Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

He’s alive. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, but his presence doesn’t mean I’ll make it out of this. It doesn’t mean either of us will.

I glance back at the gilded doors, praying Aren and an entourage of rebels will charge through them, but I hate this, standing here waiting for somebody else to save me. I need to find a way to save myself.

Radath ignores me and bows to Atroth. “The son of Taltrayn, my lord.”

The king and his former sword-master lock eyes. The silence in the throne room is deafening, the atmosphere heavy. Even though Kyol’s hands are tied in front of him, Atroth’s guards shift their attention from me to him. I’m just a human. I’m not a threat; Kyol is.

“My lord,” he says after a long moment. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Atroth’s frown deepens. “She shouldn’t be here like this; you’re right. Neither should you. I’ve been lenient with you, Taltrayn. I allowed you to continue seeing her. I believed you when you said you had no hand in her escape. I trusted you, and you repay me with treason?”

Kyol’s jaw clenches. “I lost her because of my loyalty to you.”

“Lost her? To Jorreb?” Atroth’s temper cools. “Taltrayn . . . Kyol, you never should have lost your heart to a human. They’re fickle creatures. They don’t understand loyalty like we do, like you did before she bewitched you. McKenzie was with the rebels for a handful of weeks. She couldn’t possibly have felt the same way for you as you did for her, not if she’s given herself to another fae so soon.”

Something in Atroth’s tone catches my attention. I glance from him to Kyol, then from Kyol to Radath. Kyol’s here. Kyol’s alive. If Atroth intends to kill him, why the hell is he taking so long? Why didn’t he order Radath to kill Kyol on sight?

The only plausible answer is that Atroth doesn’t want to kill him. He’s searching for a reason to forgive his sword-master. If Kyol plays this right, he might be able to survive.

Radath mutters something under his breath, then, more clearly, says, “My lord, this has gone on far too long. We should have executed him before. We should execute him now.”

Atroth sits back in his throne, taps his fingers on the sleek, silver armrest. “He’s my friend, Radath.”

“He’s a traitor. He has been for a while. We’ve only discovered his deceit recently, but he’s been working against me, against us , for years. If he hadn’t opposed every plan I had, we could have ended this war a thousand times over. You cannot trust—”

Atroth holds up a hand. “Kyol, don’t you see she doesn’t care about you? Maybe she never has.”

I keep my mouth shut because he might be able to survive this, but my heart’s pumping adrenaline through my veins and my mind is scrambling for an idea, some spark of enlightenment that might save both our lives.

“If she lives, she’ll aid the remnants of the rebellion,” Atroth continues. “If we destroy it today, the next false-blood will find her. I won’t allow her to hunt down my officers. You can give her a quick death, Kyol.”

Kyol’s gaze doesn’t waver from the king. I swallow, trying to wet my throat. I need to tell him it’s okay, there’s no reason for us both to die, but I’m too damn scared to force the words out.

“I’m willing to forgive you if you do this,” Atroth says. “Everything can go back to the way it was.” He draws a dagger from his belt, holds it out toward his sword-master.

“Did you ever love me?”

Kyol’s words are so soft I barely hear them. I certainly have a hard time comprehending them. He’s listening to Atroth, doubting how I felt? I waited for him—for ten years, I waited. Does he think that’s normal behavior for a human? I can’t tell. His mask is in place. There’s not a glimmer of emotion in his silver eyes.

“Take the dagger,” Atroth urges, sounding sympathetic.

“Did you?” Kyol demands, facing me squarely. “Or did you use me, McKenzie? Did you meet Jorreb before he abducted you?”

It feels as if the In-Between steals my breath away. My throat is raw when I manage to swallow. I shouldn’t have to deny his accusations. He should know me better than this.

“Kyol,” Atroth says again.

“I want to know,” he says. “I want her to tell me.”

“I . . .”

“They’re stalling.” Radath draws his sword. “My lord, it’s foolish to let him live one moment more.”

Kyol’s expression doesn’t change, the muscles in his face don’t twitch at all except when he blinks, but something in that one action is more a wince than an involuntary movement. He is stalling.

Atroth sighs. “You’ve sealed your fate, Taltrayn. Kneel.”

“I’m sorry, kaesha .”

Radath walks forward. My heart thumps when he raises his sword and . . .

No, I can’t watch Kyol die.

Time blurs. My thoughts tangle. The Realm grows small and distant and I’m no longer standing where I was. I’ve leapt onto Radath’s back. I’ve torn the piece of shrapnel from my arm. I’ve drawn it across the lord general’s throat.

The metal is small, blood-soaked. My grip isn’t firm enough to really slice, so I bring it around again—

Radath grabs my wrist and twists. Something cracks. Then something slams into my face.

“McKenzie!”

Two people, three, maybe a dozen scream my name. I can’t separate the voices or the shouts or the whistles of flying arrows.

Blood drips from my face, splatters on the floor beside a leather boot, a leather boot that disappears. At first, I think my vision’s failing. Then the noise filling the throne room registers.

“McKenzie!”

I recognize Aren’s voice this time. He made it through the Sidhe Tol . He’s just inside the throne room, hiding behind the body of a Court fae. Arrows bounce off the fae’s jaedric armor, but puncture his throat and arms. When he vanishes into the ether, Aren dives back out the doors.

Half the fae follow him; the other half . . .

The other half target Kyol, who’s managed to free himself from the ropes binding him. He holds a dagger—the one Atroth offered him moments before—to the king’s throat. The muscles in Kyol’s arm quiver, and my heart breaks at the bleakness in his eyes.

“Taltrayn,” Radath grinds out, holding a hand to his bleeding neck. The lord general doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t have to, not with Micid moving . . . somewhere.

I throw myself across the floor, searching for the ther’rothi . My elbow hits something. I swing my arm around, ensnaring what have to be Micid’s legs. He stumbles, falls.

I scream when pain explodes through my injured wrist, but shouts from the other end of the throne room drown out my cry.

Somehow, I’m underneath a still-invisible Micid. I lock my arms around what I think is his waist, then wrap my legs around, too, as a fae screams behind me. The sound of metal striking metal becomes a steady percussion. I catch a brief glimpse of Aren and a dozen rebels fighting Court fae.

I lose sight of him, and I can’t see Kyol because Radath’s in the way. I can’t help either of them. All I can do is hang on to Micid. Hang on while he strangles me.

Black shadows creep in from the corners of my vision. My body tingles, demanding that I unlock my arms from around Micid and pull his hands from around my neck, but still I hold on. If I let him go, I’m dead. Aren and Kyol and the rest of the rebels are dead. No one will see Micid’s attack.

I can’t let go.

I can’t . . . let go.

I can’t . . .

Something wet spills across my chest. Air snakes inside my lungs, just enough to allow me the strength to blindly swing my fist. It’s no use, though. Something heavy weighs me down, stealing my breath again.