Page 99 of Vicious Is My Throne

“I will.”

“If I figure out how to stop Corvus, I’ll send Simon with word.” She held up a hand to stop my protest. “He’ll find you. Even if we’re in the Havens. Or further south.”

“Don’t wait to leave,” I warned her softly.

“I mean that, Torin. You’ll be tempted to stay behind until the last possible minute, but the people will need you in the Havens, need someone to lead them. Without you, the evacuation will be chaos, and chaos means death when you have nowhere to call home.”

“Fly fast, Zor.” She dipped her head in goodbye. “Tell Anaria that when the time comes, strength of will always outweighs brute force.”

I crashed into the rocky path at the base of the Wynter Palace, landing just above a patch of blighted pines, not in the deep chasm below filled by a swollen, raging river. Rain soaked me to the skin as I picked stones out of my shredded knee, my leathers cut clean through as I counted the handful of Reapers above the city, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Not as many as last time.

Although, who had time to make Reapers when you had a world to devour?

I wasn’t about to complain. One less threat for me to worry about, I figured, plucking the last of the stones free before shoving to my feet. My eyes went up and up, estimating the exhausting number of steps until I reached the Wynter Palace.

Too fucking many, and why were these places always so godsdamned impossible to get to?

I climbed, rain beating against my face, lifting legs as heavy as anvils, my mind sliding into that cold, empty place it always did before battle. Icy calm rippled through me, turning exhausted muscles to iron, my chaotic thoughts coalescing into a single directive.

Find Anaria.

And to do that, I had to reach Varitus.

If I conserved my strength for a few hours, I could reach the border in one jump. But right now, getting myself under roof was paramount as drenching sheets of rain turned the steep path into a treacherous gauntlet of slick rock and mud. I peered out over the edge, shuddering at the jutting rocks below, and kept moving.

This business with the Oracle appearing in Blackcastle concerned me.

She hadn’t so much as shown her claws when Cosimo walked into the war room. In fact, she’d acted delighted to see him. Which meant she hadn’t come to the Keep to punish us for Anaria locking her inside her own head, or to reclaim her prisoner, or even to gloat.

She was there for the amulet.

Yet weeks had passed since the fire at Trubahn’s shop. And the Oracle had interrogated the mage that night, which meant she’d tracked the pendant straight to him, exactly as Torin had planned.

We’d gotten lucky she hadn’t found it in that water pitcher.

Even though she’d tortured him for what looked like hours.

I blew out a shaky breath, feeling vaguely ill.

Trubahn hadn’t bravely held out against her torture. Because of Cosimo’s spell, Trubahn couldn’t confess where the amulet was hidden. And yes, Trubahn was a total piece of shite, but dying like that…I wouldn’t wish that suffering on anyone. I patted my pocket again to make sure the pendant was still stowed safely.

We’d stolen this relic from her months ago. Months ago.

So why the sudden interest?

What had changed?

The question nagged at me the entire climb up to the palace, the rain never ceasing, my boots splashing through the muddy, fast-running stream with every step.

I was frozen and soaking when I stepped inside the doors, sucking in a breath when I saw what the Oracle had done to this once-luxurious residence.

Every painting was slashed, every vase smashed, furniture destroyed.

The draperies—moth eaten and tattered—were torn from their rods by the ceaseless wind raging down the main hallway unchecked. Then I smelled it.

Blood.

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