Page 64 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

“The girl,” Marcus began, and Zylah was certain he’d seen her. She closed her eyes, waiting for a hand to land on her shoulder. “You’ve seen her eyes, Holt,” Marcus continued. “Who is she? I don’t care if Arnir wants her.” She opened her eyes just as the shadow moved away.

Zylah couldn’t breathe. Every instinct she had told her to run, to get as far away as possible.

“She’s nobody,” Holt said, his tone still bored. “The eyes are a deceit; she favours the colour. Her true eye colour is brown.”

“Lies!” Marcus thundered, and something flashed so bright Zylah covered her eyes. Holt groaned in pain, and the stench of searing flesh filled the chamber.Gods above.

“You never learn,” Marcus muttered. The light flashed again, this time accompanied by a crackle, and Holt ground out another agonised moan. Zylah was going to be sick. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her knees, desperately grasping at ideas. She’d barely seen enough of the chamber to get the layout, hadn’t seen enough of it to evanesce further into the room anyway.

Another flash of light, and this time Holt’s roar filled the chamber.

“Why are you protecting her? Is it because she’s my son’s latest trinket?”

Marcus’s boots tapped against the stone, but it was Holt’s ragged breathing Zylah focused on. She peered over the crate again. Marcus had his back to her, and Holt was doubled over on the floor, but she couldn’t see him clearly. Beyond him, another passage led out of the chamber, deeper into the tunnels, Zylah presumed. She could go back the way she came. Go for help. But that would take too long. She could evanesce to the other side of the chamber but—

This time she saw it. “Speak when you are spoken to! Your father never did teach you any decent manners, did he?” Marcus bellowed, lightning flowing from his fingertips.

She ducked down just as he turned, praying he hadn’t seen her. Holt was past making a sound, but she could still hear his shallow, wet breaths. It was Mala all over again, and Zylah could do nothing to stop it. A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it away.

“Pathetic,” Marcus muttered. A muted thud followed, and Zylah was certain he had kicked Holt’s prone body. She held her breath as his footsteps grew further away, counting to twenty to be sure he’d left the chamber.

She peeked over her crate. Marcus was gone. Holt was lying still. Zylah evanesced to the far side of the room, to make sure Marcus had truly left. There was no sign of him. She evanesced to Holt’s side, sucking in a breath as she took in the extent of his wounds.

There was no blood; the cauterisation was so severe his shirt had burned away across his ribs, melted into the flesh in places. “Holt,” she whispered, touching a shaky hand to his. His eyes fluttered, and she evanesced them out of there—or—she tried to, but nothing happened. Neither of them moved.

A sob threatened to escape her. He was going to die down there in the putrid tunnels, and there was nothing she could do to help. She took a steadying breath. “Holt,” she whispered again, wiping the hair from his eyes. His heartbeat was weak, but she let the sound anchor her as she looked around the room for anything that might help.

“Cuffs,” Holt rasped.

The vanquicite. Zylah pulled the last pin from her hair and set to work on the cuffs, reciting every prayer to Pallia she could remember. The cuffs were a smooth black stone, unlike anything she’d ever seen, and they must have had some kind of dampening effect on their abilities.

Holt’s eyes were closed, his skin clammy. She didn’t lift her gaze to his wound again; she needed to concentrate. These were different from the last set of cuffs she’d picked, joined by a bar with a single lock in the centre. As she gently turned the pin, listening for the most minute of sounds, she could tell there were two parts to the lock.

A rattling wheeze escaped Holt, and he clasped a hand around her wrist. “Leave,” he whispered. If she angled her head up just a little, she’d see the bodies he’d laid out on the table, so she kept her eyes down.

“Stay still, you’ll snap my last pin,” Zylah pleaded. It took all of her resolve to stop her hands from trembling.

“Zylah,go.” Holt’s eyes fluttered open, and Zylah forced herself to meet his gaze.

She willed her expression to neutral, her tone bored like she’d heard him demonstrate with Marcus as she said, “Shut up.” All the colour had drained from his face, and his breathing was ragged and broken. Determination pulled her concentration back to the cuffs. She turned the pin left and right, as gently as she could, until she heard one bar inside the lock catch on the other. She held her breath and rotated the pin one more time—slowly, painfully slowly.

The cuffs sprang open, and Zylah bit down on her tongue to hide her relief. Holt’s eyes had closed again, his breathing had become shallower. She pulled the cuffs away with one hand and evanesced Holt out of there with the other.

Zylah brought them to their room at the tavern, pressing a hand over his heart. “Rule number seven,” she said as tears pressed at the corners of her eyes. “No dying on each other.”

Holt’s smile was weak, but it was there. She healed him a little, just enough to take the edge off the pain. But she didn’t know how to heal him completely without sealing half of his shirt into the wound. “Stay still.” She hoped the tremble in her voice didn’t show.

“Yes, boss,” Holt said weakly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

She hurried to the bathroom, pulling open the cupboard where she’d been storing supplies. She raced through her options, settling on a vial of celandia drops, a jar of the poultice she’d been making with Saphi, and a handful of besa leaves.

“Chew these,” she ordered, grabbing her pillows from the bed to shove under Holt’s head as she knelt on the floor beside him.

He took them from her, propping himself up on an elbow to look at his wounds, and it was enough for her to know he would be able to chew the leaves without choking to death. Besa leaves were a relaxant, great for nerves, but they would also reduce the adrenaline that was coursing through him. Calm his heart. She slipped one into her own mouth as she examined the mess below his ribs. She swallowed. “This will hurt.”

Peeling the shirt out was the only option. She poured a few drops of the celandia onto her hands, rubbing them together thoroughly to ensure they were disinfected and dripped a little into the wounds. Holt hissed under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Zylah murmured, picking at the shirt as carefully as she could. Every time she peeled a piece away, she delicately smoothed some poultice across the wound, hoping it would be soothing enough until she could work on healing him.

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