15. Cyara

She understood her Queen's motivations, she truly did. But that did not quell the rancor swirling in her stomach or the harpy lurking beneath her skin from trying to tear her way out. There were about a thousand more questions they needed Percival and Diana to answer.

How did one actually use the communication crystals to send a message? How had Gorlois used Diana to open rifts and travel through the void when neither of them possessed the void power? What were the Lady of the Lake's true motivations?

But wringing answers from Percival was torturous.

Veyka had sent Percival to the front of the group, where she could keep watch on him herself. She had not even bothered to bind his hands with rope. Cyara recognized the tactic—ensuring his good behavior through threats rather than tethers.

The motivation walked between Cyara and Lyrena. Lyrena held the leash—ten feet of rope that trailed from her belt back to Diana's bound hands. Cyara scanned from the rear, eyes examining every angle and step. She knew Lyrena would have preferred this position. But she would not leave Veyka's side.

Missing Osheen and Maisri had been one thing. Leaving them in the faerie caves had reorganized their structure of guarding and chores. But Arran's absence was something else entirely. It changed the way Veyka walked, breathed, spoke.

She did not smile.

Sure, she had flashed a wicked, intimidating grin here and there. She pretended to laugh at Lyrena's jokes. But something had shuttered inside of the Queen.

To have found her mate, accepted the bond… only to lose him so quickly. Cyara shivered.

She knew, perhaps better than anyone, what it had cost Veyka to accept Arran as her mate. So much had been taken from her. Loss after loss after loss punctuated with torture and betrayal. To commit to Arran, to love him, meant to risk the pain of his loss. The pain she was experiencing right now.

If half of the things Cyara's father had told her about mates were true… it was a miracle that Veyka was standing. Let alone leading them—or trying to.

Cyara shook her head, her wings heavier than usual, twitching more as well. Worry was a physical weight. She would watch Veyka, care for her, and push her as best she could.

Caring meant helping—lessening the burdens that the Queen carried. Cyara could do that, starting with the woman stumbling through the forest in front of her.

She increased her speed, one flap of her wings, until she stood nearly at Diana's side.

"Are you cold?" Cyara asked, infusing her voice with the careful gentleness she had used when speaking to Maisri the first few times.

Diana lurched, her matted dark hair swaying as one thick sheet when she shook her head. "No."

The rich red-brown of her skin made it difficult to detect any flush, but a thin veneer of sweat coated her face even in the frigid morning air. Cyara had noticed it earlier, but attributed it to nerves rather than exertion.

Her stature was similar to Veyka's, though the acolyte lacked all of the latter's easy predatory grace. As Cyara watched, Diana stumbled over a log, barely preventing herself from splaying face down in the pine needles.

She lacked the Queen's endurance as well. However Gorlois had been using her, it had not required physical stamina. From what she had seen, Cyara doubted Diana had been treated well. Which suggested mental exhaustion instead—and would account for the tears that had been running down Diana's face off and on since they had taken her and her brother prisoner the day before.

Forceful tactics would likely break the scared young woman.

Cyara had always been better with the subtle sort of manipulations, anyway.

Keeping her movements slow, her steps heavier than usual so that Diana would sense her approach, Cyara moved a few paces ahead. Until she was positioned in front of Diana, out of her reach, but not quite to Lyrena.

She grasped the rope between them and tugged lightly. Lyrena whipped around, hand already reaching for her sword. But the expression on Cyara's face stilled her. Lyrena slid a glance up ahead to Veyka, then back again. She hummed in disapproval, but untied the rope without breaking step and handed it back to Cyara.

Lyrena watched, her bright eyes sharp, until the rope was firmly affixed to the leather harness that Cyara wore. Only then did she turn back to monitoring Veyka.

Diana blinked a few times, dark eyes—the twin to Percival's—widening with terror. A whimper escaped her lips.

Percival whipped around at the sound, only to find Veyka pressing the tip of her dagger into the small of his back.

Veyka rolled her eyes at Percival's glare, then followed the direction of his gaze with a lazy glance of her own. Sweeping them over Lyrena, and Diana now tied to Cyara. Veyka dug the knife in a little harder. Percival cursed under his breath and stomped off, feet crunching over the frosty wintry debris beneath their feet.

Veyka followed him without a backward glance.

But Cyara knew the decision was deliberate. Veyka had noted the change in who held Diana's leash. She knew her handmaiden well enough to intuit that there was a reason for the switch. Cyara would either report or be questioned later. Or maybe Veyka would keep her mouth shut and wait to see what happened.

Unlikely, though.

She put Veyka's considerations to the side, for the moment. She would deal with the queen's tempers and expectations later.

Her focus narrowed to the woman now walking near her side, a yard or so away. Cyara had not put that space there; Diana had. Wary, even of her, the handmaiden. What had Percival told her? Did she know about the harpy?

Cyara swallowed as silently as she could, then remembered the woman's human ears could not detect such things in any case. Even as a half-witch, Diana could not hear the thumping of her heart or scent the worry that flowed off of Lyrena, who kept looking over her shoulder.

Cyara caught Lyrena's gaze the next time. Rolled her eyes. Nodded forward.

Lyrena stuck out her tongue and turned her full attention back toward the front, to Veyka. The queen's safety must be prioritized over everything; especially with Arran now laying in an enchanted sleep in Avalon.

Veyka was the only one who could save Annwyn.

If she was willing to try.

If she could overcome her grief and guilt.

When she was ready, Cyara would be as well.

She waited more than an hour, until they had settled into a quiet rhythm of movement, before she began humming. Just a gentle, soft sound. The tune was one from her youth, from the times when she had played with two younger sisters, all white winged and full of mischief.

She did not dare reach out and touch the captive woman directly for fear of startling her. But she slowly increased the volume of her humming, letting Diana adjust to the resonance of her voice.

When she stopped, and the woman's head turned slightly, almost against her will, Cyara knew the time was right.

"I am going to ask you some questions," Cyara said, keeping her voice carefully even. Nonthreatening.

Diana sucked in a breath, her heartbeat speeding up. Her muscles went tense, easy to see even under her flowing pale purple robes.

"I am not going to hurt you," Cyara said. "But you are at my mercy." She tugged on the rope, just enough to apply pressure to Diana's hands.

Veyka took the harsh approach—pinning Percival down and putting a knife to his throat. Arran had done the same before her, without even realizing it, by tying Percival to a tree before questioning him. But that would not work with Diana. She was one wrong step away from shattering, and then she would be useless to them.

And shattered.

Cyara inhaled slowly, speaking on her exhale. "How long did you dwell on Avalon?"

She watched the woman's throat, visible just above the modest cut of her purple robes, bob up and down. But she answered without flinching, without any outward sign of pain.

"My brother and I pledged ourselves as acolytes after our parents' deaths twelve years ago," Diana said.

Her tones were naturally high-pitched, but they did not rise as she spoke. Another indication that she was not fighting the command of the witch-blood in her veins to answer the questions.

Cyara had used her time mindlessly humming to consider her questions. She certainly could not afford to spend it dwelling on her own grief, on the sisters she had shared that melody with, the sisters she had lost.

Her voice remained steady as she asked her next question. "Did you leave Avalon willingly?"

Diana pressed her eyes shut. Stumbled. Hauled herself back up.

Her voice had risen by an octave when she spoke again. "No. I was taken."

Cyara let the words hang in the cold air between them. With each huff, they could see their breath. The words were as real as those clouds of air—real but intangible.

The words that came next were the ones that truly mattered.

Veyka's head twitched to the side. Listening to every word. Lyrena was subtler. Both waiting. If Percival listened as well, he gave no indication.

"How did you come to be Gorlois' captive?"

Diana's lower lip started to tremble. Then her hand, her arm. Her shoulders and then her entire body were moving. Tears tracking down her cheeks. Shaking. The name had set her off—set her shattering.

Cyara stilled the urge to press her own eyes closed or to press her fingers to the bridge of her nose in disappointment. She did not know how much gentler she could be. She opened her mouth to retract the question, to ask something different.

But it was too late. The command of the witch curse in her veins had Diana's mouth opening, even as tears streamed down her face.

"He lured me with the communication crystal and then he took me from Avalon." Each word was pained, the syllables stretched until they were jagged and sharp. Diana's face crumbled and she buried it in her hands.

Percival's footsteps crunched through the underbrush as he stormed to his sister's side. He tucked her in against him and glared at Cyara, telling her without words that he was unafraid of the harpy he knew she could become.

Cyara looked away from the tender moment, unable to bear the gentle shushing of Percival's voice. It was too close, too reminiscent of the sibling bond now lost to her. She sucked in a breath, letting Lyrena step closer and keep watch on the two.

Only to find the High Queen of Annwyn staring at her speculatively, tossing her dagger idly between her palms.

One eyebrow lifted toward the crown of shimmering snow-white hair.

Cyara ducked her head, avoiding Veyka's eyes, afraid of what she would find there. Admonition, for pushing an already fragile captive toward the breaking point. Or worse—approval, for getting information they sorely needed. She was not sure which would make her feel worse.