Page 65 of Light Locked
The unnatural cold of the door handle sent shivers down her spine, and she could almost feel her body temperature dropping.
Clea forced the door open with a single, violent jolt.
Emptiness. The presence of the medallion vanished in a blink.
Two soldiers lay on the floor, their fresh blood still making its way through the cracks in the stone beneath them. Bent shackles were sprawled across the cell.
Her heart pounded. She took a breath and swallowed as sheclosed her eyes, trying to retrace the medallion’s presence, but just as she did, a hand landed on her ankle and she jolted back.
The guard at her feet groaned before he let her go, unconscious again.
She turned and walked sharply to the exit of the dungeon, refocusing again as she traced the presence once more. The medallion was already several floors above her. Had she misread the location? It had begun to permeate the castle so heavily that it was becoming more and more difficult to pinpoint the source.
After a fruitless search for Ryson, Clea slipped from the dungeon and into the nearest room as she heard new guards storming the castle, racing up the stairs as if in pursuit of the medallion as well. She remained tucked away in one corner or another as she made her way up one staircase and then the next, sitting quietly in the dark of nearby rooms as she tried to understand the chaos that after several minutes settled into another bout of silence.
The medallion’s power was radiant now. Clea traced its core through waves of cien that sunk the castle in a dark and frightening mire.
The ansra in her body churned in anticipation of battle, a battle that seemed to be shaping up for what could be the fight of her life. When she was near the last staircase, she tucked her bag away and tried to use her knife to cut her corset free. The back of the corset was impossibly cinched and so she worked her knife along the side, gold beads and pearls popping off and rolling out into the room. The fabric beneath onlygave a couple of inches on her side. Relieved to at least be able to breathe the slightest bit better, the pressure of time urged her onward.
She stopped at the base of the final staircase. There were no sounds, and in the darkness, she had to rely on the sense of her ansra more than anything else. It was a light she’d missed for so long, but the stronger it blazed, the darker everything else seemed.
Clea started up the stairway that reached like open jaws. She slipped the knife through the side of her corset. If she couldn’t wrestle it off, at least it could be useful for something.
Her hands relaxed by her side. They were gentle, quiet weapons.
Steel would only help her so much, and escape wasn’t an option.
Not yet.
The Deadlock Medallion, with all its untold secrets and the poison of its legacy, beckoned her. It represented all her burdens for the past several years. It represented the death, the suffering, the oppression of The Decline. At the start of her journey, she’d been running from death, but in some ways, she now realized, she’d been running from her life.
She wouldn’t run any longer.
In facing the medallion, she now faced it all.
Chapter 18
The Dance
THE KING STUMBLED against the carpeted walkway of the throne room. He held the wound on his side as he hunched, eyes locked on Ryson as his bare feet shuffled backward against the carpeting. He was dressed in the silken robe in which he slept.
Ryson could smell the fear. The scent saturated the air and filled his mouth like salt. In some ways, on some people, he enjoyed it, but on King Kartheen, it was excessive, with no hint of anything else to dilute it.
“Darran Kartheen,” Ryson said, turning his dagger in his hand, reminded of his encounter with the reaping shade all those nights ago. There seemed to be little difference between the king and the shade now.
He approached the king’s death with a similar impatience. He’d already dealt a killing blow. They both knew it. In moments like these, the most honest conversations took place, with or without words, they measured the weight of a life lived. “Wealth has degraded you. You’re dying poorly.”
The king remained paralyzed as Ryson eased down into a crouch. He watched the man’s expression flutter, eyes darting from one side of the room to the next, looking for some semblance of life in the guards who’d died just minutes before him.
Ryson allowed King Kartheen’s gaze to wander.
“A drop of blood for a life is the Insednian law,” Ryson said. “You took more than your share. You’re lucky that I’m not quite so greedy.” He inspected the knife, tracing his fingertips across the blade. “Torture. Could you think of no better way to avenge yourself? Pain is what made me a monster.” He wiped the blade on the king’s silken shoulder, one side, and then the other. “You’ve only woken me up.”
The king sank back against the stairs, eyes staring at the gold on the ceiling like a baby looking up at light. Birth and death were similar in that way, and Ryson watched him die, glancing up at the ceiling before sweeping up the king’s crown where it lay propped up against the stairs.
He flipped his knife somewhat playfully before throwing it down into a scabbard on his leg. The precision was inhuman, and practiced.
He walked up the stairs of the throne as he spun King Kartheen’s crown around his finger. He yanked off the fur and jewels, easing onto the stone seat as he threw one leg over the armrest, leaned back, and relaxed.
