Page 30 of Taken
Each one ripples outward.
The room tightens as if in unison.
Thorne whistles, a sharp, sour sound.
“SoulTaker signatures?”
Aloysious nods.
“Yes, my Lord. Marks consistent with the scavenger-blight reported near the border. The watchers saw shapes at the edge—thin as huntsmen and with the same bone-cold pallor as earlier advisories.”
Alaric’s jaw sets. He leans forward, fingers steepled, the look of a man who measures danger against his own.
“They push, and we pull. They probe, we fortify. We can’t waste time in—” he glances at Thorne—“—puerile sparring.”
I let it pass for the present because the point isn’t Thorne’s mouth but the nature of the attack.
The SoulTakers do not simply take.
Theyunteach.
They make the world forget how to answer.
“If the tide forgets, the Tidal Lands unmake themselves one fisherman at a time,” I remind the room at large.
“What do you recommend?” Alaric says.
His voice is low but steady.
I respect him. Hell, we all do. But this war is doing harm the likes of which we have never seen.
The runes under my skin are a background ache.
“I need to claim my viyella,” I murmur.
“My Lord?” Aloysious says.
Fuck. I should not have revealed all that.
“You’ve found a mate?” Thorne sounds shocked.
I tell myself again why I am doing this before I answer aloud.
Prophecy is arithmetic, yes, but prophecy also makes demands.
I should not risk her where the SoulTakers press.
Yet I must.
The facts are there. Ugly and small and stubbornly necessary.
Aloysious waits for my command, and I breathe through a long, weary exhale before speaking.
“Strengthen the sluices, reroute the currents where we can, post sentries with the mer-wardens and the tide-wardens. But more—” I hesitate.
My eyes flick to the other Lords, then to Aloysious. The small man’s practical face is thin with the knowledge that there are things ledgers do not fix.
“I need a boon.I need a turn.”
