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She whispered the instruction and hunted for magic. An answering burn sparked, humming a melody, rising in volume until her ears buzzed and her body burned. Remnants of slime left by the sphere contracted. Minus the blood and dirt, ribbons of blue liquid ran into rivulets, amassing into a large pool around her. Dipping her fingertips into the stream, Truly wove wet fibers together, giving it shape and form.

“Holy shit,” Montrose said.

“Westvane,” she murmured, seeking, reaching, warning him.

Keeping himself between her and the queen’s guard, he growled at her.

A form of non-verbal communication. Something Westvane excelled at delivering. His body language said more than most people’s words. Truly understood what he meant. She picked up what lay in his undertone. He wanted her to butt out, preferably while staying silent.

She huffed. Not going to happen. The rabble behind Priestly was growing impatient. And Priestly? A pang of anxiety hit her as she watched the blond guard. He was weakening, trying to hold the line and save face, so…

No way would she do what Westvane demanded.

She needed to get herself, him, and Montrose clear before things went sideways, and they ended up dead.

“Westvane.”

He grunted.

“Don’t argue,” she said, gathering the liquid strand in her hands. “When I say so, duck and dodge right.”

Slamming through his opponent’s guard, he punched Priestly in the face.

Truly took that as agreement, counted off the seconds, then whispered, “Now!”

Ducking beneath the zing of a blade, Westvane spun to his right.

With a sharp exhale, Truly threw her hands up and lashed out. Ribbons of blue liquid formed into what she imagined in mid-air. Wide, long, thick, the tendrils crisscrossed, weaving into a net before attacking the queen’s guard. The contingent cursed, then flailed, fighting to break free of the sticky web. Heavy blue fibers flexed. The net contracted, tarring feathers, tangling wings, putting on pressure. One by one, the queen’s guard fell, knees buckling until each lay belly-down on the ground.

Immobilized by the net, Priestly cursed at Westvane.

Twin swords still flaming, Westvane turned to snarl at her.

“Stop being an idiot,” she said… or at least tried to, but ended up rasping, “Move it.”

The order leaked out of her as she listed sideways. Her stomach pitched. Her vision tunneled. Doubled over, Truly dry-heaved into the grass. The thump of footfalls rushed toward her. Someone yelled something. A second later, large hands yanked her off the ground. More rapid footsteps. Terrain whirled as head bobbing on her shoulders, she struggled to stay conscious.

“Westvane,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” he growled, towing her behind him.

She blinked up at him… and realized two things at once. First — sword in one hand, the other fisted in the back of her shirt, he was running full tilt, dragging her behind him across the plateau. And second, he’d just entered the cool recesses of Weeping Hollow, a forest everyone feared and no one dared to go.

28

THE FOREST WASN’T SAFE

He wanted to throw Truly into the nearest ravine. Grabbing her under the armpits, Westvane heaved her over his shoulder instead. Tossing an unconscious Door Master into a gully wasn’t the most honorable thing to do. When she regained consciousness, however, all bets were off.

She’d intervened. Again.

Getting between him and his target seemed to be a running theme with her.

He wanted to blame her. Hell, hedidblame her, but her budding power couldn’t be denied. The sticky net had been a stroke of genius. He’d never seen anything like it. Neither had Priestly. The look of shock on his childhood friend’s face — priceless. The satisfaction of seeing him and the queen’s guard pressed to the ground, wings tangled, swords mired in blue goo? Almost worth the aggravation of not getting the fight he wanted. No, correction —needed.

Wiling away hours — days, weeks, months — inside his cage, he’d dreamed of crossing blades with Priestly for years. Longed for a confrontation with a member of the Azlandian warrior rank. Part of a select few, Priestly was a respected member of the Queen’s Court. The bastard sat at the High Table, advised the council, a group that enforced the status quo — the laws that bound the majority Azlandians to a lifetime of servitude.

He knew his ex-friend. Strong. Stubborn. Smart. Priestly possessed a mind of his own, was able to defend his views, even as Lyonesse brainwashed everyone around her. Which was why he’d needed the fight. Testing Priestly was an integral of his plan.