So it’s already started then.
I frown. “What have you done?”
“He’s fine,” Gwenydd snaps. “Not that the bastard deserves your concern.”
“He spoke. Brioc didn’t like what he said,” Rhian explains.
My eyes go straight to Taliesin. For the past few days, I’ve avoided giving him more than a passing glance. But I always seem to know where he is—at the edge of the fire, along the perimeter, or in the strategy tent.
He feels distant, and I don’t know how to close the gap, or if I even should.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. We should have walked separate paths from the beginning, the moment I stumbled upon him in the taproom.
Even now, he avoids my gaze as he speaks, his voice low and dangerous. “The prisoner heard you were here and started telling us how he’d kill you the same way he killed his own Swynwraig. He went into excruciating detail.”
All the blood drains from my face. “What?”
“He and his buddies, they killed their Swynwragedd,” Brioc chimes in from the back wall, where he’s wrapping strips of cloth around his bloodied fists. “Says they conspired against them, tried to get them killed in battle. One lost his leg, you see. Another an eye. The bastard in there nearly died of sepsis. So, they blamed their Swynwragedd for not channelling enough magic-infused strength into them.”
I feel the sudden need to sit down. Instead, I swing my gaze back to Taliesin. That ancient glint is in his eyes again.
“It’s the same story I heard,” he says.
I let out a slow breath as Gwenydd approaches.
“We tried questioning him the normal way,” she says. “Brioc here tried a bit harder. The bastard refuses to talk about anything to do with the Order’s plans or the army’s moves. Like you said, he’s trained for this.” She pauses. “We could try the exile’s ice, or…we could try something else. Something that would guarantee answers before the king’s army tracks us down.”
My eyes close. The moment I reminded them of my powers, I knew it would come down to this. I can feel the weight of the room pressing in around me. They’re waiting for me to say yes, to use my powers for their own aims, just like the Order. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for. The only thing anyone has ever wanted from me.
“If I do this,” I say, keeping my voice even, “you need to understand what you’re asking.”
“We’re asking for answers,” Gwenydd insists.
“No,” I say, opening my eyes to meet her gaze with my hard stare. “You’re asking me to kill him.”
Gethin holds up his hands. “Wait, I thought Taliesin was just going use his ice.”
“This plan is better,” Gwenydd says.
“And he doesn’t deserve your mercy,” Rhian says softly from a step behind Gwenydd.
“No, he doesn’t,” I say, fisting my hands. “But it’s not like I’m the queen of death. I don’t know if I can do this without losing myself.”
“Then don’t be the one to do it,” Taliesin says firmly.
I snap my gaze to him, but he’s already striding into the adjacent tent. He doesn’t look at me. His attention is locked onthe prisoner, and his eyes have gone dark and hollow. A piercing cold seeps through the tent. And I understand at once what he means to do.
“No,” I say immediately. “That’s not what I—”
But his hand is already rising.
The prisoner lifts his head. His lips curl into a sneer that is hauntingly familiar. My vision stutters. One moment, I’m looking at an elven man with dishevelled black hair. The next, the strands are smooth and polished, like any courtier’s, as if he’s seated at a feast in some gilded hall rather than bound to a chair in the heart of his enemy’s camp.
I blink, and the vision vanishes. A dizzying ache settles between my brow.
“Do your worst, exile, but it won’t do you any good,” he growls up at Taliesin. “They know how to kill you now. Her, too.”
That voice…
