Page 83 of The Coven of Ruin
“No,” she said, her voice hoarse, but there. Real. It wasn’t in her head. She had used her lungs. “No,” she tried again, a bit stronger. And the crushing load relented a little. “No,” she cried out again, lifting her arms up against the withdrawing pressure. And then, all at once, she was free.
“Huh, looks like the healer is finally rousing.” A mage’s voice this time, not the abyss.
Jangling keys, screeching metal.
“He wants word as soon as she is awake and coherent. And cleaned up. Don’t present her like that.”
“Understood,” the first mage said, closer now, and then hands were on her.
She came to violently, but nothing worked. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, and she drew in a sharp inhale as if it were her first breath. The air scraped all the way down her throat, making her splutter.
“Calm down!” the mage snapped, pulling her into a sitting position that made her stomach lurch.
She forced her eyes open. Blessedly, the only light source came from a torch that hung a small distance away. Though she feared the dark, Trista didn’t think she could handle the harshness of light.
The mage came into focus. A plain face with stubble on his chin. He was unknown to her, but wore the same gray cloaks as the Legion of the Abyss. Groaning, she tried to move away from him.
“Where—” her throat was so dry that it burned.
“Drink this,” the mage said, pressing a small cup into her hands.
She obeyed, taking small sips of the tepid water until the cup was drained. Her hands shook with the simple effort. Trista took stock of her condition. Her entire body was sore and cramped. A dull, throbbing ache encompassed the entirety of her skull.
“How long have I been here?” she asked in a choked whisper.
“I’d say about three days,” the mage grunted as he took the cup from her hands.
Three days?Her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest.What happened to everyone? They aren’t dead. They can’t be dead.
She hoisted hazy images in her mind’s eye of Grae and Ares being surrounded. Of Brune clearing a path with his ax. And of The God of War, his hand out-stretched, reaching for her.
The mage stepped through a barred door, closing and locking it behind himself. She tried to access her magic, but it lay distant and mute within her.Witchsilver.
“There’s a bowl of water and a clean dress in the back corner. Wash up and change into it. Ensure you’re ready before I’m back.” His footsteps faded down a path that disappeared in the dim lighting.
Trista turned her head only for a stabbing pain in the back of her skull and a wave of nausea to overtake her.Right, no turning then.She ended up scooting back carefully, the movement leaving her dizzy and breathless. When the room ceased its spinning, she situated herself so that she faced the bowl. There was one questionable-looking rag to aid her in washing, and that was it.
She moved carefully, washing her face, neck, and hands first. Reaching behind her head, she tentatively touched her scalp. Dried blood matted her hair.
She was fatigued when the mage came back for her, joined by two others. The dress fit her well as if they had taken one from her own rooms, though she didn’t recognize it at all. They opened the cage’s door, entered, and pulled her to her feet. Icy heat clawed its way up and out of her throat as she was sick right there. But they didn’t care as they wrapped her hands in burning witchsilver and dragged her out. The black welcomed her back shortly after.
When Trista regained consciousness, she was seated in a cramped study, lit only by a crackling fire. Its meager appointments included a desk with unlit candles, a rug, and a shelf full of leather-bound tomes and rolled parchment. She stared into the seemingly empty room, studying the corners where the darkness gathered.
A feeling of being watched clung to her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Just as the tension began to melt from her body and she settled into the cushioned chair, the shadows in a far corner moved.
“Good evening,” came a husky purr. Two amethyst orbs appeared, the only indication of where it was in the darkness. The shadow-being stepped out of the corner, stalking forward until she could better make out its form from in front of the fireplace. “You endured quite a hit to your head. Are you well?”
All she could manage was a choked sound. She willed her legs to move, to take her away, but they refused, leaving her frozen.
A goblet appeared before her, suspended in the air. “Drink that,” it commanded.
She shook her head minutely.
“I said,” it stepped forward, its tone taking on something lethal, “drink it.”
She forced her arms to rise, but the witchsilver still encompassed her wrists, pinning them together. Noting it at the same time, the shadow dissolved the metallic bindings into nothingness. Her magic rushed to fill her, leaving her feeling slightly intoxicated. Taking the goblet out of the air, she squeezed it between her shaking palms. It was cool against her hand, and condensation dripped onto her fingers.
“Go on, it is only water.”
