Page 91 of Kingdom of Locks

“Cyfrin!” Amell breathed, dropping fluidly into the room and pulling his sword free in one swift motion. “Where are they? What have you done with them?”

“I hoped you would come,” the enchanter hissed, his eyes full of malice. “Oh, how I hoped you would come. I wanted to set eyes on the viper who dared to climb my tower and claim my prize.”

“Aurelia was never yours,” Amell ground out, through clenched teeth. “You are a thief and a liar.”

“Never mine?” Cyfrin cried, looking quite mad in anger. “Do you know how much effort I’ve poured into that girl these last seventeen years? How muchmagic?”

Amell’s lip curled, revolted by the inhumanity of the man before him, who saw a lively, intelligent, warm-hearted girl as nothing more than an object, a passive vessel to be used for his own ends.

“You’re a monster,” he said simply, spitting on the floor. “Now where is she?”

The enchanter laughed coldly. “That’s none of your concern. Your only part in this endeavor is to die for your insolence.”

Amell raised his sword, not at all reluctant for it to come to a fight. The enchanter’s eyes settled on the beautifully wrought blade, his gaze passing slowly across Amell’s costly clothes, and resting finally on his face.

Comprehension dawned. “I recognize you,” he breathed. “You’re the prince.”

“What of it?” Amell snarled.

“How in the world did you find…” Cyfrin shook his head. “Never mind. It matters little now. I suppose you were in the area looking for those cursed prisoners.” He frowned. “It is a complicating factor, however.”

Amell raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?” he spat. “You have no hesitation in targeting defenseless infants, but you’re too afraid to fight a grown man with the resources to hold you to account?”

“Someone with my power has no need to beafraidof anything,” snapped Cyfrin. He ran a stroking hand over the hair now draped across one arm. The sight made Amell feel sick. The hair was too associated with Aurelia, and seeing it wrapped around the enchanter was horrifying. But where was she?

“Having the death of the prince on my hands might be a little awkward once I take over the guild,” Cyfrin mused. With a shrug, he seemed to flick the thought off. “No matter. There’s no reason anyone will associate your death with me. It shouldn’t be too difficult to pin it on one of those escaped prisoners.”

He nodded in satisfaction, his decision clearly made. Then, in a movement so swift Amell barely saw it, he flicked out the hand that had been resting on the hair, as if casting something across the room.

Amell felt something invisible collide with his chest, and he was pushed backward. But the blow did no damage, the sensation neither sharp nor especially forceful. It reminded him somehow of the attack by the two escaped prisoners, when they’d used their magic like weapons, and he and Furn had been protected by a shield from the prison guards.

“What…?” Cyfrin was clearly as confused as Amell, but wasted no time. Once again drawing power from the hair, he tried again.

The result was the same. This time, braced for it as he was, Amell wasn’t even pushed backward.

“Hm,” he said provokingly. “It’s not doing much. Looks like you need more fuel.”

“That’s impossible,” snarled Cyfrin. “I have an incredible amount of power here, and I—”

“True, true,” Amell interrupted casually. “The thing is, I have a fair bit of power over here as well.”

Cyfrin’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Of course,” he breathed. “You tricked her into using the key, and unlocking the power for your benefit.” He sneered. “I must say, you’re more intelligent than you look.”

“I would never trick her,” growled Amell. “And I don’t want your filthy power.”

Cyfrin’s laugh was scornful. “Everyone wants power, you childish fool. Or were you ignorant of what was at stake? Perhaps your head was simply turned by a beautiful face.” His expression was mocking. “She did grow to be quite beautiful, didn’t she? But you had to come and ruin all that.”

“You would never have won her,” Amell told him furiously. “Even if she’d never set eyes on me, she’d never choose a snake like you.”

“Relax, Your Highness,” Cyfrin said indulgently. “Obviously I don’t want her now.” He stroked the hair in his arms again. “I have the only part of her that has any worth right here.”

Fury clouded Amell’s senses, and he lunged forward. Too late, he realized that the enchanter had been baiting him in order to distract. Draping the hair quickly around his neck, Cyfrin threw wide his arms and shouted. Amell felt what seemed to be an invisible noose close around him, and he gave a cry. But the next moment it had loosened, drifting away into nothing.

Cyfrin’s scream of rage cut through Amell’s confusion. “I can feel it!” the enchanter cried. “My own power, fighting back against me. But you’re no enchanter—you can’t control it. Why won’t it obey me?”

Amell ignored his rant, rushing at him with weapon raised. But Cyfrin repelled him almost lazily, drawing magic from the hair that created a formless shield through which Amell couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard he tried.

“Enough,” Cyfrin snapped. He shot his hands out again, and Amell felt himself thrown backward with such force that he hit the far wall. For a moment he wobbled, unable to get his balance, then he toppled back, out of the window.

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