The plan was falling to pieces. She could see it in the angry way he watched her, his fingers tapping a threatening rhythm on the arms of his throne.
But then he said, “Very well,” and she nearly fell over.
His gaze kept her pinned in place. “Since you have so graciously killed Asha Würmheart for me, I will forgive you for your unbidden trespassing on my lands. And because of your reputation, and my Silver Sorceress’s obvious faith in you, I will make a deal.”
He paused, waiting. Thia wetted her lips. Another show of power, to make her ask. “What kind of deal, Your Majesty?”
“Dispatch Xercae for me also, and I will grant your requests.”
No.
The blood drained from her face. She had been so close.So closeto getting home. The room tilted. Tears pushed against her waterline. She couldn’t be stuck here.She couldn’t.
Someone was speaking to her.
Dess.
He had stepped into her orbit and was gripping the back of her shirt where the king couldn’t see, whispering her name under his breath.
She had to pull herself together—if not for her sake, then for his. On her shoulder, Mavrel ruffled his feathers uncertainly, anxious at her obvious distress. The falcon fixed his round eyes on the king like he knew exactly what kind of monster they faced.
She ducked her chin, sweeping into a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He inclined his head in return. “An interesting pet.”
Thia was reminded of his words to the Magician:a lovelyring.Her heart stuttered. “Not a pet, Your Majesty. A Guardian.”
The king’s brows rose. He looked at the falcon for so long that Thia wondered whether she’d said the wrong thing, if he might ask to keep the bird. But he said, “Ah. Perhaps the reason why one so young has survived such a dangerous game. Farewell.” He waved an elegant hand.
They were dismissed. She wasn’t going home but—they had lived. She clung to that thought as they backed slowly out of the room.
“Oh, and Thia,” the king said, when they were at the door. “I trust you will not need longer than a month. For someone of your skills, that should be no trouble at all.”
She met his stare one last time. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“And this time”—his voice was a caress, and that more than anything scared her—“bring me her head.”
PART II
WITCH-KILLER
TWENTY-THREE
THIA SHOOK SO HARD HER TEETH RATTLED. ASHARD OF FEAR LODGEDin her chest, and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t….
Images of Xercae bombarded her, drowning out her sense of the present: the witch screaming for revenge, melting the shield, Oskaren’s leg gray and oozing, and running, always running, never stopping, never safe—
Bring me her head.
She was no witch-killer. Asha was an accident. Thia couldn’t even kill the spiders in her house; she snuck them out the window before Grandma Winnie could see.
Grandma Winnie.
She was never going to get home. Never. How long would her grandma wait until Thia was presumed dead?
She might as well have been dead.
Her face was wet. She was crying. No—she was lying face down in a field of grass.
