I couldn’t believe how good she was.
We marched into the city through the west side, crossing over a series
of bridges across the canals. The guards just let us pass. The ones that were slaves knew we were coming. The ones that weren’t were so lethargic they were nearly unconscious, half-slumped over at their posts, in no shape to stop us. Sammerin paused to examine one of these men, forcing open his eyes to look at his pupils.
“This was magic,” he said. “By a Solarie flesh-worker who specializes in potions. Solid work. It won’t wear off for days.”
How did Tisaanah do that? Arrange the drugging of so many guards? It’s a strange thing, to be proud of your lover as you walk past piles of slumped-over bodies, but I felt it, nonetheless. Even Ishqa was somewhat awed. When he had arrived in Orasiev, he hadn’t bothered to hide his annoyance at our sudden acceleration of plans. It seemed like he was growing a bit more convinced now, as we saw the measures Tisaanah had taken, even from captivity, to make this a success.
As we advanced through the city, though, dread supplanted that pride. Many of the slaves that allowed us to pass were disfigured—hands gesturing us forward with missing fingers, hair barely hiding burnt-off ears, faces marked with streaks of scar tissue. The Zorokovs had sent Tisaanah the deaths of hundreds of innocents for nothing more than petty revenge. What could they have done to her during her time here?
This is too easy, I thought. It cannot possibly be this simple.
I reached into the leather pouch at my hip—secured by multiple buckles
—and touched the petrified heart. Magic pulsed at my fingertips, stirred
merely by having it close by. Actually, my magic was unusually active today, like a boat on top of a churning sea.
“You’d better guard that thing with your life,” Sammerin said. I planned on it. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.
I stopped walking and frowned. Something was strange. Something felt… odd, deep beneath the surface of my senses and my magic.
A flash of gold hurtled through the air and landed gracefully before us.
I knew immediately that something was wrong. Ishqa looked slightly panicked.
“The king is here,” he said, the way someone would warn that the ground was about to open up beneath their feet.
I looked to the east, and my heart stopped beating.
The king is here, Ishqa said, as if it was one person.
No. At the gates was an Ascended-damned army of Fey—hundreds, perhaps even thousands, rolling in a wave down the hillside.
Cold fear settled over me. We had not been expecting this.
Frightened whispers already rippled through our rebel ranks. They’d been prepared to inflict vengeance on their former abusers—but most of them, save for those who had been at Malakahn, had never encountered so many Fey before. Killing a bunch of out-of-shape slave owners was one thing. Going up against thousands of Fey was another.
Serel already paced up and down the lines, trying to talk them down.
“Go.” Filias grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forward. “We’ll lead.
Go find her.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I ran.
