Chapter 19

Cyril

The bands snapped closed around Cyril's wrists with a palpable click, the runes inscribed on them flaring for a moment before disappearing. Immediately, an unfamiliar sensation coursed through his body. Not just pain—that much he'd been expecting— but a sudden, disorienting disconnection. Like something had been cut off. Amputated.

Cyril glanced down at his wrist, half expecting to find his hand gone. It was there. All his limbs were. And yet… Cyril's stomach clenched as he understood. His magic. His dragon self. The bands cut him off from both. And yes, that was fear that was making his gut churn.

"Cyril!" Kit shouted.

True to his word, Emric had released his hold on her. No more convulsions. No more screams. She was already able to get to her knees.

"I'm alright," Cyril lied. If this was the cost of releasing Kit from her agony, he'd pay it. "Just a sting. Nothing I can't handle." He curled his toes in his boots to ground him to the floor.

"Fool," Ettienne said, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

Ettienne was probably right. But it little mattered. There had been no choice.

Kit climbed the rest of the way to her feet and started toward Cyril.

Emric put out his palm. An order to stay put.

"Your mate—you are mated are you not?—your mate is in no immediate peril," the priest told Kit. "Whether he stays so is entirely in your hands. Observe." With a subtle flick of his wrist, the bands around Cyril's wrists jerked up, pulling on his arms. Up, up, up, until he was up on his toes, the bands digging into his flesh like manicals.

His shoulders ached with a familiar pain, and he fought down a shudder that threatened to rake through his body. The flashes of dread and fear. The Serpari queen, Nagaia, had hung him in much the same position when she'd held him in her dungeons. Both his shoulders had been dislocated then, his mouth dry from screaming.

But Cyril wasn't screaming now. Instead, he forced a breath into his lungs and raised his chin, glaring at Emric. "Nice trick."

Emric pulled a short blade out of his ample robes. "Observe." He strode to where Cyril hung and drew a long shallow cut over Cyril's abdomen. Tiny red beads welled up from the gash, taking their time in slithering down his skin. "The cut, as you can see, is minor. One that would usually heal on a fae warrior before it could be much of a bother. Unfortunately for your mate here, he no longer has access to his magic. Not to wield. Not to shift. Not even to heal."

Kit swallowed, her face blanching.

"He is no better than a human now," the priest continued. "An exhausted, injured human. Pathetic really. But don't take my word for it. I will have him brought to you tomorrow. Depending on your progress, you can either watch as he is fed and tended, or lashed with a steel tipped whip."

"No," Kit whispered, her head shaking as if she could undo reality. The bond between them, mercifully still intact, overflowed with Kit's devastation. That hurt more than anything Emric could do to him.

Cyril gripped Kit's gaze. "It's alright. I'm not afraid. The priest is too pathetic to warrant fear." Even as he spoke, Cyril sent all his love down the connection between him and Kit. Telling her, even without words, that he was ready for whatever came. That none of this was her fault. That he was ready to die if it came to it. So long as she lived. "Don't let him use me to -"

Emric backhanded him across the mouth.

The priest wheeled on Kit, his voice dripping with authority. "Start building. You will place each piece of wyrmwood as it was, and you will bind it with your blood. You will then retrace each rune to its charged state."

Emric traced a pattern in the air and a gong sounded in response.

At once, four more priests entered through the same hidden door Emric had used earlier. They had their hoods down, their constellation tattoos evident on their skin. All had fewer marks than Emric, and the last priest in the procession—the one whose face still looked mortal—had only three. A rank structure.

"Take our guests to their accommodations," Emric ordered the priests before giving Kit one last glare. "What happens next is entirely up to you. You know your task. Rebuild what you destroyed."

Kit rushed toward Cyril but the mortal looking priest grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back.

Cyril shook his head at her, telling her to stop struggling. It would do nothing just now except get her hurt. He just hoped she was smart enough to listen. Kit's eyes glistened.

Don't give in, Cyril ordered her silently as he memorized every beautiful line of her face. Don't build anything for them. Don't let them use me against you.

Emric snapped his fingers and the bands stretching Cyril's arms above his head became limp. Fresh pain rushed into Cyril's shoulders as circulation returned. He moved the joints tentatively, but not enough to give any sign of aggression.

There was a pained groan as two priests hauled Ettienne to his feet and dragged him out of the room. The forth priest took hold of Cyril's neck and shoved him forward.

Cyril didn't struggle as the priests brought the pair of them into a stone cell. They deposited Ettienne against a wall before kicking the king in the side for good measure and walking out.

Ettienne's lack of a retort, or general commentary, was a newly growing concern.

"Are you alright?" Cyril asked his father, taking stock of their room at the same time. The only light came from a thin window slit near the ceiling and a lit lantern left hanging in the corridor beyond the bars. It wouldn't usually be a problem, but being cut off from his magic left Cyril's senses dull as a butterknife. Except his sense of pain. That was fully intact.

Ettienne groaned and pulled himself up from the floor onto the single wooden bench that served as a cot. Jaw set, he wrapped his hand around the shaft protruding from his chest and yanked it out.

There was a schlick of the arrow sliding out from flesh. Ettienne's face contorted in pain, but he didn't make a sound. Blood trickled from the wound, dark and thick, soaking into his already stained shirt. His breathing was labored, each inhale a struggle as he leaned back against the cold wall.

"Was that wise?" Cyril asked, wincing at his own question. What choice did they truly have? More to the point, the bolt was already pulled. Questioning it now was pointless. He'd known that before he asked. But he wanted to say something and had come up with nothing better. "This is all backwards. Typically it's me or my brothers who are hurt and bleeding, and you are the one watching the aftermath."

Hells, half the time the hurt and bleeding had come at Ettienne's own orders.

"Your... point?" Ettienne struggled with the words.

"Nothing. Just that it's always been the other way around," Cyril said. He'd just always taken it for granted. Ettienne was always unscathed. Invincible. Always with another ace in his pocket, another plan already in the works. Ettienne made others bleed. He never bled himself. That was the way it always was. Was always supposed to be.

Stalking over to the cot, Cyril ripped open Ettienne's shirt to inspect the wound. Where he'd expected to find torn bloody flesh however, Ettienne's chest was like a mass of twisted black leather. Too dead to truly bleed. Bluish yellow lines of pus stretched across his chest like a spiderweb from the puncture. Even Cyril's dulled senses recoiled from the scent of decay.

Cyril's jaw tightened. "Make a light, will you?"

"I can either do that, or keep breathing," Ettienne said. "I chose breathing. For now."

Cyril cursed.

Ettienne's hand wrapped around Cyril's forearm. "What is your plan? Or your hope? You have one. I can see that much."

"To stay alive. Buy Tavias and the others time to come. Or time for Kit to work out an escape. She is smart. She'll work out a way to get herself and the eggs out."

"I do not believe she is capable of making the hard decision she must make for an escape to succeed." Ettienne said with that damn bluntness of his. "The decision to leave you behind. That will be her downfall."

Cyril snorted. Now there was the father he knew.

"It's a flaw of hers for certain. But she'll do it for the eggs. Once she realizes there is no other choice, she'll do it." Cyril strode to the cell door, examining the lock. There was no key hole that he could make out, only a rune etched into the metal. More of the priests' magic. "And what of you?" he asked, returning to the cot. "What are you scheming?"

"Perhaps I'm not."

"And perhaps Quinton is a little fuzzy pink puppy."

Ettienne's laugh turned wet. "I have a throne to protect. That's all you need to know." He forced himself to sit up. "Emric is coming."

Cyril swallowed a curse. He'd heard nothing. Smelled nothing. Not until mere seconds before a set of dark robes were already in plain sight. Emric made a growingly familiar gesture and Cyril's wyrmwood bands wrenched his wrists behind his back and pinned him to a wall. Only then did the priest open the door.

"Your majesty." Emric offered Ettienne a mocking bow. "I regret we've not had a chance to speak before now."

"Indeed," said Ettienne. "How may I be of service?"

"That is a very good question." Emric paced the front of the cell. "I've received several missives from the capital. While you've been my guests, Salazar has made himself at home on the Massa'eve throne and is quietly replacing all your people with his own. Your other sons are nowhere to be seen and are presumed dead along with Cyril here. Given the sheer number of Salazar's guards who happened to be at the capital, I'd say the coup was a long time coming anyway. That is to say, your throne is as good as gone. And your life too, I suspect. The wound is fatal. Wyrm's bane is very effective against your kind. So, tell me, King Ettienne, how exactly do you imagine you could be of service to me?"

"Perhaps I can't." Ettienne shrugged like the matter was of no consequence. The movement had to hurt like hell. "It sounds like you are Salazar's problem now. I imagine he will make eliminating the priests of Orion a top priority. He and I have always differed on the matter of mortals. I can only imagine what he will do to the humans who've made it their purpose to torment dragonkind."

Emric's mouth twitched. "We have done what we must to survive. Just as you have, Ettienne."

"Even I've halted my hand short of extermination," said Ettienne.

"We had no choice," Emric snapped. "Mortal men with no magic fighting against immortals? Against dragons who view us as prey at best and toys at worst? The odds had to be evened. Magic had to be obtained. Would you have done any less for your people and kingdom?"

"Perhaps not." Ettienne spread his hands, all calmness against Emric's temper. "Does it matter? Did you come to seek vindication from me?"

"No." Emric took a breath, schooling his voice. "I came to make you an offer."