Page 56 of Each Their Own Devil

“That’s not going to happen. We don’t keep things from the other Dark Saints,” Aleja half lied.

“When one of the Dark Saints gets eaten and we no longer have any secrets from our enemies, you’ll regret that.”

“If you want my advice, Messenger, don’t push for this too hard in front of the Dark Saints. Or speak of it out loud in the palace. The palace is temperamental toward me on the best of days. If you insult her, you’ll probably spend the next centurylost in a labyrinth of halls and salons. And if she really dislikes you, the art will be bad.”

“That’s unlikely. I hear the Otherlander art collection is unrivaled,” the Messenger said.

Aleja was so annoyed by this statement that she didn’t answer, nor did the Messenger seem to expect her to. The Messenger tore off on her elk before Aleja could manage a disapproving tut. But it wasn’t much longer before the convoy in front of her slowed, signaling they had neared the wards.

She pressed her heels into the elk’s sides. It seemed to understand the command, surging forward to the top of the convoy. Despite their masks, she could feel the eyes of the Principalities on her as she made her way back to the Messenger’s side.

As the wards appeared ahead, Aleja tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Violet and Val. The Third’s cage had been covered with a linen tarp, yet something dark and oppressive radiated from it, even through the ring of heavily armed soldiers.

If the Messenger’s presence in the Hiding Place would be provocative, then Violet was even worse off—she was not just an enemy but a traitor.

The wards had already been opened slightly, creating a narrow gap just wide enough for two or three soldiers to pass through at a time. A choke point. If the Otherlanders decided to attack, the Astraelis would be forced to retreat—or die.

The convoy came to an impressively abrupt halt. Aleja’s elk paused in hesitation, dancing on its front hooves and scattering pebbles on the gravel trail below.

“Go,” Aleja urged, but the elk remained stubborn. When it refused to move, Aleja slid down its side, relieved that the motion was smooth despite the audience watching her.

It was useless to rehearse what she would say to the Dark Saints in the few yards it took to reach the gap in the wards. She’d had plenty of time to prepare excuses but had never managed more than clumsy explanations about how she trusted the Messenger. And no, she couldn’t say exactly why. She could only hope the Third might vouch for her.

Her eyes shot to Nicolas first as she crossed the wards. It was impossible not to—his presence lit the marriage bond with a high, clear vibration, beautiful despite the circumstances. Garm pushed past her in his excitement, his tail painfully smacking her shoulder as he darted toward Bonnie. But she did not look pleased. As soon as Aleja met her gaze, Bonnie turned away, her cheeks flushing.

To Bonnie’s left, Merit and Orla—gleaming in her golden armor—wore unreadable expressions. At least Amicia and Taddeas weren’t radiating with anger.

“Dark Saint of Wrath,” Nicolas rumbled, his voice steady and inscrutable. “I trust the Messenger and her armies are just beyond the wards.”

Nicolas was not saying it to be cruel; she didn’t need the rush of warmth that came through the marriage bond to know that. But it was what he would have questioned of any Dark Saint that had absconded from the Hiding Place after committing treason, whether or not that Dark Saint happened to be his wife.

Speak, she screamed at herself, trying to summon enough air from her lungs to make a sound—any sound. She had faced down Authorities single-handedly. She had stared down the Second. She had rushed onto a battlefield with little training and even less expertise than the soldiers around her. So why the hell couldn’t shespeak?

“Yes,” she finally managed. “She’ll lead her armies through as soon as I give the word. Do we—do you—have a plan to get them to the palace safely?”

“Yes,” Nicolas said. “How many troops has she brought?”

“Her support has diminished. There are about a hundred Principalities and two Thrones,” Aleja said, hoping that this news was enough to cheer up the Dark Saints. But, in response, Orla and Merit shared another incomprehensible look, and Taddeas shifted his weight. His teeth flashed briefly as he bit his lower lip, but he was growing more practiced at hiding his emotions.

“I still say we take advantage of this and kill her on the spot, Knowing One, but if you insist,” Orla finally said with a sigh. “The path to the palace is clear, so long as your Astraelis friends don’t make trouble. A camp has been set up for them on the grounds. It’ll be cramped but secure.”

“And there will be wards,” Nicolas continued. “The same Otherlander wards that guard our prisoners—inform them that their mages will not be able to break them. Should any of them try to pass through without being accompanied by either myself or one of the Dark Saints, their death will be excruciatingly painful. You will be granted access to the palace, Wrath, but I don’t recommend straying beyond the grounds. We’ve stationed guards at every possible route in and out.”

“I’ll tell them,” Aleja said softly. If it weren’t for the thrum of the marriage bond, it would have felt as though she herself had been thrown into a prison, trapped behind impenetrable wards that permanently separated her from everyone she cared about. “The Messenger requests a meeting with the Saints.”

“We’ll grant it to her,” Nicolas replied, earning himself a sharp look from Bonnie. Once again, Aleja felt like a stranger, shut out of a conversation carried in a foreign language.

“She will not be allowed into the war room, but we can hold the meeting in Amicia’s usual chambers,” Nicolas continued. “There is nothing the Messenger could hope to glean about ourplans there. Accompany her at midnight. We’ll be ready to meet her.”

“Wait. Should I come with you?” Aleja asked.

The vibration of the bond—once high and bright—shifted to a minor key, like a melody turning sorrowful.

“No. Accompany the Messenger,” Nicolas said. “Our Avisai will remain in the air, leading your group to the camp. Should any of the Astraelis stray from the path, they will be killed immediately. Should Otherlanders attack for any reason, they are to lay down their weapons in surrender.”

“I understand,” Aleja said softly.

It was nota relief to see the palace, nor the rose garden that grew in the shade of Aleja’s fire, nor the vegetable patch that seemed especially abundant—full of yellow squash, cabbages as large as pumpkins, and pumpkins as large as boulders.

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