“Hmm.” Crave arched an eyebrow down at Nimerelle, for a second revealing the hunger that he was trying so carefully to hide.
“You see this, brother?” He spoke loudly for show, so all could hear.
“A weapon from one of the dead houses. Older than the halls of this kingdom and theirs combined, and he expects us to believe that the traitor gods gave it to him.”
“It’s just a sword,” Khydan growled.
Crave huffed down his nose, looking at Khydan, a sour smile twisting his mouth. “That sword could end worlds in the right hands. If it’s what I think it is, it is one of the forgotten blades of our ancestors . . . and you do not have the right to wield it.”
“Is that so?” Khydan answered Crave’s smirk with one of his own. “You should probably go ahead and take it, then.”
“Mm. Yes.” Crave nodded enthusiastically. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I really would.”
Crave made a sucking sound, rocketing to his feet.
There were golden clasps on the straps of his leathers.
They gleamed like someone had spent hours polishing them.
Crave let out a bark of laughter, drawing his own sword that hung at his waist. It looked very similar to Nimerelle from where I was kneeling.
A little smaller, perhaps. Less beautifully made.
In short, the sword in Crave’s hand was a very poor imitation of Nimerelle.
The male held the weapon aloft and pointed it at Khydan’s god sword.
“I can scent the magic on that thing,” he said. “It smells like death.”
“You’re afraid to take it from me, then?” Khy suggested. As soon as he’d uttered the accusation, Githrand launched into action. He let out a raw shout, tearing around his brother to get at Khydan, but Crave calmly grabbed Githrand by the arm and held him tight.
“It’s all right. He does not know how he insults me. He does not know his place. Not yet.”
“Oh, I know my place here,” Khydan said. “And I know what’s about to happen.”
Githrand let out a stiff, disbelieving laugh.
“I doubt you can imagine the kind of torment you’re about to suffer.
If you wanted to survive this place, you should have guarded your mind a little better.
Arissan saw what you did to her child. ’Shacry was her only surviving offspring.
You desecrated his body and let your king carry off his head.
For that alone, your penance will be death.
But you killed our father’s emissary, too.
You severed his only thread of power in Yvelia. You weakened him—”
What emissary? What was he talking about? Khydan didn’t kill an emissary. He—
Oh.
Oh, no.
He couldn’t mean—
“Ereth was a traitor to his people,” Khy said. “His own actions against Yvelia signed his death warrant. But he tried to attack my mate. Of course I killed him. No one will ever harm her while I still draw breath.”
Ereth. The Lord of Midnight who had attacked me at the coronation. He’d been a religious leader of sorts. He had told Khydan that he worshipped different gods. Undergods . . .
“Petulant fool,” Githrand scolded. “You spill blood in the defense of your precious mate, but then you bring her here? You’ve condemned her to hell, Khydan Finvarra.
You will be dismembered piece by piece. She will watch, and when we’re done with you, we will make her one of our concubines.
We will breed from her until it kills her or we grow tired of her.
She will know nothing but humiliation and shame in this place. She will never see the sky again—”
Shadows and smoke tore out of Khydan—a blast of magic so powerful that, for a moment, glittering darkness stole the light from the flickering torches.
It happened fast. When the shadows drew back, a tall, semitranslucent wall stood between us and the crowd of Diaxians who had gathered to watch.
Even if Githrand or Crave commanded them to attack, they wouldn’t be able to. At least for a short while.
Khydan rolled his shoulders and shook his arms out, casually shrugging off the magic that still pinned me to the floor. How? How was he doing that?
Sorry, Osha. Arissan has always guarded Diaxis.
I’ve spent centuries practicing at hiding information behind locked doors in my head.
She saw what I wanted her to see. But you?
I knew she’d look into your mind. You wouldn’t have been able to hide it from her.
There just wasn’t time to prepare you. Khydan’s words were laced with regret.
My heart had already been laboring, but now I couldn’t hear myself think over the sound of my blood thrumming in my ears. I stopped it from beating altogether, then said, Prepare me for what?
Khydan’s jaw worked. I’ll tell you everything. I promise. As soon as we’re safe, I’ll explain. He wasn’t looking at me. He was focused on Githrand and Crave.
“Impossible,” Crave whispered. “You can’t—You aren’t—” The male shook his head, clearly struggling to understand what he was seeing. “Shadow magic doesn’t belong in your realm. Where did you get this power?”
“The same place I got the sword,” Khydan snarled.
Tendrils of shadow whipped from his hands.
At the same time, shadows spilled from Crave and Githrand, but their magic was nothing compared to Khydan’s.
Paler. Weaker, somehow. Less . . . corporeal.
Khydan’s shadows cut through the magic they hurled at him like a blade slicing through water.
The two males flew back through the air and landed on the ground with a bone-shattering thud. Still holding Nimerelle loosely at his side, Khydan stalked forward toward the males. He held the point of the sword over Githrand’s throat. “Release her,” he commanded. “Now.”
The pressure pinning me to the floor vanished in an instant.
I toppled forward but caught myself, preventing myself from falling onto my face.
Khydan was there immediately, helping me to my feet.
His hands were in my hair, then, cradling my face, his beautiful eyes full of concern, skipping over my features and searching for injury.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. Just . . . tell me what’s happening.”
My heart squeezed as he took my right hand in his and pressed my palm against the center of his chest, holding it there for a second. “Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes. Always. Yes.”
And for a split second, he smiled the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile. “I love you, Saeris Fane.” He kissed me hard, and so many unspoken things passed between us as he did. Promises and hope. Oaths and regrets.
He tore away from me and was gone.
In four long strides, he was towering over the one called Crave, grabbing him by the front of his armor and pulling him up from the ground.
“Who . . . are you?” Crave choked. “Only . . . half-gods may wield shadows.”
Khydan drew in a deep breath, ignoring the male’s question. “I’ve come for a dragon, as is my right. Summon our father. Tell him I’ve come to make a trade.”