lord.”
Turning, he met Liliana’s quizzical gaze. Such an in-between shade were her eyes. Neither blue nor gray. “Enough,” he said, getting to his feet. “You may sleep in the kitchen tonight. Bard!”
Liliana was already rising. “You didn’t like my tale?” she asked as Bard lumbered into the great hall from where he’d been standing watch outside.
He stared at her, at those strange eyes that seemed to penetrate the hard shine of the black armor and see things in him that should not, could not, exist. “You will make me breakfast when you wake.” Then he turned and walked to the doorway that would lead him out into the night-dark world.
As Liliana followed Bard’s hulking presence to the kitchen, she felt a ghostly finger tug at her hair. Then another. “Stop it,” she muttered under her breath. When they persisted, she halted, knuckled fists against her hips, foot tapping on the black stone of the castle floor. “I have no intention of continuing the tale until the lord wishes it.” She glared at the air. “If you pester me, I’ll refuse to do even that.”
Turning back around, she found Bard staring at her with those liquid eyes so wise and deep. “Don’t pretend you can’t hear them,” she said, folding her arms.
Bard said nothing, simply carried on to the kitchen.
The ghosts, at least, whispered away, leaving her in peace.
“Thank you,” she said when he pushed open the door that led to the cozy room.
He waited until she was inside before pulling it shut.
She heard a lock click into place. “So much for trust.” A little surprised that she’d survived the Guardian of the Abyss, she looked around for something with which to create a pallet. The sacks of flour, perhaps, or maybe—”Jissa, you sweetheart.” A set of folded blankets, as well as a soft pillow, lay neatly in front of the stove that had been stoked so that it would burn all night, ensuring she’d feel no chill.
Unfolding the blankets with a smile, she realized one of them was heavy, stuffed with some kind of cotton. With that on the heated floor near the stove, it would be almost as comfortable as sleeping in a bed—something she hadn’t done for months, having been banished to an empty stone room in punishment for not heeding her father. He hadn’t locked her in, because he enjoyed tormenting her by making her watch her mother haunt the halls, Irina’s face puffy and bruised from his fists.
A sharp hint of iron.
It took conscious effort to make herself unclench her fists, force her mind away from her hatred of the man whose blood ran in her veins. Face burning with pulsing rage, she got up to throw ice-cold water on her cheeks before hunting out some more food. No matter if her stomach churned with memory, she had to keep up her strength if she was to tangle with the dangerous, golden prince who ruled this place.
Taking out a thick piece of bread, she cut off a hunk of smoky cheese and rolled it up. The first bite was delicious, settling her stomach, the second even more so. Then she heard the skitter of tiny feet. Breaking off a bit of the cheese, she walked to the corner where she could see the gleam of small dark eyes, the skeletal push of bone against skin. “Here you go, my little friend.”
She retreated after placing the cheese on the floor. Only when he’d eaten the food did she approach again and leave a second piece. It would not do to feed him too quickly when he had been starving so very long.
The same could be said for the Lord of the Black Castle.
She’d attempted too much too soon in speaking of Elden and his father at once, driven by the knowledge that time was running out at an inexorable pace. From his violent reaction to King Aelfric’s name, it was obvious that the Blood Sorcerer’s twisted spell was even more entrenched than she’d believed. Not even a crack marred the carapace that was the black armor that held him locked away from his past.
Worry turned her gut to lead, made the food lose all taste, but she forced herself to finish the sandwich, then a small apple. What strength she had came from her own blood, and she couldn’t afford to allow that blood to grow thin and weak. If her father found her …
Bile, bitter and acidic, rose up in her throat.
“No,” she whispered. “No.” He wouldn’t find her. She’d only discovered the location of the youngest prince because of her visions. Even then, it had taken her five attempts to get to a realm most knew only as the most terrifying of legends. The first two times that she’d failed hadn’t been so bad—she’d been able to return home before her father noticed. The third time, she’d ended up with a fractured forearm after landing wrong, and the fourth … the Blood Sorcerer had been waiting for her.
Her skin tightened as if under the lash of a razor-whip.
“But I didn’t break.” A fierce reminder. That night, as her back was shredded, so much meat exposed to the air while she lay naked and chained to a massive stone table carved with channels that sent her blood trickling into collection pots, she’d managed to convince the Blood Sorcerer that her spells had been fueled by a wish to find a talisman that would cure her mother.
He’d believed her; he found it vastly amusing how much it hurt her that Irina never so much as acknowledged her presence.
“No matter what you do—” he’d paused to rub his finger over a seeping wound “—she belongs to me.” A chuckle as he stepped away to flick the whip almost desultorily over her already ruined back.
Blood seeped out of her ravaged flesh, sliding down her ribs and into the channels. “She’s my mother.” A mother she loved.
Another laugh, deep and from the chest, as if he had never heard anything so ludicrous in his life. “Then I give you leave to discover this wonderful talisman. Do show it to me when you find it.” A stroke of the whip over her shoulders. “I think my pets will enjoy their time with you.”
Spiders—huge and mutated for use in another spell—fell from the ceiling to crawl all over her body, their furred legs rasping over her flesh, their mouths sucking on the raw meat of her back. Panicked, she tried to use her sorcery to escape, but her father was stronger and the restraints held.
The entire time they terrorized her, he sat where she could see him, a small smile on his face.
The Guardian of the Abyss flew across the skies, his wings slicing through the night air in much the same way as that of the bat over to his right, his wings as leathery and as dark. He didn’t know where his wings went when he landed—they simply appeared when he needed them and ceased to exist when he no longer wished them present.
A gift from the Abyss.
He thought of Liliana’s tale of a realm without magic and snorted again. As if such a land could ever exist. An instant later, his mind pricked at him with the other part of her story, the part about that place, the name of which he couldn’t even think about without a thunderous pain in his head, an anvil striking at his skull from within. He flew harder, faster, in an effort to escape the relentless pressure.
A whisper of oily evil.
Having located his prey, he moved toward it with furious swiftness. The man-shaped shadow was running over the ground in a vain effort to escape his fate, heading toward the borders of the realm. The majority of the condemned woke up from death to find themselves
