Page 36 of Tales of a Deadly Devotion
I pulled myself out of Hale’s hold, too weak and panicked to contain me as I stumbled back, only to be steadied by Emrys.
‘Katherine?’ Deep concern laced Master Hale’s words. Worry that turned my stomach.
Suddenly the hallway was too big and small at the same time. The air close and my magic too ravenous. Only there was no satisfaction with the surprise that flickered across the old man’s expression. Not as my anger simmered so close to the surface.
‘What have you done to her?’ Hale demanded, looking me over with furious concern. As if I was a book that had been borrowed and returned with torn and creased pages.
‘What didyoudo?’ I demanded back before Gideon or Emrys could answer. My voice a hollow thing cutting through the space between us. Watching him take a step back from me. The first time he ever had. As if I was a stranger, a changeling in his midst.
Nothing.That dark voice mocked. He did nothing. Not as those fey had died, not here or in Fairfax’s land. Not as the Council mocked and trapped me here. Not as I cowered under his mercy for the grace of letting me simply exist.
Suddenly I didn’t know if it was that healing tonic or the viciousness of my own anger. I pushed past him, straight for the Council doors.
‘Katherine—’ Hale called but I ignored him, striding into the main chamber, finally ready to be rid of it all. The assistants struggled to catch the door as it banged against the panelled wall. The chatter was silenced instantly, only the dramatic scrape of chairs and rustle of pages remaining.
They gathered as they always had behind their desks. Ainsworth at the centre, his hateful glare relentless as always. They sat in a semi-circle as if around a stage awaiting a performance.
It seemed I was finally ready to perform.
‘Council men, I believe you wish to speak with me,’ I addressed the room, taking my place at its centre, lacing my hands carefully before me.
Then came the press of Emrys’s magic, a solid comfort at my back, cool and authoritative. I wasn’t alone. Not anymore. Yet despite my boldness, the childish fear of these old men remained, clinging to me like morning mist.
‘Your presence was requested two days ago, Miss Woodrow,’ Master Ainsworth reprimanded, spittle flying from his chapped lips. ‘The disobedience of your dallying cannot go—’
‘A studying mage under partnership is allowed three days to respond to summons.’ My interruption was sharp, making him choke on the rest of his words. ‘Under the Investigation Act, 1812.’
‘Blackthorn assured us your absence wasnecessary,’ Master Grima interrupted, flushed with his surprise at my presence, or at Master Ainsworth’s rage – I couldn’t tell.
I saw the trap, the pristine silver robes, the milky eyes of the creature that sat at the end of the table as that orb sat before them. The pink scarring at their throat from the markings to worship their saint that would go all the way up across their bald scalp hidden beneath their hood.
The Truth Seeker.
The reason for the audience. For the hunters. It was all a performance. To make an example of a fey who pulled too far on their leash. A Truth Seeker to pry words from my lips.
‘Lord Blackthorn was gracious enough to grant me time to recover.’ I nodded respectfully. ‘I’m certain he’s provided you with sufficient information in my absence.’
Something moved out of the corner of my eye. Dark and swift, turning my attention to the large arched windows, draped with their banners. Nothing there. My heart began to race, the grip on my own fingers painful as my nails dug into flesh.
Emrys’s magic grew cold and vicious as if sensing my distress. Curling around my waist as if to pull me back but I didn’t go.
Here. A dark voice mocked, whispering against the shell of my ear. Turning me a bit further until I saw it. The warning came too late.
Sat in a column of shadow at one of the tables in the far corner, legs crossed and hands braced casually on his knees. As if this was no more than a hound race for coin in one of the lower arenas.
Montagor.
His dark uniform of the commander tight to his form, that horrid gleam in his dark eyes and the hint of amusement on his lips as he peered at me down his thin, regal nose.
‘I wasn’t aware you’d been granted Council robes, Montagor.’ Emrys stepped forward, arms gathered behind his back but I could see the tightness in his shoulders, how it strained his coat. The tension in Gideon’s jaw as he stood like a disapproving golden pillar at the other side of his brother.
‘As the leading defence against chaos magic and the rebellion, Montagor’s knowledge is imperative to the investigation,’ Ainsworth interjected, his smile too sharp with deceit.
‘To be held in a higher regard than a founding house?’ Emrys asked, not removing his eyes from Montagor. From the bastard son of the King. His brother in some regard.
That truth sent a cold chill down my spine. Then I understood why Montagor was a bastard too. Why the Council kept him so close.
Horror clawed at my insides. How unsettled Emrys was.
