I really should have strangled him last night, Karis thinks as another die dances across the table. He’s not sure of the exact parameters, but every time Ronan rolls, some new annoying enchantment takes effect. Changing their clothes wasn’t a good enough disguise, apparently, and the Trickster’s services are far more diverse than Karis expected.
Karis and Ronan both now have freshly blond hair. Hopefully the color looks better on him than it does on Ronan, who also looks ten years older. Karis holds his breath as the next die lands—on a one.
Nothing happens.
“Amazing,” Karis says drily. “What was that supposed to be?”
Ronan doesn’t look disappointed, simply retrieving the die. “An age disguise for you,” he answers, to Karis’s surprise—he’d expected taciturn silence. “Five years younger. But I think the hair will be good enough anyway. Especially if…”
He rolls the die again. When it lands on a three, cyan shimmers in the air. Ronan’s magic is cool on Karis’s cheeks and shoulders, but he can’t figure out what changed this time.
Vara?he calls tentatively. He’d like some guarantee of divine assistance in case any of these Trickster spells get too weird.
You’re lucky the age disguise failed,Vara chimes in from the back of his mind.I remember your pimples at thirteen.
Karis scowls.Wow, nevermind! Fuck off, Your Radiance!
Maybe Ronan mistakes the direction of his scowl, because he offers up another explanation without Karis even having to ask. “That one makes it harder for people to pay attention to us.”
“Great,” Karis says with a sigh. “Amazing.” No one will ever know how much he’s suffered, tormented from inside his head and out.
Ronan chuckles, a low sound that tickles Karis’s ears. He seems to be in a good mood this morning. Slept like a fucking baby, apparently, while Karis agonized over whether or not to attempt murder.
He knows he wouldn’t have succeeded in strangling his captor. He won’t kid himself that he could have gotten any further without Ronan waking up, and Karis doesn’t like his odds in a fair fight with both parties awake. Maybe he could have incapacitated Ronan enough to get his arm free, or to call on his magic without getting interrupted. But Vara has been so unreliable throughout this entire incident.
Even if he thought he could win that fight, he’s not sure he has the willpower.
He’s not a killer. That’s one place where his values, Vara’s guidance, the Radiant Order’s tenets, and even secular law all coincide. Killing is a last resort. Even then, it’s a stain on the soul. Karis is probably the most irreverent person in the Radiant Order, but he doesn’t have blood on his hands.
He isn’t someone like Ronan Vizia, after all.
“Are you done yet?” Karis asks.
“Just one more.” Ronan rolls a die. The eight-sided trinket tumbles across the surface of the table, each edge echoing as it hits the wood, then lands on a five. Sparks scatter again, and this time there’s a tingle on Karis’s lips, then sliding down his throat. Ronan grins. “That’ll do.”
Karis swallows around the strange sensation, and opens his mouth to askwhatthat’ll do—but there’s no sound.
Panic flutters through his stomach. Trying to speak again gives the same result. He glares at Ronan, his whole body tense from restraining the urge to punch him.
“Don’t worry, it’ll wear off.” Ronan swings a rucksack over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
His voice is light, the invitation cheerful, but Karis is under no illusion that he can escape when Ronan’s entire focus is wrapped around him, tighter than rope around his wrists, more stifling than any gag or spell blocking his tongue. Burying his frustration, Karis strives for similar focus as he follows him out of the basement, into the dingey Marrick alley.
Hereallyregrets not strangling the man.
***
Barely past dawn, Marrick is already moving. Shopkeepers and merchants are preparing for the day’s crowds to come. Ronan’s hand stays glued to Karis’s shoulder. Anyone else might think him considerate, pulling Karis out of the way of passing carts and horses. They dodge one man carrying a basket of fabric practically as large as himself. But Karis knows the touch is a shackle and a warning.
There are more guards visible on the streets than Karis remembers from the day before. He tries making eye contact with two women in uniform, but they glance right past him before searching farther down the street. Whatever spells Ronan lucked into must be working.
They’re not invisible, though. If Karis causes enough of a commotion, maybe he can get their attention. He eyes a merchant setting up a display of glassware. The red and blue bottles catch the early light in jeweltone iridescence. If he gets close enough, he could trip on his own feet and send the whole display crashing to the ground…
Ronan’s hand tightens on his shoulder as if he knows what he’s thinking. Warmth surrounds him as Ronan leans down and murmurs into his ear, “You’re right that I’m keeping you alive. Just remember, my mercy doesn’t necessarily extend to anyone else. If there are any accidents, someone could get hurt.”
Karis’s breath hitches, and he looks away from the gleaming glass. He remembers that when Captain Tanner asked him to track Ronan down, she provided an object to focus on. The knife was simply, sturdily made, with a leather-wrapped hilt and a blade as long as Karis’s forearm.
While infiltrating the Bright Cathedral, Ronan slid that very blade into a paladin’s back.
