Page 54
A moment later, the Demon King was at his side. “What is it?”
Mag spared a glance behind and found the corridor blessedly empty. He dragged Lyriat into a random alcove, the carved form of an ancient warrior Queen in her rage looking down at them. “Hide us.”
Lyriat didn’t question him. The ceiling, walls, and floor shuddered, then coalesced, rock flowing like liquid beneath his command. The second they were sealed in, he snapped, “Well?”
“The one who took Bal in the first place, he told him this would happen.”
“What would happen?”
“That he’d find everyone Baldrir cares about and ruin them. That’s what he said, isn’t it?”
Lyriat’s eyes narrowed, his breaths picking up. “Yes.”
“I’d say it’s pretty fucking convenient that not only is Bal missing again, but his beloved sister and mated best friend as well, wouldn’t you?”
It was almost comical to watch the cogs turn in Lyriat’s head, realization dawning on his angular face. “Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “How in the stars-forsaken realms did we not think of this already?”
“There’s not a single one of us that’s had our head on straight since we found Brand almost two weeks ago. Shite, in the months since this all started. I’m fairly certain we’re forgiven.”
“Considering we couldn’t find that wanker the first time around, it doesn’t do much good to realize now.”
“It frees us up to turn our eyes and efforts elsewhere,” Magnus said. “I’d bet my life that we’ve been doing exactly what he wants running ‘round here with our thumbs up our arses searching, when they aren’t anywhere near this city anymore.”
“No, just the bloody imposter who took them, traipsing around the ruins and leaving their things for us to find. Stars fucking dammit. I should have realized.”
It had been a while since anyone brought up the possibility of a shapeshifter, but he and Lyriat had always been in accord on the subject.
“Aye. Regardless of what Vann claims about shapeshifters being extinct, there’s one among us somewhere. Fern all but confirmed it the night Brand was taken.”
“No, my friend.” Lyriat shook his head. “She confirmed someone with long, silvered hair and pale skin attacked her. You and I agree it’s all down to the same person because we aren’t fucking dense, but those traits are possessed by a quarter of Bordoroth’s creatures, regardless of realm. It isn’t proof. And it isn’t a clue or lead because he could be anyone and there’s no way to tell.”
“Alright, here’s what we do know.” Mag started ticking off fingers. “He kidnapped Bal and tortured him. Killed Fausta, the maid. Sent a message to Brand. Slaughtered a village of Wolflords, my friends, and nearly killed Fern alongside them. Impersonated your own cousins to bait Brand and Lunara into the chasm, set a fucking dreadbeast on us, and did it all well enough that he fooled the twins into not realizing they weren’t dealing with their other half. Tried to murder Fern again. And now he’s taken Bal and Nyri along with the rest of their contingent, leaving us their things as… What? Is he gloating? I don’t understand—my mind doesn’t fucking work this way.”
“It’s a game,” Lyriat murmured, staring at the floor. “It’s always been a game, from the very beginning. So yes, I suppose it’s a way of gloating, but I suspect he also wants us to play.”
“Ach, play?” Mag felt dirty just saying it. “This isn’t even close to my idea of fun. How are we supposed to do that?”
Lyriat was silent for long enough that Magnus was ready to tear his own beard out hair by hair.
“I think we have to stop, for a bit,” he finally said. “Pretend we’ve given up. It’s going to be hard on your people because it will mean calling the Legions back from Thodelebor under the guise of something like burials and mourning. And we’ll have to convince everyone else of the same until we have more to go on. I’m not sure how else to make it believable.”
“How do I know you’re not the imposter?” Mag asked. “Because that sounds like the kind of thing he’d want. Fuck it up, stop looking because we’re too close, pretend nothing’s happening. For that matter, how do you know I’m not?”
“You’re not because Fern can hear Pet, and I seriously doubt even the most powerful shapeshifter could mimic the inner voice of a Wolflord’s beast.”
Mag blinked at him, ready to puke all over his shiny king boots. “How the fuck did you know that?”
“I pay attention. Your turn.”
Lyriat wanted to go straight for the jugular? Well, then… “What’s the last thing your father said to you?”
Only a handful of creatures knew the answer to that question. Magnus shouldn’t know, but here they were, so fuck it.
A muscle ticked in Lyriat’s jaw. “‘Alwyn is not his father. The Sons are not their grandfather. They are your family now. Forgive them and be at peace, knowing I’m at mine. I love you, Your Majesty. All rage to The Demon King Lyriat.’ And then he died in my little arms beside the bodies of my blessed mother and grandmother, and your cursed grandfather, Stennyx. Would you like me to keep going?”
—That was probably a bit harsh, lad—
It was the only sure thing I could think of.
