Page 89 of The Coven of Ruin
“No onedemandsto see him,” the guard scoffed, scratching his nose.
“Tell him I have information for him in exchange for letting me heal my friend.” Her tongue was dry against her lips when she licked them. Neither of them had been given enough food or water, especially to heal. “Information about the Witchbane,” she added.
The guard eyed her up and down as he debated with himself. To her surprise, he didn’t turn to leave. The keys jangled in his hand as he unlocked her cell. When he began uncoiling witchsilver from a pouch to bind her hands with, Trista protested.
“I don’t think she will make it. Can I keep my magic and begin to heal her as we walk?”
“She can’t walk?” His gaze flicked into Zyana’s darkened cell. “I’m not carrying her.”
“I will help her,” she assured him, “but I would need my magic.”
When he gave her a pointed look, she desperately offered another solution. “I will walk ahead of you with her. You can just tell me where to go—that way, I can’t hex you in the back.”
Deciding that she would be little threat while towing a sick friend along and the promise of whatever reward he thought may await him, he led her out of her cell and opened Zyana’s.
The mountain witch’s condition was severe. Trista managed to get her to her feet, but she leaned heavily on her, and they were forced to take small steps. Her head lolled against Trista’s cheek as she pulled Zyana’s arm around her shoulders.
Her own magic was enervated and slow to respond to her, feeling irreparably drained. What little she could access, she used to keep Zyana stable as they traversed the tunnel-like hallways.
Trista couldn’t get a decent look at their surroundings as most of her focus was on keeping Zyana and herself from toppling over, but wherever they were was underground, the corridors carved out from hard-packed dirt and inlaid with stone. They passed a large, open area with long tables where gray-cloaked mages milled about unhurried. But what caught her eye were the swaying masses hung from makeshift rafters—bodies, naked and bruised and tainted with black magic.
She looked away as nausea roiled her stomach.
When they had finally reached the floor, the guard halted them while he spoke to another mage in a tone too low for Trista to hear. They were debating something furiously when the study door opened beside them seemingly of its own accord. They motioned for her to enter with shared looks of annoyance on their faces.
Forcing herself to not peer into the shadows, she lowered Zyana onto the rug that she had been tortured on just a day or two ago.
He was watching her.
She knew he was there, his cold and inky presence tangibly permeated the room. Calling on the dregs of her magic, she worked anyway. It wasn’t long before sweat rolled down the back of her neck, her magic protesting against any further effort. Shifting her legs from beneath her, she caught a glimpse of those feline eyes observing her.
She blinked, her mouth working silently before she said, “Good evening.”
He smiled, if it could even be considered that. More like he bared his teeth like a predator ready to devour its meal.
“I know you have been in the company of the gods for too long when your first thought is to make a bargain to save her life.” His gaze slid to Zyana’s prostrate form and then back to her.
How had he known?
“You’re a healer.”
“Yes,” Trista replied, unsure if it was an observation or a question.
“Your magic is much too complex for healing. Coven?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I have none. I was given to the Akeso as a witchling.”
“You don’t know your parentage?”
“No.”
“And your magic,” he asked, “is there anything you find exceptional about it?”
Her thoughts immediately went to her ability to delve into someone else’s memory. Intuition was a sinking feeling in her gut and carried Harlow’s voice. “I’m afraid not,” she managed to say.
Thel tsked. “Your heartbeat quickens when you lie.”
Fearing that he would hurt Zyana, she quickly confessed, “I have a generational magic.”
