The Sharpest Blade

Page 7

“You saw your attacker then,” Lena says. “Was he an elari?”
Kyol’s mental wall thins, but it holds. He very deliberately doesn’t glance my way.
Lena lets out an annoyed breath. “I don’t think she’ll shatter if she hears.”
“No,” I say, facing Kyol fully. “I won’t.” And I’ll kick his ass if he deliberately withholds information from me. He did that for ten years, and justified it by convincing himself he was protecting me.
His jaw clenches, and I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Yes, he wore the red-and-black name-cord that suggests he was an elari.”
The fae who attacked me had a similar name-cord. I only caught a brief look at it, but there were two shades of red stones separated by black ones. Only the most prominent families keep tradition and wear them now. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out which family it is. As for the word, elari, I’m not certain I’ve heard it before, but it sounds similar to enari.
“You were attacked by a servant?” I ask, translating enari into English.
“A follower,” Lena says without looking at me. “Already, a false-blood is opposing me, and his supporters are zealots.”
A false-blood. I want to groan. Lena has a strong, legitimate link to the Tar Sidhe, the fae’s magically powerful Ancestors, but not everyone who seeks the throne does. In the last ten years, when I wasn’t reading the shadows of fae criminals, I was reading the shadows of false-bloods and their minions. They were considered felons, too, of course, but they created so much more death and destruction than the other fae I tracked. If a false-blood is responsible for what happened here, he’ll be among the most violent and cruel I’ve ever encountered.
But if a false-blood is responsible for this, then most likely he’s also responsible for the slaughter of the Sighted humans in London. The bastard used the same modus operandi in both places. The problem is that fae is supposed to be locked up in the palace.
“Lorn,” I say out loud. “He’s the one who’s supposed to be behind all this violence, but if he’s still under arrest—”
“He’s not,” Kyol says. His gaze locks on Lena. “She released him.”
My eyes widen. “What? Why?”
“Too many of the high nobles were indebted to him,” Lena says, glaring at her lord general. “The others, he was able to blackmail. I didn’t have a choice.”
I barely suppress a groan. “You caved to the high nobles? Again? Lorn’s going to kill me, Lena.”
“I don’t think he’ll actually kill you,” she replies, expressionless. “Kidnap, threaten, manipulate, yes, but he’d see your death as a waste of a valuable asset.”
“Great,” I say. “I feel so much better now.”
Lena closes her eyes in a long, most likely annoyed, blink. She’s not a big fan of sarcasm. She’s probably right about Lorn, though. He might not kill me, especially since his arrest was, apparently, so short. But three weeks ago, I was the one who suggested he might be manipulating things behind the scenes. He knew who was leading the remnants, but he refused to give us the name, and he outright admitted he profited from the war. Plus, I’m all but certain Lorn is the fae who anonymously gave us the London address where we found the slaughtered humans. There were just too many coincidences for Lorn not to be involved.
Still, it was all circumstantial evidence. It definitely wouldn’t have held up in a U.S. court.
A little knot of guilt lodges itself in my chest. If Lorn is completely innocent in all of this, I’m going to feel like shit for falsely accusing him.
Kyol turns toward me. I don’t look at him because I can already feel his censure. In his opinion, I have no reason to feel remorse for what I did. He’s never liked Lorn, but Lorn has spies and informants everywhere. He knows the rumors behind every rumor, and if you pay him the right price, he can help you win a war.
“So there’s another false-blood,” I say, steering the conversation back to the subject that matters. “That’s not the end of the world. Kyol and I have hunted false-bloods for a decade. We’ll track this one down and take care of him.”
No one responds to my words, and Lena’s expression looks grim.
“What?” I ask.
“This one is different,” she says. Goose bumps prickle across my skin. I don’t think Lena’s words caused them. My sixth sense is tingling.
“They’re all different,” I say absently while I frown into the open doorway on my right. The room’s single bed is empty. No humans were killed there. That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
“The others didn’t kill like this,” Lena says. “They weren’t this cruel.”
The fae who first pulled me into the Realm was this cruel. Thrain might not have skinned humans alive, but he starved and hit me. He scared the hell out of me. I start to point that out, but I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right here.
Of course something isn’t right, I tell myself. This is a tjandel, and humans were just slaughtered in their prisons.
Kyol notices I’m distracted. I feel him grow more alert. His gaze sweeps down the long corridor, and he takes a step closer to Lena. Or closer to me. I can’t quite tell. It’s his duty to protect both of us, but Lena is far more important than I am.
“No false-blood in the last century has had the support that this one does.”
That statement makes my attention snap back to Lena.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We’ve lost—”
Something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn my head toward the staircase and see the light from a magically lit orb reflect off a fae’s blade. He descends another step, then, just as I realize he’s not one of Lena’s guards, he lifts his sword.
FOUR
“WATCH OUT!” I shout, grabbing Lena’s arm.
The swordsman’s blade is already arcing toward her. I can’t get her out of the way in time, but Kyol’s fighting instincts are insanely accurate. He’s at the foot of the staircase, diving beneath the swinging sword and ramming his shoulder into the man’s knees.
I lose sight of the fae when Lena’s guards rush to protect her. By the time I get a better view, Kyol has one strong arm locked around her attacker’s neck. His struggles to get free cease when Lena and one of her guards rest the points of their blades on the fae’s cheeks.
His eyes widen with fear. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I thought you were one of them. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was you.”
That’s complete crap. The jaedric armor Lena’s wearing has been bleached white, and long strips of blue silk flow down her legs, almost creating the look of a long skirt. It’s definitely not the clothing that any normal soldier would be wearing, but even if her attacker is blind, I’d guess he was standing just out of sight on the stairs for at least thirty seconds. Maybe even a minute.
“You’re not a follower,” Lena says.
“Of course not,” he replies, looking affronted, and I can practically see an idea form in his mind. His voice takes on an overly innocent—and in my opinion weaselly—tone. “I would never follow a false-blood. Only true Descendants like yourself should sit on the silver throne.”