I spot her finally in a cluster of servants I do recognize. She stands behind them, trying to blend in.
Get her.
Like the other times I’ve used shadebending, I don’t tell it what to do. I just give a shove of emotion, and the shadows react, do what they will.
A dark rope of power winds around her ankles, yanking her forward across the polished floor. Shocked nobles scramble out of the way, gawking as the woman sprawls before me. People push to move farther from us, the circle widening around me.
I see Stark out of the corner of my eye, note as he stays close, positions himself behind me.
Good. He’s not going to interfere.
“Who are you?”
The woman sobs, writhing against the shadowy restraints. They slither up from her ankles, fastening her arms to her sides, ringing her neck, leaving her helpless.
“No one, I’m just—I’m no one, Your Highness!” Her voice is thin and reedy. “This was just a job. I didn’t know what I was doing, I swear to the goddess!”
Her body thrashes uselessly on the floor, a grotesque echo of Izabel’s final dying throes.
“Explain yourself,” I growl. Anassa’s anger grows stronger and stronger in my mind as she races toward the castle, needing to be here by my side. Her presence in my mind renews my strength.
The woman’s whimpers are loud in the silent ballroom. A few nobles start to edge toward the doors.
Stop them.
Shadows shoot across each of the doors, visibly barring the exits. Sobs start from a few more directions, but I ignore the sound, turning back to my quarry.
She cries and snivels, begging me to let her loose. “I didn’t know what was going to happen! He told me I could trust him, that I was doing the right thing for Nocturna! He just said this was the queen’s goblet, that it was important I give it to you and only you!”
“Show me.” Without my instruction, the shadows drag the woman upright and loosen one of her arms. “Who was this man?”
Her arm shakes as she lifts it, pointing tremulously at a man.
A man I know well from our Council meetings.
The Councilor of Sturmfrost.
That slimy piece of shit whose oversight of my city has been nothing but a curse.
On instinct, I throw my hands toward him. The shadows take it as a command, streaming in his direction faster than thought itself.
Gathering pools of darkness twist into thorny ropes, tangling around Councilor Gerhold’s legs. The shadows hoist him into the air, pulling him up, up, until he’s dangling from his feet above his family’s table.
His wife lets out a bloodcurdling scream, stretching up, trying to reach him. Their two sons, men around my age, cower in fear with their eyes glued to their father.
I ignore them. “Did you honestly believe you could kill the rightful queen? And make it out of here unscathed? You did this. You robbed the world of a true bright light, and you will pay for her death.”
The councilor is red in the face, his clothes flapping awkwardly, but nevertheless he snarls at me. His look is as supercilious as the portraits of him hanging all over the city. “Who gives a shit about some Bonded dying? I was only doing what others were too cowardly to attempt. You’re not my queen.”
His wife moans, covers her eyes.
“Long live King Killian!” the councilor shouts defiantly, and several nobles near him try to school their expressions.
My jaw clenches, vengeance and fury clashing into something deadly inside my chest. My vision darkens.
The shadows respond, engulfing the entire councilor’s table, including his family.
His table winks out of existence for a moment. Councilor Gerhold’s strangled scream echoes and then is cut off.
