Page 143 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

A moan—a male voice. It was a wet sound that made her hair stand ?on end.

Myrddin seemed to be enjoying himself far too much; his poorly withheld grin broke when Garin spoke.

“ You were the one behind my hallucination,” he said under his breath. “My dream.”

Confused, Lilac placed a hand on Garin’s heaving chest, attempting to calm him in case he lost control again. “What dream?”

“Yes,” Myrddin simply said. “What dream , Garin? I’d take care to remember, time revolves around us all. It doesn’t stop for anyone, not even the well-meaning immortal. With Rennes on fire and the emperor awaiting good news, I wouldn’t want to waste too much of it, if I were you.”

The descent from the tower felt longer than it ever had.

The narrow staircase spiraling down to the second floor keep and eventually the scullery, had seen many different versions of her—angry, forlorn.

Heartbroken and brave. Tonight, it saw her descend in silence, the leader of a small but mighty pack: the queen, her warlock, her vampire knight, and her handmaiden.

Some nights, Lilac could hear the wind howling against the tower’s exterior like a warning.

Tonight, everything and everyone was dead still, silent, save for the moaning that came at odd intervals, but didn’t seem to be an imminent threat otherwise; at least, Lilac hoped so, seeing as Myrddin had encouraged her not only to lead the troupe, but to follow the sound.

Garin stiffened, his nostrils flaring; this put Piper on alert, too. The vampires stalked closely at the rear.

She approached the second floor, where there a crowd of people gathered around something, or someone; upon closer study, Lilac saw it was Yanna and Isabel flanking her mother, slumped against the railing, one hand clutching the bannister while the other bunched in the silks at her chest. Marguerite’s eyes were stained in black, her rouge washed from her face stained in tears.

Kemble had emerged from the hallway with a bucket and cloth, and Rupert stood on the wall beside the library entrance, wringing his hands.

By his side was Emma, with her hand wrapped around her son’s waist, looking like she’d been briefly crying.

He held her hand in his, as if rubbing it in reassurance.

It all felt eerily surreal, all of them cast in a sickly blue-green hue, like she was in a dream herself; Garin took her by the hand and tugged her along, steering her onto the landing, down the last leg of stairs.

The scullery at its base looked like a war zone itself.

Cooks were at the ovens, and other staff scrambled in and out of the kitchen it opened up to, as if grasping for any sense of normalcy in a period of such uncertainty.

They ducked and dodged plates and trays that hung precariously in the air, it seemed, save the sweaty hands they balanced upon; while the food smelled delicious, nausea roiled through Lilac at the sound of the wailing growing louder and louder the closer they drew.

“Don’t touch that,” Garin muttered to Piper, who’d reached out for a teetering croissant.

The kitchen corridor then opened into the heart of the keep. Torches flickered, dimmed by the enchantment, flanking the open front doors.

It was dark out, the moon obscured by the heavy clouds. Guards swarmed the bailey, fully dressed in their battle armor—several of them making wild gestures with their hands, their arms casting elongated shadows across the floor and ancient stone.

The sound was growing closer, even as she’d halted; it was approaching them too. Sickness and nervous heat crawled from her middle to her limbs; Lilac slipped her dagger out, holding it at the ready.

“Still think it’s useless?” Myrddin muttered.

A hand shot out for the hilt; Lilac whipped around and slashed, but Garin caught her wrist mid-swing. He let out a low whistle and fixed Lilac’s grip on it, facing the blade down and back toward her, forcing her arm down at her side.

“Like that,” Garin instructed, his breath hot on her ear. “You don’t want to impale yourself.”

As they moved through the inner bailey hall, which ran adjacent to the west wing corridor, Lilac felt the pulse of something drawing them forward. It wasn’t magic, exactly. Older than that.

They strode in the direction of the chapel and Grand Hall, where the preparations for her coronation and wedding were being made—or not made. Shrinking closer to the castle structure, Lilac peered through the floor-length window.

Henri was there at the corridor junction, to the right of the main entrance, just outside the cross section of the north and west corridors. He was mid-toast, next to an apprehensive-looking Riou with a couple of their guards. John stood next to them, quill suspended mid-word.

“Onward,” Garin whispered.

“Where did that sound go?” Piper spun.

“I’m not sure,” said Lilac, her hand gripping the dagger tight. “Better we find it than it find us.”

Moments later, they finally emerged into the courtyard.

Everything was obscured by a heavier layer of mist there—it was lush with hedges and short trees, but not a single fern could be seen poking out of the fog.

The light seemed to be coming from within the courtyard itself.

A faint bubbling and something else— a voice?

—could be heard; it was muffled like the rest of the party had been at Albrecht’s feast.

The fog was an enchantment. A veil.

“ Tempestas Minor ,” Myrddin said, sweeping his hands aside, and the fog began to clear. At the same moment, the clouds above opened to the moonlight, pale and full above the castle walls. The stars sparkled and wheeled across the sky overhead, unfrozen by Myrddin’s spell.

In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by flagstones and thorned rosebushes and lilac hedges, was the pond she and Piper would spend their summers lounging beside.

Its quiet surface bubbled at the center, illuminated with blinding white light from below.

She was reminded of the glowing orbs the Morgen had given off when they’d swam beneath her, circling her. Taunting her.

The family of ducks usually inhabiting the courtyard were frozen at the pond’s edge, eager to escape, the water gently lapping the heels of the last.

Lilac took a slow, steadying step onto the grass—and that was when they heard it.

Movement, and a moan. Tremoring, low. Filled with fear .

They all turned at once.

“It’s him ,” Piper said, her voice thick with terror. “Oh my God.”

He was pale, mottled, and damp. His blonde hair hung in slick clumps across his brow, his once-fine clothes, dungeon rags.

His hands rose before him, reaching out like someone spotting a mirage.

His blue eyes were glazed, unfocused at first. Then, they locked onto Garin, then her —familiarity slow to form but quick to snap into place.

“You,” he managed, blood staining his gums above yellowing teeth, his lips dry and cracking. “How does it feel to reap everything my family has sown, you traitorous whore.”

Garin immediately sank onto his haunches, a snarl ripping from his throat, but Lilac was quicker. She gave way to her reflexes, everything about that night barreling into her like stone meeting stone?—

The estate. The letters—the countless, relentless letters sent after he’d thrown his tantrum about not besting Lilac at wooden swords.

Encountering him again with his hand up an unwilling maid’s shirt near the chapel on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, and it being the very reason she’d gone downstairs to the kitchen and met Freya in the first place.

Watching him brand Garin across the face with his flame-steeped sword.

His hands clawing at her body thrashing in the dirt, violently forcing her legs open with his knees?—

She charged through, shoving Myrddin aside and readying her dagger—she didn’t care if it didn’t kill, stabbing him repeatedly would bring her much joy—and sank it into him all the way to the hilt, until they were body to body.

They were close enough to kiss.

Sinclair’s expression stilled. Then, his mouth opened, his eyes rolled back to the whites—and dark smoke poured out of his throat. His body began to tremble and hiss.

Horrified, Lilac glanced down at her hands.

The dagger was gone. In its place an onyx hilt laid with rubies and glowing firestone. She put her foot against his chest and yanked it out.

Sinclair fell to the ground in a thud, his chest cavity still smoking with the smell of burnt flesh.

Out came a double-edged blade, its fuller laced with haphazard patterns of crimson and magma—pulsing ember that moved beneath its reflective surface like molten stone. The metal itself wasn’t nearly as bright as the alloy of its former shape, as if it were cloaked in starlight itself.

Her hand shook, but she didn’t want to drop it and risk setting the castle ablaze. Lilac slowly turned—Garin’s mouth hung open as he watched her. Piper cowered behind him, and Myrddin stood there with his arms crossed, looking pleased and only a little surprised. “Fascinating,” was all he remarked.

“What is this, Myrddin?” Garin demanded.

“It holds many names—Dawnshard to the Anglo-Saxons. Pòh Chyu Jé in its commissioned tongue of origin. Tanvalan, most commonly, in our own language of the Old Isles.”

“Tanvalan,” Lilac mouthed, turning to the warlock.

“A fire blade,” Myrddin said simply.

“Have you known this whole time? A weapon like that is dangerous in the wrong hands,” Garin hissed.

Mesmerized, Lilac watched the sword begin to crack; starting at the tip, the molten patterns grew, began to swallow it whole, until the glowing red crept toward the hilt.

She yelped and dropped it. Its dormant form, glistening and bright silver, landed upon the grass.