Page 175 of Burn of the Everflame

Henri wasn’t fighting back.

Alixe had her palms against Taran’s shield, pouring her magic into it in an effort to pierce through, but with Zalaric’s hand twitching at Taran’s side and lending his strength, she was making little progress.

The letter crinkled as Luther’s fist clenched around it.

“Did you know?” I demanded.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I suspected. Descended kill with magic, not blades.”

A sound choked out of me—half laugh, half sob. Of course. What an obvious clue. My hatred of the Descended had blinded me to any explanation that didn’t place one of them at its center.

“I asked Evrim Benette about the knife’s design,” he went on. “He swore he’d never seen it. I thought he was telling the truth. I was sure he’d never pass up a chance to blame the rebels if he could. Apparently, keeping his client list secret was a higher priority.” He let out a heavy exhale. “I told myself my suspicions were wrong. The Guardians wouldn’t do that to their leader’s husband. And Henri would never do that to you.”

I stared through the smoky haze of the smothered fire at Henri, the man I’d called my closest friend for as long as I could remember.

“Stop.”

I didn’t need to speak the word. One thought, touched with Umbros magic, and every figure in camp went instantly still, turning the melee into a dark, macabre painting. But it was more than a command. It was a plea to the gods for a different truth. For mercy from their cruel, relentless games. For a final end, whatever it may be, just so I could escape this suffocating pain.

As usual, they didn’t answer.

I walked through the fire, kicking the still-glowing embers into the air. Taran and Zalaric’s shield shattered at my touch, and I released my brother from my magic, gently guiding him to his feet.

His eyes were bloodshot and flooded with tears, though his features were twisted in wrath. “He . . . he would have let them in.” His voice shuddered as violently as his blood-speckled fists. “Father . . . he wouldn’t have grabbed a weapon. He would have trusted them. Because of her . . . and because of Henri . . . and . . .”

And because of me.

“I know,” I said quietly.

“I want them dead. I want to kill them myself.”

How ironic, I thought with an empty detachment. Teller almost looks like Henri.

Not in his physical features. What lay behind his eyes—the seed of hate sown by a violent injustice. I’d watched it cultivate in Henri for years, its roots digging deep, leeching all light from his soul to make its thorny branches grow. I’d watched it turn my goofy, carefree best friend into a murderer.

The way it was turning my brother into one now.

The way it was doing the same to me.

“Soon,” I said.

I let Teller go and turned my focus to Henri. His body jerked as I released him from my magic’s hold.

“Stand up.”

I didn’t compel him, but he obeyed. He spat out a mouthful of blood and lurched to his feet. His nose was broken, his face painted in gashes and scarlet smears.

“Look at me.”

This order, he ignored. One eye struggled to open while the other stayed fixed on my feet. His shoulders hunched forward, his body trying to make itself small.

“Look at me and tell me you didn’t kill my father.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

Lie.

At the accusatory hiss of my Umbros magic, my hand shot for his throat. “Tell me the truth.”