Page 11 of The Faceless Mage

That revenge took many shapes in the private chambers of his imagination. The sweetest, most beautiful shape was death, and the Raven was almost past caring whose. Any death would do—any death besides those demanded by the king—but even that seemed no more than a distant dream.

More often, the shape of his revenge was defiance.

The opportunities were rare. His captor was as canny as he was evil, and rarely allowed more than a sliver of space for interpretation in his carefully worded orders.

But in the unrelenting darkness that was the Raven’s existence, that sliver had become his life. The sole reason he continued to draw breath.

If he could have, he would have chosen to end those breaths and thus end his slavery forever. He was not given even that choice.

For the first few years, he remembered feeling only rage. Raw and impotent. Fury at his foolishness, at the betrayal that had brought him to his knees, at the pitiless hypocrite who held his leash.

Now, there was no heat left to fuel his fury. He was cold as the winter’s snow, warmed only by the creeping tendrils of magic that drove him, and had seeped so far into his soul that he feared there was little left but darkness.

Once, he’d had a name. Now, he was nothing. Only dark purpose. King’s Raven, cloaked in the blood and the screams of the king’s enemies.

And he had been staring at the princess for long enough that she seemed to feel it—feel the weight of his gaze, or perhaps the pull of the darkness that cloaked him.

Whatever she sensed, she began to sway on her feet, like a fir tree in the winds of winter.

“I… I… oh dear,” she murmured, and fell.

But before she lost the battle with gravity, the Raven caught the stray edge of a thought that trickled through the control bond.

We can’t have her hurting herself. Farhall will blame us.

It was one of those rare moments where he had a choice. A true command had not been made, but he could interpret it as one.We can’t have her hurting herself.And he found that he wanted to get closer. Close enough to determine what she might be hiding. Close enough to find out whether he could see beneath her armor.

So he moved. He still possessed the lightning-swift grace of his people, and it was little challenge to catch her before she hit the floor.

Little challenge once she rested in his arms to determine that her faint was as genuine as Vaniell’s protestations of devotion.

And yet, she remained limp, her eyes closed as she feigned unconsciousness.

He held her suspended above the floor—her slight weight barely a burden in his arms—until, after a few moments, her emerald green eyes fluttered open.

After an instant of confusion, they landed on his mask, and she momentarily stopped breathing. Like a prey animal sensing a predator, her slender body tensed, preparing to fight or run, while her pulse accelerated wildly beneath her skin—a deer, caught in the sights of a hunting wyvern. The scent of her terror hit him, and he felt himself recoil in frustration.

Was it the armor? Or was it him? He would never know. All he knew was that no one could face him without fear, and his nose would be forever filled with the stench of that emotion.

Words pierced his focus.

“Thank you,” the king’s voice said coolly, “for so zealously protecting the well-being of our guest, but I believe the danger is past. Her Highness is to be a part of this court in the future, so perhaps it would be best if we allow her to become accustomed to enduring your presence without fainting.”

Again, not quite a command, but the Raven was not eager to continue touching her. He didn’t want to feel or smell her fear, or grapple with the unsettling realization that he’d been right about the lie in her appearance.

So he dropped her.

Straightened his arms and let her fall to the marble floor as quickly as he’d caught her. He heard her teeth slam together as her head snapped back and smacked the floor with bruising force.

Heard her involuntary moan of pain, which was greeted by a quick sound of distress from the queen and an unmistakable sigh from King Melger.

But within the mask, the Raven smiled, because according to the king’s words, he’d done nothing wrong.

Defiance. Small and petty, but nonetheless, it was the only thing left to him.

And in the name of that defiance, he determined that the princess called Evaraine would be worth watching. She was harboring a mystery—a strange defiance of her own that lurked at the back of those bright green eyes. Whatever was behind it, that defiance promised to be a headache for Melger, and possibly for Vaniell, which could only be of benefit to the Raven.

So he would wait, and he would watch, and he would learn what he could of her secrets.

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