Page 38 of Stolen

I curled her fingers around the pendant and gave a slight nod. Her brown eyes filled with resignation. And acceptance. She nodded back.

“Eshto.”

She died instantly.

I eased her body to the ground, then doubled over, fighting the burn and the waves of nausea. Given had accused me of lying to her about how my power worked. She was right, but she was also wrong. The language of priests was rooted in blood. Speaking the bly’ad without it—especially the command for death—was draining. Dangerous. I avoided it as much as possible, but sometimes necessity demanded it. Like when I didn’t wish to send a devout follower of another faith to her death with the blood of a Nor Doruvian priest on her tongue.

When I could stand without puking, I left the cell. Jordan stood against the wall, his face as unreadable as it had been in my Council chamber.

“You lied to me,” I said. Anger rose, and I embraced it, letting icy rage flow through my veins. “You showed up in my court and you told me the prophecy was the key to saving everything. You urged me to ask for Given as a thrall. You said Rolund would surrender her without a fight because he believes the prophecy will repel the Deepnight. You said Varick had a role to play and it would all be worth it.”

“I never lied to you,” he said quietly.

“Oh, fuck you.” I turned and pointed to the cell where Rowena’s body was cooling. “Blood doesn’t lie. Rolund thinks Given needs to die to stop the Deepnight. Did you know that?” I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t have to guess what Jordan knew. I could find out right fucking now.

Moving fast, I went for him.

He sidestepped just as swiftly, his robes swinging away from his body as he whirled and put distance between us. We faced off in the narrow corridor that separated the rows of cells. He held his right hand out from his side. Light burst from his palm and formed into a ball.

I glanced at it. “That won’t work on me.”

His eyes were steady. “We’ll find out.”

Arrogant little shit. I could almost admire him.

“You don’t want to use power words on me, Your Grace,” he said. “I’m the only one who can help you save Lord Varick.”

My gut clenched. “How can I trust you now? You stood in the Sanctum beside Petru when he said he’d studied the prophecy. You heard him speak of Varick and Given and the child. You told me the mages of Wesyfedd took the prophecy from the Tower of the Mind to keep it safe, and that you studied it yourselves and agreed it spoke of Varick and Given. You said nothing about Given dying.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” he said again. “Sithistra has obviously known about the prophecy from the beginning. I leveled the playing field by giving it to your priests. They used their blood rites to decipher its meaning. You know I wasn’t involved in those ceremonies. I told you Rolund believes in the prophecy. I never said anything about how he interprets it.”

“So he wants his sister dead? He’ll kill his only living relative to reclaim a strip of land along his northern border? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” It wasn’t, though. One of the most depressing things I’d learned since I became king was how much people loved to fight over property. Not a week passed that I wasn’t mediating a land dispute between two farmers arguing about the placement of a fucking fencepost. Rolund was losing land every year to the Deepnight. His problem was the opposite of mine. If Sithistra lost the sun, its crops would die and its people would starve.

Jordan’s expression turned grim. “It’s not stupid to Prelate Crasor and the rest of the Brotherhood’s leadership. They believe Baylen brought a curse down on Sithistra when he wed Given’s mother. The Brotherhood doesn’t want its followers to believe in magic, but it knows damn well what endures behind the Thicket. Crasor didn’t want an elven-born queen sitting on the southern throne, but Baylen wed Vessa of Lar Satha anyway. The brothers most well-versed in the histories of Ter Isir whispered that he was overcome with lust. Lured by a spirit of lasciviousness, he defied the Brotherhood and his First Queen and wed a vampire he couldn’t resist. And then the Deepnight began to drift south. And now neither of Rolund’s wives have conceived a son.” Jordan cocked his head. “I believe you know the lengths people will go to if they believe their god is telling them to do something. Or if the thing their god is telling them to do conveniently aligns with something they already want to do.”

My nape prickled as a silent understanding passed between us. I didn’t like being outmaneuvered, but I had to acknowledge the intricacy of planning it must have taken for him to appear in my Council chamber moments before I learned of Rowena’s capture.

Jordan of Twyl had wanted her dead. And he’d neatly arranged for me to kill her—and all without saying a word.

“Go on, Brother Jordan,” I said softly.

“Queen Elissa will probably never carry another child, and Queen Lidia is most likely barren. Crasor believes the Lord of the Mir has spoken through the prophecy, telling the south exactly what it needs to do to remove the taint of Vessa’s blood.”

“A blood sacrifice?” Fucking hypocrites. The Brotherhood denounced the blood rites of Nor Doru. I knew what the Towers of the Mir said about vampires. Every feast day, Crasor railed against the “decadent, godless north,” and yet he urged Rolund to see his own sister tossed into the Rift. Assuming Jordan was being truthful. Maybe this was just another maneuver by a man who was clearly no rank-and-file mage.

I shook my head. “If Rolund believes Given has to die to save his kingdom, why not just shove her into the Rift himself?”

“Because she had to be bound in blood.”

I went completely still. The blood rite in the Sanctum. When I’d bound Given to me with a power word in front of the priests and priestesses.

Jordan nodded, obviously seeing the realization spreading over my face. “She had to wed you first. And then she could die, the last elven-born in Ter Isir. The Deepnight would retreat. Rolund would have his heir at last.”

I clenched my jaw. “You could have told me all of this.”

“Could I? Or would it have influenced your actions?” He closed his fist, snuffing out the ball of light. “Wesyfedd had its own language once. In that ancient tongue, the word for mage is ‘watcher.’ Our name has changed, but our role has not. We observe. We protect. We don’t interfere unless we believe it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Why?” I said flatly.

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