“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”
He pulls her closer to his chest as he rises to his feet. “I’m bringing her over to you now. Then I’m leaving.”
Despite his declaration, I’m not certain he’ll actually do it. I heard every nuance of his sharp breath when I told him it broke her when he died.
He reaches me, opens his arms, and offers her to me.
I remain where I am, unmoving. “You’d hand her over to me? After what I told you. You’d give her up. Just like that?”
His fangs shoot down. “Notjust like that. This is fucking destroying me. But if I stay, I’ll hurt her again. I’ll get hungry and I’ll cause her pain. I won’t take that risk.”
I can’t believe I’m doing it, but I slide my swords into their scabbards, give him a sharp shake of my head, and fold my arms, making it clear I’m not taking her from him. “She needs you.”
“You’re full of fucking shit, Stellen.”
“She needs you to take her to the Ferocie Scribe named Emiliana.”
That stops him. He pulls Thyra close again. “Why?”
“I’m going to show you,” I say, reaching for Thyra’s rightsleeve before I slide the material as high as it will go. The suit sits tightly against her skin, so I can’t raise it far, but it’s enough for Antony to see the runes.
“That’s a blood bind.” His green eyes flash to mine. “What the fuck did you do?”
I step back, but I pull a chill around me to cool his temper. “Those runes were on the hammer. They transferred to her when the hammer disintegrated in the bloodlands. I didn’t see it happen. She told me about it.”
“The hammer.” He’s frozen where he stands, his steel-clad arms pressing more tightly around Thyra. “Only a Merovian—a Blood Fae—can remove a blood bind.”
“Or a Ferocie Scribe could alter the runes,” I counter. “As long as the scribe knows the white ink techniques. They can layer their magic and make it powerful enough?—”
“Emiliana can’t help.” Antony shakes his head. “Fuck, I’ve never wanted to lie more than I do right now because it would give me an excuse to take Thyra with me. But Emiliana wasn’t taught how to use white ink. Her father didn’t know how to use it, either.”
Damn. Antony could have lied to me. Of course, I would have heard it in his voice. But he chose to speak the truth.
Another heavy silence descends between us, broken only by Thyra’s deep breathing.
“I’ll search for a Blood Fae,” Antony finally says. “If anyone can find a dealer in blood magic, it’s me. Now, take Thyra before I change my mind.”
Her weight settles into my arms as Antony transfers her to me.
I’m not entirely sure what he means when he murmurs, “Once again, the two most important women in my life rest in the arms of my enemies.”
He backs away from me but pauses. “You need to know something. The dagger that killed her father: did you see it?”
I give him a sharp nod.
“The wood the dagger’s hilt is made out of—it stops Thyra’s Oracle visions. She can’t foresee the actions of a person carrying it.”
I fight to constrain my reaction, not least because both daggers have gone missing.
“That wood comes from a tree I see when I’m pulled into her blade visions every night,” Antony continues. “I believe the tree is located somewhere in the far east. Its wood is indestructible. Even Maxim’s fire can’t burn it. Hadrian and his followers are wearing medallions made out of it to protect themselves from Thyra’s Sight.”
“I’ll make sure to keep any such pieces away from her.”
Antony gives me a cursory nod, then pauses again, peering at me for a moment. “If your people still need food, ransack the grain store in the north-east. My people don’t need that grain, and Hadrian doesn’t have as many warriors guarding it.”
He turns away, but I demand his attention for a final time. “Iron King.”
His shoulders stiffen, no doubt at my use of a title that might no longer be his.
