Page 109 of Mother of Death and Dawn

The awkwardness on Max’s face was a stark reminder of the difference between what I remembered and what he did. I mourned his hand as it slid from my grasp. He stood and pulled his shirt over his head.

I had to stifle my gasp.

I hadn’t seen Max’s body since he returned. Once, I had memorized the shape of his form, knew the topography of every muscle and scar. All those things were still there, yes. But now Stratagram tattoos covered every inch of his skin, layered on top of each other in a grotesque mosaic. Some were large—one spanned nearly the width of his pectoral, and when he turned he revealed another on his back that reached blade-to-blade across his spine. Most were small, trailing in interlocked sequences across the lines of his body—a string of them running along the muscle line from his hip all the way up beneath his armpit, clusters beneath the undersides of his arms, over his stomach, his throat, his back, his hands. He dropped his trousers, revealing the same over his legs and ankles. As he removed his boots, I briefly saw two large ones tattooed on the soles of his feet.

He had new scars, too, so easily distinguishable from the old not only because they looked fresher, but because they were surgical in placement and precision. A streak of mottled red from his navel to his sternum. Two semi-circles over the backs of his shoulders. Three perfectly straight parallel lines across his left forearm.

My breath had gotten fast and ragged.

Max had not spoken much about his imprisonment. But here before me was horrific evidence of what they had done to him—evidence of everything I thought about each night, everything I feared when I was dragged away from another failed rescue attempt.

Six months.

Six months, they had done this to him.

I no longer just wanted to kill Nura. I wanted to dismantle her.

Klasto’s face had gotten uncharacteristically somber.

Max turned to him. “Well?”

“Oh, dear.” Klasto’s voice was small. “This— this all must have been quite painful.”

Max looked as if he might say something, then thought better of it, and just asked, gruffly, “What now?”

Klasto gestured to a sheet-covered table at the center of the room. “Lie down.”

Max obeyed. Blif had stood, taking her place beside the table. Klasto joined her. I went to the table, too—I couldn’t help myself.

“We are going to start by freeing you from these chains,” Klasto said.

“These tattoos are magic-scorched,” Blif said. “We can’t remove them, not completely, but we can break them.”

“I apologize in advance for the fact that this will be unpleasant, darling.”

“I do so love unpleasant things.” But despite the joke, I could hear the tension in Max’s voice. I felt it in my own bones, too. I never wanted Max to endure even a single unpleasant thing ever again.

I stepped across the room and took his hand, without thinking.

Klasto nodded to Blif, and they began their work.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

MAX

Ihad figured that when Klasto told me that “this would be unpleasant,” what he really meant was, “This is going to be outrageously agonizing.” So I was prepared, to some extent. I knew how to survive pain by now.

Still, this tested me. It was just as bad, if not worse, than getting the Stratagrams tattooed onto me. The lanterns flared, then dimmed. A cold white light suffused the room, building with each second. The air seemed to curdle, my body rebelling against it at every level. I clutched Tisaanah’s hand so hard that it trembled.

CRACK!

The sound was so loud and the agony so intense that I thought,That must be my bones snapping.

But the blinding white light faded. The roaring in my ears subsided. The pain faded to a tolerable ache.

I opened my eyes to a cracked stone ceiling strung with lanterns. My eyesight was blurry. Somewhat reluctantly, I released Tisaanah’s hand.

“Don’t sit up right away,” Klasto said. “You’re going to be—”

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