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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

W e will show you the way. We will guide your power. Tell the prince to prick his finger, and we’ll begin.

The drakes made good on their promise. They deprived both Kheir and Ark of sleep for an entire night, pushing the prince to summon filaments of fire over and over again, but by morning he had a grasp on the fledgling power. That day, they waited for Vawn all day. And like he knew—or like the saints knew their plan—Vawn never arrived.

Ark rubbed his temple where a headache pounded. Part of him had to acknowledge that this was a trap set by the saints. They couldn’t know about the drakes—two of them, both alabaster and pale and scarred—if they weren’t the ones who sent them to fuck with Ark’s head. Or it was a complete coincidence that Vawn never came, and Ark was simply going mad with paranoia from being locked up in a single room for days on end.

He opened the glass doors and gulped down fresh air, searching the silvery afternoon sky for the shadow of the drakes flitting among the clouds. He hadn’t seen them in a few hours, but he knew they were out there.

Can you see my mate? He asked, reaching for the place in his mind where their deep, resonant voices sounded. The eerie magic he had from the saint of wisdom told him how to reach the drakes, and Ustinya didn’t let him down. She never had, not once. And while magically knowing facts before he’d even learned them made him uneasy, it would save his life. And his mate’s if he paid attention.

She is deeper into the old court. We can’t travel further than these clouds or the dark ones will spy us.

Or that was a convenient excuse, and the dark saints already knew they were here. Ark wished he could shake the paranoia. No, he wished his uncanny knowledge would tell him if the drakes were safe or a trap. All he knew was listening to them was the key to Kheir’s power and their escape.

“Got it,” Kheir shouted from the bathroom where he’d been running drills with his fire, pushing the ribbons of fire higher and higher from his fingertips. “Ark.”

“Coming,” he replied, tearing himself away from the balcony, sliding the doors shut. Wondering about what the drake had called this place. The old court.

Whose old court? He asked, swiftly crossing the room to the bathroom.

The Sentry’s. This response came from the throaty, deeper voice Ark guessed to be male, the other raspy and deep but vaguely feminine. Beven’s entire court lived here in harmony until the uprising. Pockets of his court still remain, scattered over the Saintlands, awaiting his return.

Is Beven… one of the dark ones? He asked tentatively. They already had the Eversky, the Provider, and the Hunchback Saint keeping them captive, putting their mate in so much pain that it reached across the distance and gnawed at his chest. Although he hadn’t felt it all day. Not since yesterday afternoon in truth. Had they finally left her alone, or—

No, there was no or. She was alive. If she wasn’t… there was no world Ark wanted to exist in that didn’t also have Maia. Without her, he would be empty. A ghost. He knew because he was already halfway there, walking numbly through life, planning their rebellion and escape even when he had little faith in it.

Beven is not dark, the drake replied. But he is here. I can sense him like I sense you.

Ark’s heart jolted in his chest. The saint of crossroads was in the palace? They had an ally here with them? Could he help them hurt the saints long enough to get Maia, Azrail, and Jaro out of here? And Bryon. Ark couldn’t forget the sound of Bryon roaring, fighting to cross the saints' circle, defiant and furious, and dominant enough that the fae side of him had cowed.

“Look,” Kheir whispered when Ark strode into the bathroom. His eyes were bright with excitement, the lines of exhaustion softened on his face, his jaw covered in a rough beard. The saints hadn’t provided razors. Probably because they’d use them to kill the bastards.

“What am I looking at?” Ark asked. His mouth snapped shut when Kheir lifted his hand, fire streaming three inches into the air from each finger—each a different colour. Now, Kheir was grinning. He closed his hand into a fist and the fire went out, then opened his hand again and red flames rushed to his fingertips.

“As far as I’ve been able to figure out, mostly through guesswork,” Kheir said, flexing his hand, “red is the fire of passion.” He flexed his hand again, the flames turning pink. “Pink is the fire of obsession. Yellow is friendship. White is love. And black is hatred. I don’t know for sure, but…”

“But,” Ark prompted, getting as close as he dared with black flames now flickering in Kheir’s hand. It was incredible. Ark had never seen a pure black flame before, nor a pink fire, but this was what Kheir had inherited from the saint of love. And he’d only just begun to uncover his magic—who was to say there weren’t a hundred different kinds of fire, of love? Ark’s heart quickened.

“But I think I can use the different kinds of fire to… inflict those traits on someone.”

“So burn someone with yellow fire and they’d become your friend,” Ark mused.

“Hit someone with enough red fire and hopefully their dick will explode,” Kheir countered with a smile that was almost cocky. It looked good on him. Much better than the dead-eyed expression he’d worn before the drakes spoke to them, before Vawn gave him the needle. Speaking of…

“You can’t keep that in your skin indefinitely,” Ark said, reaching out to skim his finger through the air above where the needle was threaded into the skin of Kheir’s collarbone, not daring to actually touch the metal.

“Just while I’m practising,” Kheir sighed, his happiness deflating slightly. “But I need to keep it close. What if Vawn shows up while we’re distracted or sleeping or—”

“Busy bickering like an old married couple in the bathroom,” a drawling voice cut in, startling them both.

Ark’s hand shot to his waist on instinct, coming up empty when he should have drawn his sword. But when his eyes clashed with Vawn’s, that strange mix of relief and haunted pain there as always, Ark let his hand fall with a sigh.

“You snuck in,” he accused.

“You were distracted,” Vawn countered, his smile not reaching his eyes. He glanced beyond Ark at Kheir, his gaze skimming over the needle in his bronze skin but not remarking on it. A smile twitched at the edge of his mouth though, a little realer than the one before. “I came to see the prince. A falcon returned with your parents’ reply, but it won’t release the missive to any of us.” He held up his hand, where a red, angry gouge carved across the back of his hand. “He’s causing a serious ruckus.”

“And you’re not enjoying it one bit,” Kheir observed, pulling his jacket up to cover the needle. “Where’s the falcon?”

Vawn tilted his head so they followed him, but he paused in the middle of the room. “Get better at acting fast. You’re both under my control. Got it?”

Ark nodded, drawing himself up, his back straight. Kheir stiffened beside him, but murmured, “I understand. Vawn—”

“No thanks necessary,” Vawn cut in breezily, forcing a smile as he met each of their stares. His voice dropped to a whisper. “And a word of, hopefully unnecessary, warning. When I’m outside this room, I’m usually a mindless drone of the saints, but something miraculous and fucked up happens in this room, and I can think again. I’m me again. It usually lasts an hour after I leave, but there’s always a chance I’ll go right back to being their—what was it you called me, Kheir? Their bitch?”

“Vawn, I’m sorry—” Kheir began, but Vawn was still speaking.

“I don’t know how long it will take to get the missive from this damn falcon, and I’m under orders not to stop until we have the reply.”

“So you might lose your autonomy before that happens,” Ark said, connecting the dots. “Fuck, how are you coping?”

“I’m not.” Vawn smiled, sharp and twisted, his eyes flat. Eyes completely devoid of hope. “Now that we all know where we stand, follow me. And don’t forget to pretend to be controlled.” He gave them a pointed stare. “And if you’ve got any little plans to put into motion, you’d better make it quick or you’ll find me a much harder opponent.”

Sympathy was an arrow in Ark’s chest, but he didn’t hesitate to follow Vawn out of the door and into the hallway for the first time in days. Weeks? He’d lost track of how long they’d been here.

Vawn had been missing for weeks before they were brought here. That entire time, he’d been controlled, his free will erased to turn him into a servant of saints he so clearly hated. Ark felt like shit for judging him so severely, but there wasn’t time for an apology and Vawn didn’t seem inclined to accept one anyway.

Ark reached across and pulled up Kheir’s collar, making sure the needle was thoroughly hidden. The look they exchanged was tense and fraught with nerves. They would get one chance, and only one. It had to be quick, before the saints realised what they were up to, before Vawn lost control of himself.

Ark scanned the long hallway, searching the many aged-gilt doorways that stretched ahead, tapestries and faded paintings of fae hung between them. The fae of Beven’s court. How many years ago had people lived here? A hundred years? A thousand? Apart from the three of them, the corridor was empty.

It had to be now.

Ark reached for that pocket of his mind where the drakes spoke to him, and asked, Are you there?

Ready when you are, Lord Justice.