Page 87 of Between Smoke and Shadow

I enter the lift, fingers tapping against my thighs. In my head, I’m planning the next several hours. Once Rune returns, I’m going to enjoy her, uninterrupted, for the rest of the day. I don’t let myself stress over the fact she’s with another man right now. He might not know she’s mine, but she does. She doesn’t want someone else—she wantsme,and I’ll be eternally grateful for that.

“I want lion steak,” I tell Joran. I’m studying my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “Have two sent to my room this evening. And nightwater. Wyhel. I doubt she’s ever tasted hard drink.Just a single bottle then. And a dress. Even if only for the night, I want her to feel?—”

Joran’s hand clamps over my shoulder, hard and sudden, like he’s done a hundred times during earthquakes or storms. I tense, bracing my hands against the glass walls. But it’s perfectly still, everything moving slowly and gently as ever. It’s Flood Season, after all, and we’re rarely affected by it here.

“What is it?” I demand. He doesn’t respond, and I finally notice the faint mark on the side of his mask. He’s getting a message, and by the red hue, I know it’s from the Architect. He rarely sends a system-wide message.

The lift settles at my quarters, and the glass door slides to reveal the scarlet corridor around my room. I make no move to get off, glancing from Joran to the patterned wallpaper. There’s a beat of silence before he closes the door and enters a new address for the lift. I track the numbers across the keypad as he types.

I close my eyes, hard enough that spots break through the darkness. He’s directed us toward the low courtyard. It’s too early in the season for a planned execution, which means someone has done something terrible. Something requiring aninstant,publicdeath.

Without opening my eyes, my next words are a harsh whisper.

“Tell me it’s not her.” It’s not a question. It’s a pathetic hope against what I already feel deep in my bones. It’s like my magic can sense her—a tangle of fear and panic—even as my brain tries to convince me otherwise. It’s a creeping, nauseating pulse that thickens when Joran doesn’t respond.

I curse, slamming my hand against the wall of the lift. My hand glows red against the glass, and I thrust us toward the ground in a freefall. Magicked wind, stolen from the Wilds,sends us hurtling downward. I count the seconds in my head, catching us occasionally to ensure we don’t crash.

Joran clings to the corner, muttering rushed prayers to the heavens as we fall. Catch. Fall.

Finally, we reach the ground. The lift shudders into place and Joran slouches, hands to his knees like he might vomit. When the lift doesn’t instantly open, I send another gust of wind, this one shattering the glass doors into the corridor. I break into a run, Joran’s footsteps only a breath behind mine.

“They’ve caught rebels, several of them,” Joran says. Holding my pace, he adds, “They’re going to execute. My prince?—”

“If I fail, they’ll kill me,” I interrupt, looking over my shoulder. I take a sharp left, away from the Tower’s main entrance and toward the low courtyard. I’m not sure Joran is still behind me. I don’t look back to check. I only pick up the pace and say the rest in bursts. “And anyone. They see. With me.”

“I’m with you,” he says. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Even if there was, I wouldn’t have time to reason with him. He speaks louder now. “There are others. Once they’ve apprehended them all?—”

“Save my wife,” I say. “That’s our goal. Everything else is secondary. Even me.”

“Understood.”

Another turn, and we’re there. I force myself to stop and take three full breaths.

“Don’t reveal anything.” It’s barely a whisper, but I know Joran heard it. I don’t wait for him to respond before I push into the courtyard.

Forcing a relaxed posture, I tally the opposition. Six high guards, five with descendent crests, one without. Three line the bottom of the stage, two stand with the prisoners near the fenceline, and one stands beside a pair of thrones. The Architect’s chair of bones is empty, but Malek occupies the blackone. He looks bored, his crown lopsided over messy hair and his dress shirt wrinkled. His mouth is twisted into its trademark grimace, and a fresh scar decorates his throat. He grins when he sees me though, leaping to his feet with arms spread in a welcoming gesture.

“Brother!” he calls. His guard shadows him, leaving little space between them. My brother may not hold our close match against me, but his guard certainly does. Magic dances beneath his palms, close enough to the skin I can see it. Malek strides closer, hands loose at his sides. “Shall I call for another chair?”

“I hadn’t been informed of an execution,” I say. I keep my voice carefully level, but I have to put my hands into my coat pockets. They’re vibrating with tension, the magic burning for release. I don’t allow myself to look for her in the huddle of servants. “What’s the occasion?”

“Another rebel cause,” he says, voice mocking. He turns, giving me his back, and I’m tempted to strike him down right then. It’s too dangerous when I don’t know where the Architect is. Malek settles into his throne, sighing. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

“It seems that way,” I say.

I finally look at the servants. Three of them, all knelt in a shallow pool of water. Their heads are bowed: two men, one woman. Rune is in the front, mask removed, eyes focused on the ground before her. I want her to look at me, if only so I can see if she’s injured.

It’s better she doesn’t. I force myself to return my attention to Malek.

“Call a throne for me,” I say after a lengthy pause.

“Delightful.” He nods to the guard beside him, and the man hurries from the stage. Once he’s crossed into the Tower, I join my brother, standing between him and our father’s chair.

“There are supposedly several more,” Malek says. He tilts his chin toward Rune and the other servants. “The Architect has instructed us to wait for him, but…”

He glances at me, that horrible, mischievous glint in his eyes. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he waves for the servants to be brought before us. The guards shuffle them to their feet, and for the first time, Rune’s eyes find mine. Stark blue and utterly terrified.

It’s all right, I try to convey. But it isn’t all right, not at all. Unless I can play this exactly right, she’s going to die, and I’m going to die trying to save her.

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