Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

The forest blurs, darkens, then reappears in a shade of blue. A hand covers my mouth. I can’t suck in enough air to scream.

I shiver. Not from the icy grip of the In-Between but from the wet tongue that slowly licks up my neck.

ITWIST AND I thrash and I try to scream, but no one sees Micid drag me to the Sidhe Tol . No one hears his sick chuckle when he bites my ear, and the battle’s too loud, too chaotic, for anyone to notice the spray of water my kicking legs send up when Micid reaches into the stream and opens a gated-fissure. He presses an anchor-stone into my palm, covers my fist with his hand, then pulls me into the slash of white light.

My rain-soaked clothing freezes to my skin. Pain stabs through me, stealing my breath and cramping my muscles— all my muscles: my stomach, my calves, my bruised back. Everything hurts.

Then the In-Between vanishes and I stumble into the Realm. My lungs aren’t working right. The air filling them doesn’t seem to contain any oxygen. Shadows creep into my vision, blurring the gilded doors to the king’s hall. The shadows aren’t all from our fissure, though; most are from my fading consciousness. My knees buckle, but Micid’s hand tangles in my hair and he drags me through the open doorway.

I recover enough to lock my knees, forcing Micid to stop walking. He slides his hand down the side of my neck, agitating my edarratae . When he puts his arm around my shoulders, I slam my elbow into his stomach.

He hisses and grips the back of my neck in one hand, then places a knife against my throat with the other.

“Bring her here, Micid,” Atroth says, rising from his throne. Four guards stand at the foot of the dais, hands ready on their swords, and more than a dozen archers stand with their backs against the room’s long walls. Arrows are already inserted into their crossbows. Everyone is silent and alert, ready in case any rebels make it through the Sidhe Tol .

Micid places his mouth against my ear. “I will tame you when this is over.”

His knife cuts into my skin as he leads me down the length of the blue carpet. I’m cold and shaking, but my clothes are just wet, not frozen like I thought, and the muscle cramps are gone now. Unfortunately, I’m all too aware of my thudding heart and the anxiety pooling in my stomach. If I wasn’t holding out hope to find some way out of this, I’d force Micid to slit my throat. I’d rather be dead than in his whorehouse.

Atroth gazes at me as if I’m a child who’s disappointed a parent. When he walks down the platform’s steps, his four guards part to allow him through.

“Put away the knife, Micid.”

“Of course, my king.” He makes the blade disappear.

I swipe my hand across my neck. It’s only bleeding a little—the shrapnel stuck in the back of my arm is a worse injury—but Atroth scowls, unties a blue sash from around his waist, then dabs at the shallow scratch. I don’t know why he bothers. My clothes are stained with Kelia’s blood.

Kelia. She’s dead. Kyol probably is, too. And Aren?

My gut twists. The fight at the Sidhe Tol wasn’t going well, and Aren didn’t see Micid take me. Naito and I told him about the ther’rothi , but will he realize what happened?

Atroth folds the sash several times before he slides it into a pocket of his embroidered jacket.

“You’ve become a problem, McKenzie.”

“What do you want?” Somehow, I manage to sound angry, not scared and exhausted.

Atroth’s eyebrows go up. “What do I want? McKenzie, you’ve done this to yourself. When we rescued you from the rebellion, I intended to carry on as usual. I’ve always thought you were smart, strong-willed. I never thought you’d allow yourself to be manipulated by a false-blood. What’s worse, you’ve used your chaos lusters to manipulate Taltrayn as well.”

“I didn’t—”

Micid gives me a shake, making me swallow my words.

Atroth heaves out a sigh. “I suppose his actions are partly my fault, though. I knew how he felt about you, but I believed him when he swore he wouldn’t act on those feelings. Still, I shouldn’t have allowed you to work so closely together for so long a time.” He shakes his head as if he’s had this discussion with himself a thousand times before. “But I needed you protected, and Taltrayn was my sword-master. It made sense. You were effective together.”

I scan the length of the throne room, looking for some way to save myself. There are too many archers between me and the door. I study their faces, hoping to see Taber or someone else who might be more loyal to Kyol than to Atroth, but I don’t recognize any of them.

“Sidhe,” Atroth curses, regaining my attention. “You have no idea how difficult this is for me.”

I focus on him and feel my eyes widen.

“For you?” My voice is so soft, so cold, the nearest guards loosen their swords in their scabbards.

The king frowns. “You don’t think I’m enjoying this, do you? I’ve known Taltrayn longer than you’ve been alive. I never wanted to hurt him. When my guards discovered you helping the rebels infiltrate my palace, I should have had you executed. I didn’t because Taltrayn begged me to spare your life.”

“So you planned to give me to him instead?” I jab a finger toward Micid, who smiles in return.

“Of course not,” Atroth says. “It was a threat only, for both you and Taltrayn. You knew more about the rebels than you told us. I needed you to talk.”

“I could take her now, my lord.”

“No, Micid. She won’t become one of your whores.” He says this as if he’s doing me a favor, as if he’s the most reasonable and tolerant king to ever rule a world. He’s not. He’s obviously aware of the ther’rothi ’s fetish. Atroth’s a bastard for ignoring it. Besides, Micid’s sick smile doesn’t waver. He still thinks he’ll have me.

I shiver. When I cross my arms over my chest, the shrapnel embedded in the back of my left arm stabs deeper. I focus on that pain instead of the panic threatening to tangle my thoughts. Atroth hasn’t ordered his guards to kill me yet. There must be some way out of this.

“I’m not the only reason Kyol helped the rebellion,” I say, trying to buy time. Aren will end up here eventually. If he’s alive. “He disagrees with the way you’re running this war. If you didn’t let Radath—”

Atroth holds up his hand. “The rebels started this. I’m doing what I must to protect the Realm. Taltrayn understood this until you began whispering in his ear.”

“I didn’t know what was going on until I was abducted.”

“You still don’t know what’s going on. No. Don’t say anything else. I hate to let your talent go to waste, but I can’t trust you anymore.”

“So you’re going to have me killed?” I say the words like they’re an accusation. I don’t know if he notices the way my voice cracks.

“We’ll see,” he says, staring past me. When he drops into his silver throne, I turn.

Lord General Radath enters via the huge gilded doors. A silver-threaded ceremonial cape is hooked to his jaedric cuirass. He may have briefly been at the fight at the Sidhe Tol , but he doesn’t have one smudge of dirt, one bead of sweat, or one speck of silver-dust on him. He couldn’t have engaged any of the fae or humans in Montana. He couldn’t have fought with . . .

Kyol. My heart stutters when I see him. He’s bruised, bloodied, and bound, but he’s alive. He holds his head up and is composed as he strides behind Radath. Composed, until he sees me.

His mask shatters and a look of helpless horror crosses his face. One of his two guards has to shove him forward. He stumbles, then quickly shutters his thoughts and focuses on the king.