Page 60 of Angel in Absentia
VER THE LAST few hours, Clea had witnessed the strange and absolute conquest of her city. Ryson had been meticulous in his orders, precise and deliberate in that none of her people be killed, and yet despite it all, a cumulative rage built uncontrollably inside her. Under the whims of another foe, she knew she’d stay composed, but Ryson, the very sight of him, had opened a floodgate through which all her feelings from the last days gushed, and there was no closing it.
She couldn’t comprehend it, sitting there dumbfounded as Ryson gave orders left and right, no deaths, no injury. In fact, he seemed to be making moves to secure the city, and yet they were all bound—Dae, Clea, and Catagard.
“Why are we all tied up?” she asked, finding her voice at last after her questions and accusations had grown tired of wrestling each other. She seemed to be the only one confused; Catagard and Dae looked bewildered as if she’d asked the dumbest question available.
They were in the throne room, which had been used as a dining hall the night before. Goblets, plates, spoons, and knives still lay loosely across the long table. They’d debated battle strategy over shares of drinks and bread last night, having freed up the kitchen staff to tend to their families.
In the daylight, it looked like a mess hall, with Clea, Dae, and Catagard positioned at the end of it.
“So none of you do anything foolish,” Ryson said between orders as Insednians shifted about him. “But I suppose the time has passed for now.” He lifted his fingers and released the bonds.
Dae and Catagard exchanged surprised glances. Clea glanced at the knife on the table only three strides from Dae, another one five strides away from her.
“So, you are helping?” she asked, trying to peel back her anger and give herself enough time to truly digest what was happening before she succumbed to the boiling tide inside her.
“You’re the Warlord of Shambelin,” Dae accused as she stepped toward Ryson.
“He’s not the Warlord of Shambelin,” she objected over her shoulder as if Dae were now the fool, and they all looked at her in confusion as she faced Ryson again. The door opened, and Clea was surprised to see Iris enter and then skirt along the wall, unfettered and uninterrupted. Ryson and Iris exchanged glances, and Clea tried to catch the woman’s eyes, but Iris avoided her.
“Ryson.” She approached him, and the others seemed prepared to pull weapons.
“They’re right,” he said, dismissing several other Insednians and emptying the room of all but two who stood guard nearby. “I am the Warlord of Shambelin.”
She laughed and thought she saw the others jolt at the sound. “If you’re the Warlord, then I’m Helina Hart!”
“Gods, I hope not,” he said, turning his full attention to them now. “She’s stunning but vain and a complete nightmare to dealwith,” he replied seriously, his gaze even as he lifted a foot onto the bench and sat on the edge of the table, seeming to keep an intentional distance from the three of them.
Clea looked back at Dae and everyone, gesturing to the rest of the room. “He’s not the Warlord of Shambelin.”
She glanced between them all. Everyone was still now, until at last, the reality dawned on her. She looked slowly back over at Ryson.
“But you’re joking,” she said. “That’s impossible.”
He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and she eased back, shaking her head. “Your soul?”
“You set it free,” he replied, opening his arms. “I am back to myself again. Improved, rather, by your existence, if you must know. I had no will to really exist until you came along. Now, I’m quite capable of anything.”
“I set it—” She stopped short, putting the pieces together. Myken had claimed that the Belgears had the Deadlock Medallion, and in her dream—no.
She replayed the dream again with fresh eyes. It wasn’t a dream after all.
She straightened, raising her voice, “Did you know? You knew all along? The Medallion?”
“No, not exactly,” he said. “Princess, it’s a bit more complica—”
“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply. “You did destroy the Belgears. And the Medallion and—”
“Put you back together,” he finished, eyeing her knowingly. It was strange seeing him in the morning light. His hair and clothes looked darker by contrast, one eye silver, the other blackened by the rays of a nearby window. The throne room was built to welcome the light, and he sat, completely at ease, the dark shape of a man cut out in the light’s center. His features seemed more refined, more polished somehow. The Ryson she’d known had always been somewhat disheveled and this collected version unsettled her.
Everyone jolted as Dae charged past her, seizing the first knife from the table and blessing it. Ryson deflected it with a silver dagger of his own, both of them squaring off expertly and filling the enclosure with sharp chimes.
“This is the foolishness I was talking about,” Ryson said between strokes, striking back in a way that fended Dae off with surprising ease, which only made Clea angrier.
Enraged, she grabbed a long knife from the table and broke straight past Dae. Seeing her coming, Ryson snatched a nearby chalice from the edge of the table with his left hand.
He deflected the knife with the chalice. The ring of the colliding metals sang through the room, and they stared at each other, even Dae holding back now as Clea seethed, not even caring to bless her knife.
“Princess?” Ryson said, seeming more wounded by the gesture than anything else. He was looking at her like she’d just stabbed him in the back, though now, she didn’t feel far from it. It was an odd inquiry into the tension of the room, and the softness of it made her so angry that she struck again. He deflected and stepped back, moving with the gate of her rage. “What is thisabout?” he asked between deflections, and she pulled back. She struck twice this time in close sequence, pushing him to defend with the silver knife that he seemed to be keeping away from her.
