Page 26

The pressure building in Syrie’s chest that had come and gone for days now seemed to have become a permanent fixture. From the moment she had turned to see Patrick collapsing beneath the attack of the Faerie guards, she had felt as if she might physically explode. The pressure had filled her chest and now blossomed up her throat, pounding in her head, making concentration difficult at a time when concentration was vital.

“You can do this,” Dallyn whispered at her side, giving her elbow a quick squeeze. “You must. For the Goddess. For all of us.”

For Patrick.

She nodded her acknowledgment of Dallyn’s encouragement, holding fast to the Magic that served as her disguise. She’d done this many times in the past, hiding her true appearance easily enough. But today, even without her inner turmoil, a disguise layered within a disguise required all the concentration she could muster.

They waited outside the impressive building where the High Council met, surrounded by what felt like every adult within the whole of Wyddecol. Normally, only festival days drew such a crowd. But times in Wyddecol could hardly be called normal, and when word came down that the Supreme Leader of the High Council intended to issue a proclamation, everyone wanted to know what new changes lurked to burden their lives.

Syrie would have preferred to avoid such crowds but, since rumor had it that the proclamation concerned an outsider who had been captured in an attempt on the Supreme Leader’s life, she had as much desire to be here as anyone.

There was only one outsider she could imagine they were talking about. Her outsider. The only positive she could pull from any of this was that if the High Council was going to all the trouble to gather the citizens like this, it was likely that Patrick still lived.

That thought was all that kept her going.

“Damnation,” Dallyn muttered. “Keep your head down.”

“Dallyn?” a female voice called. “I thought that was you, my dear. We have not seen you in forever.”

Keeping her head tilted down, Syrie snuck a quick glance in the direction of the voice to see a woman coming in their direction with a man trailing behind her.

“Karalina,” Dallyn said with a respectful bow of his head. “Gandry. Good to see you both.”

“It has been much too long,” Karalina said. “Your mother? She is well?”

“She is,” Dallyn confirmed.

“That is good to hear,” the woman replied. “We worry about her, so far out of town, all by herself. And who is your little friend, here? Someone special? Wedding bells in your future?”

“Karalina!” Gandry barked. “Must you always?”

“It is of no consequence, my friend,” Dallyn said with remarkable calm. “Wedding bells, no. But she is special, indeed. My distant cousin who’s traveled from the hinterlands to spend some time with us.”

“Have you a name, girl?” Gandry asked.

“Ellen,” Syrie mumbled, borrowing the first name that came to mind.

“Have you a reason for hiding yourself from us?” Karalina asked. “The aura of your Magic is palpable. Here in the capital, we don’t look kindly on the blatant use of disguise.”

“She has good reason, indeed, Karalina,” Dallyn said, placing an arm around Syrie’s shoulders. “A fire on their homestead has left Ellen severely burned. She is, understandably, uncomfortable with her appearance. But, like so many of my mother’s people, her grasp on the Magic is weak, so holding the disguise is tiring for her. This is why she has come to stay with us. Away from everyone, she will be able to properly rest and recover. Is that not so, Ellen?”

Syrie nodded, allowing the over layer of her disguise to shimmer and fade for just an instant, as if she struggled to hold the aura as Dallyn had claimed. Just long enough to expose the hideously burned face beneath.

Karalina gasped and quickly stepped back, bumping into the man who accompanied her.

“Exactly the reaction that drove her from her home,” Dallyn said, disapproval strong in his voice.

“Our apologies, Dallyn. Please give your mother our regards,” Gandry said, before steering Karalina away through the crowd.

“Well done,” Dallyn murmured. “I doubt she will seek us out again this day.”

Syrie might have thought to question him on how far and wide the woman’s gossip of a visiting cousin would spread, but a hush fell over the crowd just then as the big doors opened and a woman stepped out onto the landing. It was not the Supreme Leader, of course, but no one had really expected that she would come. She addressed the people only from the Great Hall inside. This was one of the lesser members of the High Council.

“Know ye all present, by decree of the Supreme Leader, a Mortal has made his way into Wyddecol. He has been taken captive and will appear before the High Council in two days’ time to face public questioning and to meet his fate.”

A collective intake of breath flowed across the gathering and a few lone voices sprang up to demand details.

“Why is he here?”

“How did he breach our security?”

The woman on the landing held up one hand, signaling for quiet.

“He is here to conspire with the one we revered as Goddess against the High Council. More proof of her treachery against our people.”

Two days’ time.

Syrie turned to meet Dallyn’s gaze, both of them knowing this coming event would determine the timeline for their revolt. The public appearance would be where they would confront Reynalia. With both Patrick and the Goddess present, it would be their best chance at a rescue. Perhaps their only chance, depending upon the punishment determined by the High Council.

With an arm still around Syrie’s shoulders, Dallyn steered her toward the edges of the crowd as the woman on the landing disappeared inside the big doors.

Syrie let him lead her away, her mind entirely filled with the newly confirmed knowledge that Patrick lived. She should be feeling relief. Joy, even. But the consuming heaviness filling her chest seemed to prevent her feeling anything other than the anxiety that had become her permanent state. An anxiety that prodded at her emotions until she couldn’t tell whether she wanted to cry or laugh.

“Quickly. Come with me.”

She looked up to see that Larkin had joined them, leading the way for them to follow. They walked in silence for nearly half an hour before entering a clearing to find themselves in front of a neat white cottage.

“My home,” Larkin said. “At least for the present. As you know, we will be moving soon, to take up residence in the Mortal world.”

Dallyn seemed to take the comments in stride, so, obviously, he knew what their companion meant. Beyond that, it was of no matter to Syrie.

The door opened and a woman stood there waiting, a small boy in her arms. Anola, Larkin called her. One of the Fae from the south, Syrie would guess, from her dark hair and complexion. The child she held in her arms, a boy named Ian, favored her coloring.

Over the course of the next hour or so, they were served a meal Syrie couldn’t enjoy while the men spoke of Larkin’s upcoming move to the Mortal world, where he would live out his days as the Guardian of a Portal. And once he was too old, the responsibility would pass to his sons, Ian and Tomas. It all seemed such a foregone conclusion that Syrie couldn’t help but wonder how Anola might feel about leaving her home and everything she’d ever known for the Mortal Plain. She wanted to console the woman, to reassure her that there was much to look forward to, but she couldn’t seem to work her way around the knot in her own emotions.

After Anola put her sons to bed, she led Syrie to a chamber with a small bed to sleep for the night. Sleep that she knew wouldn’t come. Even without the strange anxiety roiling inside her, knowing Patrick lived but only being able to guess at how he might be made to suffer made sleep an impossibility.

No matter. She would sleep soon enough. In two days, when she had freed Patrick and had him safely by her side once again, then she would sleep.

* * *

A cold brace of water washed over Patrick. For an instant, he fought to remain in the dark oblivion where he had escaped, but the water made it impossible. Another slap of water drew him from the horrors of his dreams and cast him back into the world of the living. He licked his parched lips, his dry tongue catching up the droplets of water that trickled down his face. It was the closest he’d come to having either food or drink in the time he’d been held in this place.

The guard beside him laughed and tossed a wooden bucket to the floor, obviously the source of the water.

“Wanted you awake and coherent so that you can meet with your visitor, Mortal.” Again the man laughed, but without any real emotion this time. “If you know what is best for you, you will answer the questions this time.”

Patrick had never been accused of knowing what was best for him, but he found little point in sharing that with the guard. Likely would do no more than earn him another beating.

His arms ached from being stretched over his head, connected by manacles on his wrist and a chain in between. The chain had been passed across an overhead beam, so that only by standing on his tiptoes was he able to relieve the pressure on his shoulders.

“Do you know who I am, Mortal?”

His head turned more slowly than he would have liked to track the source of the voice. A woman, a Fae, tall and blond like so many he’d seen here. When he didn’t answer, she spoke again.

“I am the Supreme Leader of the High Council of Wyddecol.”

“The venerable Reynalia stands before you now, cur,” came a voice from his left. “You should be on your knees.”

“Not even if I could,” Patrick managed to mumble and, at a nod from the woman in front of him, a fist smashed into his jaw.

“Consider that a reminder to remember your station here, interloper.”

“How did the Goddess contact you?” Reynalia asked. “Who helped you enter Wyddecol? You need only to satisfy our curiosity and we will bring an end to your suffering.”

“I ken nothing of yer Goddess,” he mumbled, unable to get his lips to part properly to say the words.

“Insolence,” the woman pronounced, and the fist struck him again.

Apparently the guard waited beside him for more than to awaken him with buckets of water.

“Who helped you enter Wyddecol?” she asked again. “How did you get into our world?”

“I doona know. Went to sleep by a pool of water. Woke up here. Canna remember anything else.”

It was the story he had maintained from the beginning of their questions. The one he would maintain until his last breath. None that had assisted him would suffer on his account.

“Perhaps another round of lashings will improve your memory, Mortal.”

Beside him, the guard unfurled a whip from his belt and cut the air with it. The cracking sound echoed loudly off the marble of the large room.

“I do not know what he is, but I can say for a fact, he is not a Mortal.” A new voice. A man he had not heard before. “Any mere Mortal would have broken by now. I have seen the mark on his chest before, though I cannot recall where.”

“All in good time, Orlyn,” Reynalia said. “We will know all in good time.”

Patrick had little time to consider who the newcomer might be or what their discussion meant. Another crack split the air and the sharp tip of the whip bit into the flesh of his back. He’d not taken the time to prepare, had not steeled himself in time to prevent his own cry of pain.

They’d gotten it from him once, but he’d not give them the satisfaction again.