Chapter Six

Tanitha woke to the smell of smoke and ashes.

Despite how her head was spinning, despite how her stomach still roiled from whatever poison Yarun had given her, she shoved herself upright. The motion made her stomach lurch, and she hunched, trying to take even breaths. The feeling of nausea abated slightly as she went still, though her blood was still pounding in her ears, each heartbeat sending a spike of pain through her head. She swallowed, trying to keep very still. Something was covering her eyes, and she tried to lift one hand to shove it aside. The motion caught halfway though, arrested by the sensation of metal biting into her wrists. Her blood chilled. She was blindfolded and bound.

She forced herself to remain still, trying to make sense of this. There was an obvious answer, but her mind recoiled from it so violently that she had to stifle another rise of nausea. Her surroundings were silent except for the crackling of a nearby fire— a bonfire, from the heat on her skin on that side— and the gentle rush of wind as it flowed through nearby trees. The scent of fresh juniper was strong on the air.

She swallowed past the painful dryness of her throat. Everything she could hear and feel supported her first thought, that first horrified conclusion. The only place inside city walls she knew that had trees like this were the sacred groves on the hilltops dedicated to various gods. The source of the heat nearby wasn't a bonfire, it was a pyre .

A sacrificial pyre.

She wrenched reflexively once against the manacles that held her bound. They must have been anchored to the ground, because the motion jarred the bones of her wrists badly. Horror was welling up inside her, a kind of numbness that made each breath excruciating. Human sacrifices were reserved for the most dire of situations, the most desperate of entreaties to the gods. They were only offered by the wealthy and powerful, and usually only when the Speakers relayed that the gods required it. Tanitha hadn't heard of it happening in years. How could this be happening?

How could this be happening to her?

She forced herself to think back, trying to calm herself, but she knew there was no point. Her life was already claimed by one of the city's deities, perhaps even the One Who Sleeps. There would be no escape, no sudden mercy. She clenched her hands, forcing her racing thoughts to slow. If she was to die regardless, then these last moments were all she had left, and she wanted to spend them in possession of herself at least. If all was to be taken, she could at least give herself that.

She tried to think, tried to remember how she'd gotten here. The memories started to return, blurred and fractured, but still present. Ivathi Yarun had summoned her, told her that she'd been chosen for an honored position. He'd given her wine— gods, why had she kept drinking after she'd noticed the bitterness? But that was an unfair, pointless question. If she hadn't drunk, hadn't allowed herself to be taken by subterfuge, she would have been taken by force. If one of the gods had demanded her death, no one who valued their own life would ever have allowed her to escape.

Her mind darted back to the conversation she'd had with the old priest, the words coming back to her in fits and snatches. He'd asked if she wanted her wage to be sent to someone else, since she'd have little need of it herself. She swallowed. Sometimes, the more generous among the city's elites would pay compensation to the victim's family for the death. He'd wanted to be sure that compensation went where she wanted it without telling her the truth of why he needed to know that. She remembered the sorrow in his eyes, and she couldn't decide if the lies had been an act of mercy, trying to spare her distress, or cowardice, meant simply to salve his own conscience.

Cowardice or kindness, though, she found that she didn't care. Facing her own death, knowing there was no escape from it… all she could think about was Lithra. Lithra, who even now would be waiting for Tanitha to join her at the festival, with no idea of what had occurred.

Would Lithra even be told that Tanitha was gone?

Tanitha swallowed, trying to force back the tears that stung her eyes, but she knew she wasn't successful from the dampness that was slowly wicking through the blindfold. She wouldn't be alone much longer. Either the person who'd commissioned her death or a priest of whichever god this hill belonged to would be here soon. Likely both. And then if she was very lucky, they'd drug her again before taking her life. Which meant that she'd have only a narrow window to take any action at all.

There was no way she could save herself. But maybe she could still do something that mattered in her final moments.

Darius pulled into a steep dive over the necropolis, wind streaming over his leathery wings. The form he was using— a bronze dragon— was one reserved for the royal family, for Diantha's descendants, and he'd debated the wisdom of using it tonight. Ultimately though, he'd decided in favor of it for two reasons. First, it would make it easier for this to be a quick kill. Second, there was some honor in being slain by a dragon. And there was precious little he could give his victim beyond that.

He pulled up sharply to make his landing in the clearing among the grove of juniper trees, his claws scraping the stones of the courtyard. To his astonishment, as he landed, he realized that his victim was sitting up, apparently fully awake. The woman turned at the sound of his landing, her posture tense and hunched. Darius swore internally, looking at her. He could smell hints of aspholia root on her, but she hadn't been given nearly enough if she was conscious and able to sit upright.

He furled his batlike wings inward, tucking them close to his body as she wrenched violently once against the chains binding her to the wide central stone disk and its statue. After that initial reflexive reaction, though, she went very still, her breathing shallow and quick. The sacrificial pyre to her left was already blazing high, and at its base lay a ceremonial dagger, the jewels inlaid in its hilt flickering in the light of the flames.

Darius took a step forward, and she turned her head at the sound of his claws rasping against stone, though she was blindfolded with a length of purple cloth. He suspected that the blindfold had been for his benefit— it was easier to ignore another's personhood if their eyes were obscured— but now it just seemed cruel for her to be awake, able to hear the agent of her death but not see as he approached.

"My lord?" she said softly, and he stopped his reluctant forward movement. He wasn't surprised that she would speak— most people certainly would, if only to beg— but her voice was strangely level. Resigned to her fate, then, if not yet free of the fear of it. "Or lady," she continued. "I'm sorry, I don't know which form of address is appropriate." She made a truncated gesture toward her blindfold, the motion cut short by the limitation of the chains. "But… if I am to die, I would like to make a request," she said, her voice giving a slight hitch at last.

Darius closed his eyes for a moment, his secondary eyelids sliding into place. He didn't want to interact with this young woman any more than absolutely necessary. This was a foul enough task as it was. And yet, he wouldn't deny her.

"Speak," he said, his dragon's voice a low rumble. She visibly stifled a flinch at the sound.

"Your priests told me that in exchange for my service, my sister will be looked after," she said, managing to force her voice to remain steady. He moved his head slightly forward to make sure he caught her words. Something about her voice sounded familiar. She cleared her throat once, then added, "I… I would take my passing with much more grace if I had a lord's word that the promise will be honored."

He lifted his head sharply, taken aback, but not by her request— he'd just realized where he'd heard her voice before. Surely this wasn't…? He looked more closely at her, heart pounding. It was . He just hadn't recognized her with the blindfold. This was the young woman who loved the sparrows.

He took a step back, cursing the fates, the gods, and everything in between. Of course it was. Of course it would be someone he had met.

Someone who had fascinated and intrigued him.

He forced his mind back to his mother's words, to the prophesied fate, to the danger this woman presented to his family and to his kind. He needed to end her, and he needed to do it quickly. It was the safest path, and the least cruel to her.

"My lord?" she asked softly. He shook his head once sharply, refocusing. "May I have your word?"

His word that her sister would be safe and cared for. No request for herself, no pleas to spare her life. No requests that her sacrifice be remembered with honor or commemorated. Just a request that one she cared for would be protected.

How could this woman possibly be a threat to all he held dear?

He flexed his claws in agitation, and the woman flinched at the sound of claws on stone. The sight cut at him, and he went still. He could, at least, reassure her on one point.

"Your sister will be cared for," he said. The woman tensed at the sound of his voice, but then visibly forced herself to relax.

"Then…" She took a slow, shuddering breath. "Then I'm ready." She straightened, forcing her shoulders back and lifting her head far enough that the pale skin of her throat was fully exposed.

He shifted form, taking his usual appearance— human, with wings— despite his original intentions. He'd meant the dragon form as an honor, but it wouldn't matter to her. And in the end, he thought it more likely she'd prefer not to be slain by a monstrous beast.

She tracked the sound of his footsteps as he approached, her golden hair cascading over her shoulder as her head turned. He forced himself to cross to the platform where the ceremonial blade lay. Although he moved with caution, there was still a faint ring of metal on stone when he lifted it. The blade was Akkenthian steel, more often used in battle than ceremony, but he found himself grateful for it; a sharper, stronger blade meant an easier death. He felt the knife's cold weight in his hand, then forced himself to look at the young woman. She was trembling, and he cursed himself.

Why was he prolonging her fear?

He couldn't begin to explain to himself why he was so reluctant to end her, not with the danger she represented. But in truth, seeing her so vulnerable and afraid, and yet courageous… he was having great difficulty remembering what that danger was, and convincing himself that she would ever pose a true threat.

Surely… surely a girl who loved sparrows and wanted nothing more than to protect a younger sister was not the sort of person who would consign demon children to death?

Abruptly, he knelt beside her. She kept her posture still and straight despite another tremble of fear.

"What is your name?" he asked her, keeping his voice gentle.

She took a shaky breath. "Tanitha, my lord," she whispered.

Tanitha. He looked at her closely. Even blindfolded, there was a nobility and beauty to her features and carriage that defied her vulnerable state and her fear. He looked at her hands. They were slender and graceful, but the skin was marked with tiny white scars, likely from the hazards of elemental sorcery.

He shook himself. What did it matter, who she was or what she did? She was fated to be a threat, and he could put an end to that here and now. It was a simple matter, if he didn't insist on complicating it.

He just had to murder an innocent woman.

Abruptly, he made his decision. His mother had ordered that the girl not suffer, and he could do that much. Gripping the blade in one hand, he laid his other against the side of her neck. She gave a small twitch at his touch, then stilled. Her hands gripped the fabric of her tunic so tightly that he thought it might tear. He could feel her pulse under his hand, fluttering as quickly as a bird's wingbeats, and he drew upon his power to slow it.

"Sleep, Tanitha," he murmured. She started to speak, perhaps to ask a question, but the word trailed away to nothing as she slumped, helpless in his arms.