Page 11 of Angel in Absentia (Light Locked #2)

“It’s remarkable that you’re the same girl we captured not so long ago.

That Insednian hadn’t cursed your mind after all.

By now, you must understand why we thought that was true.

So, I am right in assuming that you and that Insednian were comrades after all?

” he asked, and she inspected his face. The dark stumble and black, shoulder-length hair seemed filthy from torture, but he didn’t smell like most prisoners might.

Without food and water, a Venennin’s human faculties shut down, and they did not sweat or smell.

Their hair stopped growing and they became preserved.

He did look weak though. Deprived of the forest, where cien floated in abundance, it was likely his corrupt soul was struggling to siphon cien out of the air around them.

She remained silent, trying to hide the hope that he might have some information on Ryson. He would have information on strategic items of interest. She considered how to use him, knowing he’d likely arrived to use her in some way as well.

“You haven’t heard from him?” Myken asked. She’d been tempted to ask him the same question.

“No,” Clea said.

“Shame. He was high in their ranks. Did you know that?”

“He’d left that life behind. You’re the one with the message, Myken. Spit it out. I’m not answering any questions.”

Myken nodded, casually wagging his head. “Your relationship with that Insednian is why I am here, actually. If there was a Veilin mad enough to work alongside an Insednian, my hope is that she might also be mad enough to hear out the request of my kingdom.”

“You’re here representing the Belgears, then?

” Clea asked, her brow furrowing. She’d learned that since the Belgears ran the Dark Market, any slave traders who actively contributed to it often identified as Belgearians and swore their loyalty to the Belgearian Lord.

“They could have picked a better messenger,” she said.

“I’m here discreetly,” he added, his expression plain and unamused by her insult. “The Iscads and Belgears have been discussing forming an alliance.”

An alliance between Venennin kingdoms. Hilarious , Clea thought. Their innate vices and hunger for power usually made them very bad at alliances. Even their kingdoms sometimes had an innate instability to them, constantly testing and consuming each other.

“The Iscads have fallen,” Clea said and watched Myken’s eyes narrow as he assessed the revelation. She was almost proud to deliver the news, proud to stand over him now when last they spoke, he’d whispered horrors into her ear before selling her to the sadistic King Kartheen.

“Congratulations then,” he said, but there was a dismal coolness to his voice. “So, the Golden Army beat them at Virday?” He didn’t seem to want to have the question answered, looking along the walls and gold chains as if reorganizing some kind of strategy in his mind.

“At Virday, and the rest of their forces perished when they ambushed us not far from the ruins of King Kartheen’s castle,” Clea said. It felt like her original journey from Virday was repeating itself with all of the same characters, simply in different settings.

“You will target the Belgears next, then,” he said, his eyes flickering back at hers. The glow was eerie beneath the darkness of his hair and the dancing of the torchlight nearby. “They won’t fall as easily as the Iscads.”

Clea crossed her arms slowly. “They run all of the Dark Markets. They’re the wealthiest of the kingdoms. I wouldn’t expect the same of them.

The Iscads had fallen to greed and overextended themselves outside of their territory.

They put their necks out. We only had to chop off the head,” she explained if only to assure Myken that they knew what they were getting into and that he should be more concerned about himself.

“You certainly have learned a lot,” Myken said emptily as if still digesting the news of the Iscads’ fall. “The Iscads overextended themselves because someone promised to deliver Virday into their hands. They were tempted into overextending themselves.”

Clea didn’t respond, taking note of the information but not wanting to show Myken she was interested in it. He continued on.

“And there is one more thing you should know about the Belgears,” he said, eyes locked with hers. “They have an object of indescribable power that makes them nearly unmatched. The Deadlock Medallion.”

Clea almost groaned aloud, and certainly groaned within, turning away from him and walking back toward the door. This was a joke.

“I don’t know what you destroyed,” he said hurriedly after her as if assuming she would leave. “It wasn’t the Deadlock. I’ve witnessed the true object myself, and laying a single hand on it would peel the very flesh off your bones.”

“If the Belgears are so unmatched,” Clea said, turning back to him and gesturing out at the room, “why are they considering an alliance? You understand everything you’re saying seems ridiculous. You’re a liar and a schemer. I’m honestly insulted by the lack of effort.”

Silence settled between them for a long while, until Myken at last glanced at her again, tired, grave, with a foreign look in his eyes. It was strange, seeing him chained when the last time they met, she had been chained.

Myken seemed to read her mind. His eyes flickered off to the side, and his pride appeared to deflate for a moment. He then said the words she’d feared since arriving back at Loda.

“You do not understand what is coming,” he said.

Not enough.

It echoed through her.

“The curse of silver eyes I now bear is like a plague,” Myken said. “It seeps into your body and brain and then you are robbed of your will. When the conversion is complete, I will be host to the Insednian will. It is a byproduct of touching the Insednian cursed silver, which carries this curse.”

Clea remembered Ryson’s daggers, her eyes narrowing. A curse of such magnitude and permanence seemed impossible, but so did many other curses these days.

“A slave,” Clea said, and Myken nodded once as if he’d already acknowledged the irony of it.

“If that’s true, wouldn’t there be many more Insednians? I’ve touched cursed silver.”

“It hasn’t been true for a long time,” Myken replied, shifting in his chains and taking a breath. He looked suddenly depleted and vulnerable. The image of him in such a state was jarring.

She tried to read him for deception, used her ansra to reach out to him and scan his intent.

She could find no dishonesty, no malintent swirling around that dark cut of his soul, and that worried her even more than the lies she expected.

Myken did not seem to resist the exploration, but visibly relaxed beneath it.

“Something has resurrected the curses that have been dormant for years. Not long after our paths crossed, the properties of their infection activated again. An Insednian talisman that we hadn’t known was in the carriage touched my skin, and the conversion started there.

An Insednian with a broken mask, as if sensing the plight, ambushed us.

It killed my remaining comrades, crushing their bones with chains affixed on his wrists, and I managed to get away when other Belgearian Venennin interrupted the attack.

There are other stories much like mine with other victims of the Insednian curses.

Something has reawakened them in the land, Insednian silver infecting hosts through pendants and daggers once thought to be proud trophies. I know because I once sold them.”

Something has resurrected the curses. The words hung between them.

Clea’s mind repeated the story, vividly recalling the Insednian with shackles on his body, tossing the Insednian talisman up in his hand before catching it again.

It had been an eerie picture before being shoved into the carriage with Ryson. She’d never forgotten it.

Clea remembered the Insednian talisman and Ryson’s strong aversion to keeping it anywhere near them.

She remembered the symbol on the talisman, a silver eye spilling tears of chains to enslave the people beneath it.

At last, she understood his distaste for the talisman.

If it had been a different time, she could have been ensnared and converted by it as well.

A curse that affixed itself to someone’s will was an extremely powerful one.

A curse with such power that was infectious was nearly unfathomable.

It was as unfathomable as a curse that could make an entire city forget, or kill an entire royal family of Veilin from afar, or curse an entire forest to change from night to day.

These curses spoke of Venennin who were of a completely different caliber than what they knew.

Myken and Clea studied each other for a long time, the torchlight burning low and dancing passively through the room.

“They said you came here with a message for me,” Clea reminded him, growing progressively more uncomfortable with the information he shared and how it made her feel in her own skin.

“I needed to warn someone who would listen,” he said, and she hoped for signs of deception, prayed for it, but his words were empty of everything but that plea.

“You’ve become awfully invested in the affairs of the people you once sought only to sell,” she challenged from across the room.

“If we aren’t careful,” Myken replied, his tone measured and calm, “in a matter of months, there will be no seller and no one to be sold. We’re talking about the survival of the entire system. Negotiate a deal with the Belgears for mutual survival or neither of us will survive.”