Chapter 12

Ispend the afternoon meandering through the castle gardens, the splashes of white and violet petals a welcome distraction from the thoughts insistent on plaguing me. Various scenarios of how my meeting with Bennett will play out turn over in my mind, again and again.

And then it dawns on me—I will be alone tonight.

Slipping away from Bennett would be easy. Countless excuses take shape on my tongue—each providing a reason for us to separate, giving me just enough time to put some distance between myself and Scarwood before he alerted the kingdom of my disappearance. If I acted fast and clung to the woods, I would be gone before they caught my trail. The trees are too dense for guards to chase me on horseback and with a head start, I may be able to pull it off. The thought seduces me like a roguish enchantress, but freedom—though sweet and enticing—is not a dream I can afford to entertain.

Because he would track me with the tethering spell. Hunt me down himself like some sort of rabid beast, and I the last living thing to eat. If I fled for home, I might as well draw a map and hand it to Sin, courtesy of the magical rope binding us.

I do not doubt Sin's strength. The bloodwitch within me could overpower him if I were to spill blood and unleash her, but so long as I keep her caged, Sin's magic is boosted with Adelphia's blessing, and therefore, more powerful than mine.

I haven't forgotten the horrid sensation that washed over me each time I reached out and touched his collective. Like standing at the edge of the Howling Sea as a tsunami-sized wave reared up and crashed into me. Except if the sea was on fire, and the water ignited everything brave enough or stupid enough to step into its path. That amount of pain and shame and guilt isn't merely the product of being the Black Art, responsible for an entire kingdom of people. It is the result of something more, something darker, and a small part of me wants to know more about it.

The part of me that is riddled with darkness—an anger I've grown as accustomed to sharing my body with as the bones in my flesh. Anger at my parents for not loving me. Anger at Cathal for his betrayal, and for the violation he bestowed upon my body. And anger at myself. Fury rises in my throat as I acknowledge that part of me that hates myself more than all the others who have wronged me. For not being strong enough to fight back against those that have hurt me. Only a coward would have walked away and left her friend to rot in a Legion camp. It is that part of me, the part that knows shame and wrath and guilt, that would like to know more about what is plaguing Singard Kilbreth.

River is sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed when I return to my room, tapping a sandaled foot against the floor. I smile sheepishly and mutter an apology for making her wait before I note the irony in that. Offering an atonement for making the Black Art's housekeeper wait before dolling me up in fashion Sin will approve of—disgraceful. She pulls a wooden chair tucked in the corner to the center of the room and motions for me to sit. I gather the hem of my skirts and take a seat, and River's hands begin unraveling my braid and combing my hair immediately.

"Why the glum face, dear? Are you not excited for your date tonight?" she asks, seemingly forgetting she was annoyed at me for my tardiness just minutes ago.

I meet her warm eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you're joking. I possess no desire to ever speak with Mr. Langston again, but Sin is making me go." I half expect her to question me on what business the Black Art has planned for me, but she doesn't. And for that, I am relieved, as my mood is sour enough without having to share what I am with her, if she hasn't already been informed.

"I know you likely don't want to hear this, but Singard isn't all bad, you know. The boy has had a tough life. Lost his mother young. His father—now you know I have the utmost respect for His Grace and his father, but… he can be a lot for a young boy to handle. Even for the young man he is now. Those two bicker constantly," she scolds, shaking her head as she works out a tangle with her fine-toothed comb.

The creases around her eyes tell me her concern is genuine. I don't need to read her collective to know she is pure light, through and through. I almost ask about his mother again but stop myself. She likely won't elaborate further, and it doesn't matter anyway. I lost my mother young too, but you don't see me walking around swinging my sword and offing people as I see fit. Not that I've actually seen Sin do that, but if His Grace's reputation precedes him, then it is only a matter of time before I do. I just hope he doesn't decide to turn his blade on me before I find a way out of my current predicament.

"He swore an oath to protect Aegidale, and that includes everyone. Transcendents live in fear every day because of the prejudices he and his father and Ephraim created. He shouldn't get to pick and choose who he deems worthy of his protection, and I simply don't see how you or anyone else can defend that."

"Sin is doing what he thinks is expected of him. His father can be very… convincing," she says, rolling her brown eyes once in the mirror. "I've been serving the kingdom for decades, and I've looked after Sin since he was quite young. He has a good heart but lacks the confidence to show it."

I huff with mock amusement at her comment. Nothing about my interactions with the Black Art suggests he possesses a heart at all, let alone a good one. And the smug grin permanently etched onto his mouth tells me he harbors a sickening amount of confidence.

"You can laugh, but it's true. Sin doesn't have what you do. You have a certain presence about you—something that suggests there is a whole storm brewing behind those pretty brown eyes. Sin walks into a room, and it goes still because they fear him. You, on the other hand, exude something far more dangerous than a sharp sword and the skill to use it. Brains. And, well, I think it's no surprise men tend to lack in that department."

I don't stifle my chuckle. "I appreciate your compliment, but he certainly has not struck me as the lacking confidence type. In fact, I'd say his arrogance is one of his most annoying attributes."

"He puts on a good show, I'll give you that."

I almost spew that his grip around my throat the night he threatened to rip it out felt far from a show, but I swallow the words. However reasonable River may seem, her judgment is clouded by her near familial relationship with my captor, and I'm not in the mood to listen to any more justifications for Sin's violent tendencies.

Likely lost in her own thoughts, she remains quiet as she continues working through the knots in my hair and brushing it into an obedient white blanket that drapes over my shoulders and tumbles down my back. Satisfied, River fumbles around in her basket, pulls out tiny pots of cosmetic powders and paints, and brushes them on my eyelids, cheeks, and lips. She opens the armoire and pulls out a dress the color of blue sapphires, and tosses it to me to put on. It is knee-length with long sleeves and a square bust line. Delicate silver ribbons crisscross down the front of the bodice, and River helps secure the dress at my back. She folds her hands under her chin, admiring her work for a moment before dropping them to gather her supplies.

"Well, if tonight is a complete bust and you find yourself miserable, you certainly won't look it. Come along, I'll walk you downstairs."

She escorts me from my room to the foyer where Ileana is waiting for me, her arms folded across her slender frame. Ileana gives me a quick once over and motions with her chin for me to follow her outside. I tail her to the south side of the castle where the castle's stables occupy a large portion of the rear facing courtyard. My eyes track her movement, the gentle sway of her hips graceful and poised, but something about the measured steps of her long, thin legs looks calculated, like she is unnaturally aware of her surroundings. I suppose after experiencing what she has, it makes sense she would be on constant alert for anything that feels wrong, out of place.

A part of me begs to call after her, convince her to stop walking and look at me, really look at me, as I lay my heart bare and beg her forgiveness for the role I played in her torment. If I could take it back, somehow reverse time and do it over again, I would. But the kingdom isn't the only one that doesn't offer second chances.

Scattered amongst the open lawn are rows upon rows of soldiers, paired up in sets and dueling. I ignore the tickle in my throat, the inevitable itch I feel when I see or hear or smell anything indicative of bloodshed. An image of curled fingernails painted the color of murder flashes in my mind, those feminine nails tracing a line over my lips and down the column of my neck, to the base of my sternum, tempting me into having a taste of the blood drying on the tips of the grass. I've had a lifetime of practice masking the burn in my throat, and without so much as a flicker of emotion, I swallow the temptation back down with the rest of her.

It would be impossible to miss the Black Art in the crowd, even if I wasn't scanning the horde of armored men for him. It isn't that I care to see him—I could very much do without ever seeing his face again—but not knowing where my enemies are is an amateurish mistake. The last time I let my guard down, I ended up in a subterranean cell, rotting as infection picked away at me like a swarm of vultures.

Sin's height is accentuated by the steel plate on his chest. He wears no shirt underneath the armor, the plate fitted directly against his deep copper skin, just enough metal to protect his most vital organs. He spars with another soldier, swinging their swords above their heads in a brutal dance of steel and sweat, and I use his distraction to assess him without his notice. The stretches of muscle in his arms bulge and pull tight as he thrusts and pivots with his partner, moving with lethal swiftness. Black trousers, fitted in his thighs, hang low on his waist. Sin's expression is one of immense concentration, assessing his partner's movements and twisting his body the exact way to avoid the incoming thrusts of his opponent's blade. And as a springtime squall tears through the courtyard, ripping his long black hair behind him, he looks almost wild.

With a final slice of his sword through the air, Sin disarms his partner, and the soldier falls to his knees, the tip of his blade inches from his mock foe's neck. My breath catches in my throat as his animated eyes flash to mine, his weapon still pointed at his partner. The tether, buried in the pit of my stomach, glows with perverse delight as I lock eyes with its creator, and I swear the spot on my hip, inked with the signature he found so amusing, warms at the sight of him. I should have never called him that nickname.

He knew I was watching. A glimmer of something downright disturbing gleams in his eyes as he watches understanding cross my face, the realization that he was aware of my watchful stare and was making a point—he is stronger. He knows I don't possess the strength to outmaneuver him without the help of the magic I keep locked up tight. And judging from the almost amused curvature of his mouth, he knows I have long forgotten where I stowed that key. Sin sheathes his sword into the holster slung on his low-rise trousers and extends his hand to his fallen partner, pulling him to his feet. I exhale sharply when he looks away and direct my attention back to Ileana.

We approach the stables, and a gray carriage linked to four black steeds waits expectantly out front. Ileana directs me to get into the coach, and a footman rushes to open the door and offers his hand as I climb inside. Three guards armed to the teeth with an assortment of swords and knives attached to their backs and waists step in next. Two sit on the red velvet couch parallel to mine, and the third plops down next to me.

I raise my eyebrows and look through the small square window to where Ileana still stands next to the ebony horses. She reads the question on my face. Why the entourage?

"Black Art's orders. The bloodwitch is to be protected. You didn't think you would be going alone, did you?" She spins on her heels, her mocking laughter still ringing in my ears long after she's out of sight.

The footman closes the door, and the carriage rocks slightly as he climbs into the driver's seat. I know she meant to insinuate I was foolish for thinking the Black Art would allow me to travel alone, but it isn't her ridiculed tone that has my mind spinning as fast as the spokes beneath me, but rather, her word choice.

The bloodwitch is to be protected.

Sin may hate me for the power thrumming in my veins, but I am an asset to him, his kingdom, his claim to the throne. Aegidale won't respect a leader that doesn't put an end to the rebellion trashing their cities, their homes, rambling about self-proclaimed righteousness and destroying the same isle they claim they want to protect.

The Black Art wants to wield me as his not-so-secret weapon, more so than he is letting on. But he is foolish if he believes for a second my magic will ever exist to fulfill his desires. I am a bloodwitch—no, a blood queen.

And a queen bows for no one.