He acted like he hadn’t heard her. Hatred sat firm on his face. It would not yield to her, would not surrender its hold over him with her gentle truths.
Though it hurt to do it, if this was the only card she had left to play, she’d hold fast to it. “Uphold our deal, Toran.”
She stared at him. Still and silent.
“You said it yourself: Deals can be broken.”
“Release my father.” Then, quieter, so only he could hear. “Be the upstanding man I know you are.”
He straightened. “Orlonea does not make bargains with the Witch.”
“So this is how it ends.”
There had only been two ways it could end. Two things to do when someone offered you their trust. Either you kept it or you broke it. And he’d broken hers first.
Toran yanked her forward to face the King. “I’ve fulfilled my mission,” he announced. “I’ve brought you the Witch. Now, Your Majesty, I ask for one thing in return.”
King Harkett nodded. “What is that?”
Toran turned to look at her again. His pure brown eyes were cold and callous.
“Lock her up,” he said. “And drown her at dawn.”
43
Toran
Toran sat on the floor, his back against the wall in Loriana’s old room.
It wasn’t her room anymore. New guests had arrived, the yellow trunk under the window evidence of that. But whoever was staying in this room wasn’t here now.
This would be the last time.
The last time he would enter this room and think of her. The last time he would come here to be with her. Loriana was dead. And this time, thanks to Nes’s magic, she was truly gone.
He rolled the bottle of Kave rum he’d stolen from Kohen’s room between his feet, the glass making a soft clicking sound every time it hit the uneven stone. He hadn’t opened the bottle. He’d just…wanted to hold it. Wanted to feel the weight of the liquor in his hands.
Nes’s drowning had been scheduled for three days from now. Three whole days.
It was a big deal, the King had told him. To have the real Witch. They were to build a new Witch’s Well near the Prime Fountain for what was to be a very public drowning. The people of Orlonea, King Harkett said, deserved the chance to share in their victory.
He didn’t care about victory. He just wanted it over with. He wanted to put this whole thing behind him. The longer it was drawn out, the more his brain tried to reconcile Nes, the girl he’d willingly slept beside, with Nes the Witch. He didn’t want to reconcile the two.
There had only ever been the Witch, anyway.
The bottle of rum rolled to a stop against the instep of his left foot. It was nearly as cold as the floor beneath him.
Winter had dug its claws deep into the city. An ice storm had come through overnight. He’d woken this morning to find the trees and fields surrounding the castle crystallized. Ice coated every branch and blade of grass for as far as he could see. He welcomed it, feeling as if the ice had formed a layer over his heart while he’d slept. A layer that would thicken over time. And once it did, he wouldn’t let it crack again.
He picked up the bottle of rum and pushed to his feet. He turned slowly, taking in the room, the memories overflowing from the furniture. And then he left.
Toran closed the door, leaving his first love on the other side.
He meandered down the hall and up several sets of stairs until he came to a different bedroom door. His door.
He’d had a room in the castle since Fell first brought him here. It was just as he’d left it. Stacks of books in the corner, pillows piled high on the bed, the hooks on the wall where he sometimes laid Cavallis to rest bare, dark curtains spread wide for him to glimpse the training fields beyond the glass.
Indeed, through the window, he could make out several recruits running laps—their heads held high, their chests puffed out. Now that he’d proven himself to the King, he’d be expected to pick new members for his legion. It would be a new start. And this time, he’d be smarter. He’d do everything in his power to keep those recruits alive.
