The Sharpest Blade

Page 21

“McKenzie.” Kyol’s voice cuts through my thoughts the same instant I feel his focus sharpen. Goose bumps break out across my skin. No fissures have opened on the other side of the wall, but my sixth sense is screaming an alarm. We’re not alone here. We’re being watched.
“Back away from the wall,” Kyol says quietly, calmly as he approaches me. I do as he says, tucking my sketchbook under my arm as I scan the darkened street. I take one step away from the wall, two. The fae are standing so still, I don’t see them at first. It’s only after my gaze passes by them that my mind registers what I saw.
I look back at the main road, and this time, the six elari are clearly visible.
Kyol lets his mental wall slide away. If he was a man less in control of himself, I’d feel his worry, but all I feel is grim determination and a sense that he’s not just focused ahead of us; he’s attuned to something—or someone—behind us as well.
His sword is still drawn. Mine isn’t. I slammed it back into its sheath when I took off after Nimael so I could run faster. I’m afraid to reach for it now. I don’t want to trigger the fae surrounding us into attacking.
“Any chance they just want to chat?” I ask lightly, trying to reduce the tension that’s building inside of me. Kyol doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even crack a smile.
I want to tell him he can go. We’re outnumbered. There’s no reason for us both to be killed. He can sprint back to the wall, leap over it, and fissure out before the elari reach us, but I know Kyol will never leave my side. He’ll fight, and he’ll die.
The fae begin to close in on us. Now would be the perfect time for Aren to make an appearance.
The distance between us shrinks. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. To hell with triggering them, I drop my sketchbook and draw my sword. No way will I make this easy for them.
“I’m Kyol, son of Taltrayn,” Kyol speaks up suddenly. “Lord General of the Queen’s fae. I request—”
“There is no queen,” the fae nearest us spits out. He’s only a half dozen steps away now. I tighten my grip on my sword, say a quick prayer.
“I request an audience with the Taelith,” Kyol says.
Five strides away.
“Your request seems to be denied, Taltrayn.”
I have no freaking idea where Aren’s voice is coming from. Neither do the elari. They freeze. Then their gazes scan the street. Mine does, too. I look past the alley to my left, then to the wall behind us. Three fae stand in front of it. All elari. Where the hell is—
Kyol moves the same instant the six elari in front of us turn. It’s only after one of them disappears into the ether that I see Aren. He cuts down a second fae before Kyol reaches the man nearest him.
Time slows as I spin back to face the fae at our backs. They move forward, and I swear I can see each droplet of water rise into the air as their boots splash across the wet street. Life only crawls this slowly when something terrible is about to happen, but I stand my ground and let Kyol’s confidence sink into me. An instant before the first elari takes a swing at me, I sidestep to his right and bring my sword around in a wide arc.
I intend to take the fae’s head off, but he intercepts my blade, easy. A part of my mind registers the fact that I’m screwed. The other part is still unnaturally confident I can kick the fae’s ass.
My sword absorbs a blow from the elari. Then another and another, but there are two more fae trying to kill me, and I can’t fight them all.
“Mind if I help?” Aren slides between me and two of the elari. The third elari turns his attention away from me when Aren kills one of the others. Dismissing the human. His mistake. My focus zeroes in on his right side, the vulnerable area where his jaedric is bound together with leather cords. Instinct tells me he’s going to raise his right arm to take a swing, so I throw all my weight into a lunge forward, leading with the point of my sword.
It’s a perfect strike, sliding beneath his rib cage and through his gut. He enters the ether the same moment Aren finishes off his opponents.
“I expected you to hesitate,” Aren says, turning to me.
“What?” I ask, tearing my gaze away from the misty white soul-shadows. All but one of the other elari are dead. Trev is here, helping Kyol restrain him.
“You didn’t hesitate,” Aren says. He’s not breathing hard; I can barely catch my breath. It takes a few seconds for my mind to remember the conditions he listed when I first arrived in Tholm, and suddenly, I have an almost overwhelming urge to throw my sword to the ground and step away from my crime. He’s right. I didn’t hesitate. I killed without a second thought.
A string of expletives comes from the last elari. Trev is trying to wrestle him to the ground, so Kyol can bind his hands.
“Nimael,” Aren says. “You mapped his shadows.”
He bends down and retrieves my sketchbook. He wipes beads of rain off the waterproof cover, then opens straight to my map. “What city?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Looking at the mess of mountains and zigzagging lines again doesn’t help me identify where Nimael went. I don’t know, and that bothers me more than I ever would have guessed. I’ve always been able to read the shadows. Ten years ago, before I’d extensively studied maps of the Realm and of Earth, I wasn’t very accurate, but within a few months, I started nailing down locations. Occasionally, I’d have to reference a real map to figure out where a fae went. I haven’t had to do that in years, though, but maybe it might help me now? I’m certain Nimael stayed in the Realm.
At least, I think I’m certain he did.
“McKenzie?”
I shake my head.
“What’s that mean?” Aren asks. “You’re not going to tell me?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, not ‘no,’” I say. “I just don’t know. I couldn’t track him.”
That admission kills me. I take my sketchbook from Aren, slap it shut, then sling it over my shoulder.
“The map looked finished.”
“It wasn’t,” I snap. I start to turn away, but Aren grabs my arm.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“If you’d listened to me, he wouldn’t have gotten away.” I yank my arm free. “I told you where he was.”
“You told me he was next to a smiley face. How am I supposed to know what that is?”
“It looks like a face that’s smiling,” I bite out.
“McKenzie.” Aren says my name so softly, I’d have to be deaf not to hear how angry I sound in comparison. Not being able to read Nimael’s shadows unsettled me, but there’s no reason to take it out on Aren.
“I’m sorry,” I say, deflating. “It’s just . . .” I close my eyes and draw in a breath before I reopen them. “I don’t know where he went.”
“Okay,” he says, like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal, though. A whole freaking province is opposing Lena because of the false-blood. She needs to be able to at least identify him to have any chance of disproving his claim. Nimael is the breadcrumb that could lead us to him. I doubt this other elari can help us.
I turn back toward that elari. His wrists are bound behind his back now, and Trev appears to have control of him. That isn’t stopping the elari from letting him have it verbally. He’s spitting out curses and slurs and angry words too quickly for me to translate. He’s filled with blind rage, and in my experience, people who are like him—people who can’t control their anger—are rarely trusted with important information. He won’t lead us to Nimael or the false-blood.