Page 12 of Each Their Own Devil

“The Astraelis cannot be trusted,” Orla went on. Aleja didn’t have to imagine that Orla’s voice cracked a bit. It was obvious. “Somany of my soldiers died at their hands. Not just in battle, but as prisoners of war, under circumstances when they should have been protected. Remember Roland, the previous Dark Saint of Pride? He became a war hero for breaking himself and his fellows out of an Astraelis prison, where they were tortured and starved for no crime other than defending their homeland.Thatwas why the Second allowed Roland to take the Trials, despite his youth. I won’t defend Roland, especially after he aligned himself with our enemy, but I also can’t pretend that there will ever be a circumstance where I trust the Messenger and her followers.”

“I agree,” Bonnie said.

At this, Aleja’s mouth briefly popped open before she could stop herself. Bonnie had always seemed the most reasonable about the Otherlanders’ relationship with the Astraelis.

“She’s right. You don’t remember Sophia. She was my wife. A non-combatant. A healer. But the Astraelis captured her during a raid, and they knew that if I took a blow, it might weakenour supply lines and starve us out. So, they dragged Sophia to the edges of our border under the guise of a prisoner exchange and beheaded her in front of my eyes. The Otherlanders and the Astraelis were once one people, but we are no more.”

Aleja couldn’t speak, and neither could anyone else. She didn’t remember Sophia, but it was clear from the atmosphere—tense, like a rubber band stretched too tightly across the room—that many here had loved the woman whose memory had, until now, been unspoken.

“I understand,” Aleja said, though she knew she couldn’t, not really. “We’ll talk to Val. We’ll be…more forceful this time. We’ll get the truth out of him.”

Nicolas, who could probably feel her desperation through the bond, spoke next. “I was by your side when they killed Sophia, Bonnie. There is no world in which I would let that crime go unpunished, if I had the chance to avenge it. Any alliance we propose with the Astraelis will be a strategic one—or a ruse.”

Aleja had often felt out of her depth since coming to the Hiding Place, even after completing her Trials. But it was not until this moment that she felt like a stranger who had walked into someone else’s home during a funeral, expecting a plate of food and a seat at the table. Of course, she had no idea who Sophia was. She had never seen Roland fight his way across a battlefield. She had never held Bonnie on her first night as a widow or stood behind Orla every time she sent her troops into battle.

Only Taddeas could possibly understand how Aleja felt, but he did not strut around pretending to be anything other than a brand-new High General thrust into a position he did not want. “We’re not torturing him. We’re better than that,” Taddeas said.

“Tell that to Bonnie. Or me, for that matter,” Orla said. “You don’t remember the way my soldiers screamed as they plunged their own swords into their chests to make sure they were deadbefore the Authorities devoured them. Practically kids, half of them.” She finally stood. With her, came Merit. His dark brown curls bounced around his face as he straightened in an attempt to reach Orla’s height.

“I didn’t dismiss you,” Nicolas said, at the same time that Bonnie voiced some protest that was drowned out before Aleja could tell who it was directed at.

“I understand that, Knowing One. However, I’m angry, and I would like to go before I say something I regret. Do I have permission to leave?” Orla asked.

“No,” Nicolas told her. “And it just so happens that I agree with you.Sit down.”

It was the first time Aleja had heard Nicolas command one of the Dark Saints. Merit was the first to return to his seat, but Orla followed a moment after with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re right, Orla. Whether or not we believe the Messenger, the Third cannot be allowed to stay under her control,” Nicolas went on. “But we also cannot completely dismiss the Messenger’s claims. We will interrogate Val one more time before we resort to torture.”

“Knowing One—” Orla began, but Nicolas raised a hand to silence her.

“Be careful, Envy. You’re about to get everything you want but on my terms. Taddeas, Aleja—as High General and High General in waiting, you’re going to investigate any possible weakness in the Astraelis’s defenses. If we decide to free the Third, then I want to be able to do so with no hesitation. Plan the raid. Merit, can you open the cage?”

“Yes, but I’ll need specific tools,” Merit said, brushing a curl away from his forehead. The motion left another streak of ash over his left eyebrow. “I can forge them, but we’ll have to get the cage here, to the Hiding Place.”

For the first time in weeks, Taddeas shrank back into his chair. Aleja had almost forgotten the shy man who had stumbled over every other word during their first few conversations, until both he and Aleja realized they could indulge their interests with each other without reservation—her, European art history, and him, the military history of northeastern Africa. “Al and I will nail down the strategy. If it comes down to it, we’ll figure out a way to take the Third back,” he muttered.

“Fine,” Orla spat, though there was a current of approval beneath the sharp syllable. A wave of nods swept slowly around the room. Only Aleja and Bonnie were unmoving. As the meeting slowly disbanded, Aleja kept her eyes on the Dark Saint of Bounty, who was the last to rise and straighten her dress.

Orla caught Aleja’s arm as she tried to leave, but just as Aleja expected Orla’s fingers to tighten painfully into her muscles, the grip eased. “I didn’t disagree with you in front of the others because I enjoy it. It’s not personal. But mercy nearly got us all killed last time. I will do whatever it takes to win this war; as far as I’m concerned, you can fuck off with morals so long as there are people out there who want to see us dead.”

“Iwon’tbe merciful.” For a moment, Aleja debated telling Orla that she had promised the Second the Messenger’s heart on a platter, and she had every intention to deliver it.

“Good.” Orla released her arm and patted the creases her fingers had made in Aleja’s sleeve. “If you can find some evidence—anything—that the Messenger is telling the truth, then I will back whatever decision you and the Knowing One make to avert the Avaddon. But until then, I advise you prepare yourself for the Messenger’s betrayal.”

Taddeas interceptedher before Aleja could catch Nicolas, who offered her a brief, inscrutable nod before disappearing down the hall behind Bonnie. “Let’s walk,” Taddeas said. “Garm, you too.”

They followed him into one of the sculpture galleries—a hall of soldiers trampling monsters and vice versa, locked in an eternal war. Next to them, Garm looked as though he belonged, like he’d been sculpted out of black marble instead of fur and flesh.

“Is this a good time to tell you I haven’t cracked a single one of the books you gave me?” Aleja asked.

“I find it hard to believe you’d miss the chance for some downtime, nerd,” Taddeas replied, his smile warm but distant.

“Between cutting out my husband’s heart and facing our enemy’s leader, I’m struggling to find time for recreational reading. Are we going to see Val?”

Taddeas nodded, taking a left into a hallway lined with French Romantic paintings Aleja was certain she had never seen before. Most of the artwork in the Hiding Place was pre-eighteenth century. Aleja resisted the pull to stop and examine what was unmistakably a Hubert Robert painting of a Roman temple overtaken by climbing vines. Her expertise was in the Italian Renaissance, but she had always harbored a soft spot for the Romantics. Subdued wall sconces with red shades, minuscule compared to the elaborate frames, cast the hall in a dim burgundy glow.

“Seen this place before?” Taddeas asked.

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