of her brother’s predilection to prevaricate.
“A return to Avalon is not possible.” Percival left the second half of his sentence unspoken—they will not have us.
An internal clock refined by thousands of pots of brewed told her that the tea was ready. She poured them each a cup. “The human realm, then?”
Percival accepted his and drank without hesitation.
Bile rose up in the back of Cyara’s throat, but she did not lift the tea to her own lips to stifle it.
“Somewhere deserted. Far away from any beings that might be infected by the succubus.” Percival set down his teacup. “Human or fae.”
It was a clever plan. Percivalwasclever, for all that his good judgement had been impeded by his desire to protect his sister.
He realized quicker than Cyara estimated.
“You are not drinking.” His eyes darted to her untouched cup. Then back to her face, one hand falling to his stomach, where the first pangs of pain were surely making their presence known. “What did you give me?”
“Hellroot. In small doses, it merely causes indigestion. However, the amount in your tea will be fatal within the hour,” Cyara said calmly. She lifted another vial. “If I do not administer the antidote.”
Percival’s eyes flashed with anger, but he did not try to get up or get away. “What happened to chains? Were they not sufficient to have me at your mercy?”
She tucked the vial of antidote away in the heavy folds of the gown she’d crafted herself. It was not as comfortable and airy as the ones she’d worn in Baylaur, but it was infinitely better suited to the snow that had begun falling outside of Eilean Gayl.
“This might take more than three questions,” Cyara admitted. “I need to know about the Sacred Trinity, and I do not have time for half-truths or bartering.”
Percival made a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh. “Then you’d better be quick about it.”
