Thin tendrils of some sort of plant stretched from the wall, sliding around his throat. He choked on a sound, grabbed the plants by the handful and burned them, but there were too many. They coiled about his wrists and ankles and neck, squeezed until he couldn’t utter another spell to try to break free, until the rows of tiny, razor-sharp thorns pierced his skin.

  Trapped. His panicked mind raced. This isn’t training. She’s really going to kill me.

  Ivy stood amongst the foliage, bright eyes glinting expectantly. Everis choked in one last breath before the vines tightened and cut off his air supply. The image of Ivy before him began to fade as his vision went dark.

  But with the darkness came a crimson light within his reach.

  She can’t win against you. No one can.

  Everis’s drooping eyelids snapped open. He grasped the vines, envisioning himself drawing the very life from them, and they loosened their grip on his limbs and fell limply around him. He could breathe again. Ivy took an abrupt step back as he straightened himself and kicked away the withered remnants of roots at his feet.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he sneered, fury and power flooding through his veins. Everything felt sharper. Nothing was impossible.

  Ivy braced herself, jaw set, unmoving, hands clasped behind her back.

  Everis lunged.

  At least, he tried. Two steps forward, his legs gave out, and he hit the ground.

  This time, everything did go completely dark.

  20

  BRANT

  Brant offered to take the first watch alongside Artesia. Together, they sat across from Drake Reed’s cell, a small table between them with a modest lunch to fill their bellies after their… adventurous morning. Brant was sporting a few cuts and scratches. They both had bruising around their throats where Reed’s dark magic had attempted to strangle the life out of them.

  Brant stared at the magi. He sat beneath the window of his cell with his head tipped back, still bound, and with a scarf tied securely about his eyes. Over the years, he’d witnessed plenty of magic performed by the magi who resided in the castle. He’d seen their charms and potions work small miracles. Had witnessed firsthand their enchantments that transformed the guards’ own swords into magical weapons capable of shattering stone and steel.

  But he’d never seen anything like what Reed had displayed in that tower. Nothing so violent or loud or big. It wasn’t even the display of it as much as the feel of it. Even now, he could swear she felt the remnants of his power crawling on her skin.

  “I would be very appreciative,” the magi finally spoke, “if you were to release me.”

  Artesia and Brant exchanged looks. Master Orin had warned them not to engage with Reed, that a blood magi wasn’t a thing to be trifled with, but Brant couldn’t let it lie.

  “And why would we want to do that?”

  “Because it would be beneficial to you in the long run,” Reed said, shifting his shoulders as though trying to get comfortable. His arms had to be aching by now.

  Brant sneered. “You killed some of our friends and injured the rest of us. If you think I trust a word out of your mouth, you’re stupider than I thought.”

  A soft, almost kind smile crossed Reed’s face. “Fair enough. Although I feel I should point out I only attacked because I was surrounded. Wouldn’t anyone have done the same in my place?”

  “Not if they were innocent,” Artesia chimed in. “You could’ve gone before the queen and pleaded your case, and it would’ve been a lot stronger than trying to escape first.”

  “So you say. Tell me, have we received any word about the funeral arrangements for the king? I know Orin was working on them.”

  Gods, this man was giving him a headache. Was he really so oblivious to his predicament that he thought small talk was appropriate? Or was he plotting something?

  Brant snorted. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t be attending anyway. What in Mother’s name made you think poisoning the king was a smart idea? And if you wanted him dead, why not just poison him once and get it over with? No sense in dragging it out for months.”

  Artesia placed a hand on his arm, shooting him a look. And yet to his surprise, Reed answered.

  “Sometimes the long game is the one that needs to be played. Faramond was healthy as a horse. If he’d dropped dead so quickly, everyone would’ve suspected foul play. An illness, however… That gave me more time to set some other things in motion.”

  Artesia paused. “Do you mean the attempt on Princess Cassia’s life?”

  A serene smile passed over Drake’s face. “A misstep on my part. I grew impatient. I certainly hadn’t anticipated Everis intervening and saving her.”

  A wash of anger surged through Brant. Princess Cassia was a good girl. Sweet and kind and never the sort to wish harm to anyone. Brant remembered the night of Faramond’s death, how grief-stricken the princess had been, and yet still, she’d placed a hand on Artesia’s arm and asked, Are you alright? Drowning in her own sorrow, she’d been concerned about those around her. The idea that this man was behind the assassination attempt had him seeing red.

  Brant lurched from her seat and approached the bars, voice low. “You’re lucky Master Orin wants you unharmed for your judgment. I’d be happy to open your throat right here and now for that admission.”

  Reed inclined his chin, and he could almost swear he could somehow see Brant even through his blindfold. “By all means, feel free. But you’ve seen what I can do with the blood of others. Imagine what I could do with my own.”

  It was a thinly veiled threat, but a threat all the same. Brant shivered. He could feel Artesia at his back, a steady and assuring presence to remind him that they were safe. Not even a magi could hurt them in his current state. “Were you always this disgusting, or is it the blood magic that makes you that way?”

  “Oh, dear.” Reed pressed his back to the wall, using his legs to push himself up the stone until he was standing. He took a few precarious steps across the cell until he stood a mere inch from the bars. Too close for comfort. “If my blood magic offends you so, you’ll be quite disturbed to hear I’m not the only one in the castle who does it. Ask Orin about his own foray into the dark arts. Or—oh! Ask Everis. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  He spoke the word friend in a way that dripped venom. Artesia tensed behind her. She caught his elbow and drew him back a step. Were there more blood magi within the castle walls?

  “Time for you to shut up before I shut you up,” Brant said icily. He flopped back into his chair and grabbed his mug of cider. Artesia sank into her seat slowly, though her eyes never left Reed. He’d set out to get them wound up, to make them question things. Just like Master Orin had warned them. They wouldn’t allow themselves to fall for it.

  But was he telling the truth?

  21

  WREN

  Upon his return, a guard informed Wren that Everis was waiting in his room and wanted to speak with him. An odd request, given that Wren would’ve sought him out anyway. A knot of dread formed in his stomach as he ascended the stairs. He tried to reach for Everis, for the warmth of the connection they shared through their magic, but the flame was barely a flicker.

  Something is wrong.

  He took the steps two at a time, out of breath as he reached Everis’s door and threw it open.

  “Ev—”

  A moment’s glance revealed Everis in bed, seemingly asleep. Wren willed his racing heart to slow as he approached, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and reaching out for him. He didn’t so much as stir.

  “I hope your day was as eventful as ours,” Ivy said from her seat in the corner of the room.

  He twisted toward her, eyes narrowed. “What’s happened to him?”

  She lounged back in her chair, all long limbs, in possession of the lazy grace of a cat. Still, he thought she looked on edge. Defensive. “Your friend likes to tap into the dark arts.”

  He tensed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She raised a brow. “Your troops were shaken when they arrived, and I overheard whispers that something happened in the mountains. From what I was able to make out, it seems you made a miraculous recovery while one of your men took an unsuspecting turn for the worse.”

  He slid off the bed to face her properly, shoulders rigid. What did he do? What could he do? What was he willing to do to keep Everis—and his secret—safe? The words to fix this situation wouldn’t come to him.

  “Relax,” Ivy drawled. “If I’d wanted him dead or in chains, he would be. Instead, you see him as he is, sleeping peacefully. Drugged, but peaceful. I suspect he’ll be cross with me when he wakes.”

  Wren’s jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to ensure he wasn’t a threat.” Ivy stood, sweeping over to the window and opening the shutters. “But Everis appears to be… a bit of a unique breed.”

  The initial surge of fear that rose at her admission was briefly quelled. “Unique… how?”

  “Blood magi are traditionally bound by the same rules we all are. Magic requires a spoken or written element. We need our eyes, our voice, our hands. Everis, it seems, does not.”

  Cassia’s words echoed in his mind. She’d told him Everis had used his magic without uttering a word, and he hadn’t believed it. Why would he? Never had he met a magi who could cast without vocalizing or signing. But then again, he’d never spoken to a magi other than Master Orin who had any firsthand knowledge of blood magic… and Ivy seemed to as well.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She leaned a shoulder into the wall, eyes fixed out the window. “Before I came to work for Ryland, I was employed by the Citadel. In specific, I was part of a team that investigated reports of rogue magi and inappropriate uses of magic—including blood magic. I had to hunt down, fight, imprison, and try to rehabilitate dozens of them. I know the signs to look for, so when your soldiers’ whispers reached my ears, I knew what I was hearing. I engaged Everis in a sparring match and backed him into a corner. Even the trickiest of blood magi, when threatened with death, will slip and reach for the darkness. It’s as much a reflex for them as breathing.”

  Wren narrowed his eyes. “So, you made him afraid for his life… to test him?”

  She blinked at him as though the answer to that were obvious. “Oh, should I have just asked him?”

  “What if you’d been wrong? Would you have just killed him?”

  “I bound him with gloriosa vines. Their thorns inject just enough toxin to knock a person out. He’d have fallen unconscious and woken up in short order, no doubt angry with me, and I would’ve owed him a great apology.”

  “You…” He stopped, took a steady breath, and counted to five. “If you don’t plan on handing him over to the Citadel, what do you want?”

  “Oh, I had planned on turning him over, make no mistake. But, like I said, he’s…” A frown tugged at her brow. “What do you know about the workings of blood magic?”

  “What every student learns, I suppose. Sacrificing life in exchange for greater power, but it corrupts. It changes a person.” Wren glanced at Everis. He couldn’t imagine his sweet Ever being different. The boy who cried over dead baby birds, turning hard and cruel and obsessed with power… It was why he’d turned a blind eye to those peculiar slipups over the years. Until Maliel, Everis had never harmed anyone when utilizing any form of forbidden magic.

  “All true but your description is limited in scope. Blood magi do not have to kill for their power. The simple shedding of blood from a living creature is the easiest method to draw power from, yes, but I’ve seen magi who didn’t need to. They could leech the life directly from a person to tap into their dark magic, all without spilling a drop.”

  He swallowed thickly. “And you’re telling me Ever can do that?”

  “He can do more than that.” Ivy beckoned him to follow her. Together, they left Everis sleeping, descended the stairs, and took a few hallways, first to the magi’s study and then to a small yard beyond.

  The ground looked freshly disturbed, every blade of grass brown and dead, wilted vines drooping lifelessly down the walls. The trees were little more than hollowed-out, ashy husks. Wren stepped forward, trying to place the odd sensation creeping up his spine. Old and familiar and dark…

  Suddenly, he was back in Balerno ten years ago, in a plague-ridden village, coaxing a frightened boy from a wardrobe while surrounded by the remnants of his dark magic.

  “I don’t understand,” he repeated softly, even if some part of him secretly did.

  Ivy stood at his back. For the first time, she sounded almost sympathetic. “Everis can draw the life out of not only people, but other living things. His connection to his magic is that strong… and it makes him that much more lethal.”

  Tears pricked his eyes.

  Ever… What do I do?

  “Your friend is dangerous, Wren, but that doesn’t mean he’s beyond help. For all that I saw today that worried me, I saw hope too.”

  He blinked to try to clear his vision, but he felt the tears on his cheeks regardless. “What hope?”

  Ivy gave a curt nod. “Tell me, is this tree dead?”

  Wren pressed his palm flat against the trunk. He could feel the inkling of life still within. It was wounded, but it would survive. “No.”

  “And am I dead?”

  “Clearly not. What are you getting at?”

  “What I’m getting at is that Everis had the ability to draw the life straight from me. He could’ve drained me and every plant in this yard to save himself, yet even when presented with impending death, he didn’t.” She took his shoulders and turned him to face her. “He tapped into his own life force before he would touch mine. What a person does to save their own skin is very telling, and what that told me is he still values the life around him. He doesn’t see it—even subconsciously—as a tool or a means to an end.”

  I could’ve told you that, he thought. “Ever is… He’s temperamental, a bit moody sometimes, but he’s good. Ivy, I swear to you. He’s always been so sensitive to the loss of life. No magic can change that. I won’t let it.”

  “Then he’s got a better chance at reform than most.” She released him and stepped back. “That’s why I didn’t arrest him or tell anyone. I think it’s early enough that we can help him. And…”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for here in Patish, but as repayment for my extreme generosity, I think it’s time you told me.”

  22

  ORIN

  Orin sent word to Queen Danica regarding Drake’s betrayal and saw to the removal of the fallen guards from the magi tower, then to his own cuts and scratches. Nova appeared unharmed. She stood patiently while he checked her over, and he gave her a generous portion of nuts and fruit for her assistance.

  Afterward, he picked his way through the chaos of the tower. Where did he even start in putting it all back together? A few of the other magi had come in, balked at the scene before them, and were now studiously gathering books and papers to at least stack them and ensure they wouldn’t become damaged more than they already were.

  Lady Imaryllis looked at Orin, concerned, questioning. Orin only shook his head. He wouldn’t discuss details with anyone, not yet, not even her. Imaryllis was a steadfast, loyal woman and a good friend, and as far as Orin knew, he could trust her. But a few days ago, he would’ve said the same thing of Drake in a heartbeat. Until he was certain no one else was involved in Drake’s plans, Orin would remain quiet.

  Eventually, he knew he would need to stop dragging things out. A guard came to tell him the queen was waiting, and the sooner this was dealt with, the better.

  A heavy lump of dread formed in his chest as he made his way down to the rarely used dungeons. Brant and Artesia were still there, keeping watch, hunched over their table with a game of cards. Orin noted the bruises and scratches on them both with a frown. Still, they seemed to be in one piece, and Drake hadn’t moved from his cell.

  Brant and Artesia stood abruptly when they saw him. Everis might’ve been cross with him for asking the pair to accompany him to confront Drake, but whatever rivalry existed between them and his apprentice, Brant was steadfast and loyal to the late king—even if he was a bit hotheaded—and Artesia was alert, quick, good with a blade, and one of the guards Princess Cassia frequently relied on. He trusted them with this, as much as he could trust anyone.

  Orin gave the pair a curt nod and stopped in front of Drake’s cell, hands clasped behind his back.

  Although he didn’t say a word, Drake lifted his head and smiled. “Is that you, Orin?”

  “It is,” he replied, voice steady and unreadable. “The queen has requested you be brought before her. She will hear your case and pass her judgment.”

  “So she shall.” Drake pushed himself up with some difficulty and approached the cell door. He was just as bruised and scratched up as the guards. Orin supposed getting buried under a pile of bookshelves would do that to a person. A significant black-and-purple welt had formed across one of his cheekbones, and his right eye was likely a lost cause thanks to Nova. Blood had soaked through the blindfold.

  At Orin’s beckoning, Artesia stepped forward to unlock the cell. She and Brant grabbed Drake by the elbows, leading him out. They ascended the stairs in silence, making their way to the great hall where the king and queen commonly held their meetings with the public.

  This might be the last time Orin would have the chance to speak to Drake Reed. He stopped just outside the double doors and turned to his friend, wishing he could remove the blindfold so he could look at him and try to get a sense of what he was thinking and feeling.

  “Will you tell me why?” Orin asked softly. “What made you step this far into the darkness?”

  Drake inclined his chin. “You ask me that, but you know why, don’t you? You did the same thing.”