Page 150 of Quicksilver
Come on. Talk to me. Tell me something. Anything,I said silently.You can't just shut down.But still not a word. Clearly, he thought sinking into a catatonic state was a perfectly acceptable coping mechanism in light of the situation.
“There has to be a way.” Lorreth kicked angrily at the pile of chopped wood by the fire. One of the pieces splintered and fell apart. He didn't even acknowledge the mess he'd made as he spun around, clouting Ren's shin with Avisiéth, and stormed toward the exit. Right before barging out of the tent, he turned around and marched back again. “Fisher, there are thousands of texts in the library back at Cahlish. There must be something in one of them about this. Your father studied the blood curse for decades. I bet he made a note about this. How to cleanse a thrall's blood. How—how to burn away the enchantment between master and thrall before the conversion begins.”
Fisher's brow furrowed. He stared at me harder.
“Fisher?” Lorreth prodded.
“He can't hear you,” Ren said wearily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sagging back into his chair. “Just give him some time. He's thinking.”
Could there be information back at Cahlish about that?I asked him. But Fisher showed no sign of having heard me. Well, shit. If he wasn't going to give me answers, then the other two males were going to have to fill me in because my brain was about to implode.
“Why is Malcolm's bite so different from the other vampires?” I demanded, glowering at Ren, daring him to try and brush off the question. Thankfully, he answered.
“Malcolm was the first to be affected by the blood curse. The very first. When Rurik Daianthus, the last Yvelian king, discovered the cure, Malcolm was one of the few who chose to remain vampires. Over the centuries, the others who had accepted their curse were systematically killed off until onlyMalcolm remained. There were whispers that Malcolm ingested their power somehow. He is millennia old, undying, never aging. Every year he survives, he grows in strength and capability. His venom is potent beyond imagination. When one of his lords bites a victim, they can drink and sate their thirst without killing. If they bite the same human a number of times, eventually they become enthralled—”
“There. That word. What does that mean?”
“The victim becomes bound to the vampire who bit them,” Lorreth said, stepping in. “Mindlessly devoted to their needs. They'll feed and fuck their master without a single thought for themselves. Inevitably, their masters grow bored and drain them, and then their victim dies. Three days later, they rise from wherever they've been discarded and become the feeders you've seen on the river.”
“But Everlayne...” I couldn't say anything else. The thought of that bastard sinking his teeth into her neck made me want to vomit.
“Malcolm only needs to bite once to create a thrall. Everlayne is now completely under his control. Even if we broke into Ammontraíeth and managed to break her free, she wouldn't come. She'd fight so she could stay and please her master. And in a little less than fifty-six hours, she's going to die.”
“Don't say that! We can't know that for sure. He might decide not to drain her. He might just use her as a bargaining chip for—”
“Malcolm's venom is lethal, Saeris. All it takes is one drop. He doesn’t need to drain her to kill her now. The work is done. Only two possible paths lay before Everlayne. If Malcolm permits her to drink from him, and she actually does it, then she’ll return and become something like Malcolm’s Lords. If she refuses to drink from Malcolm, or he refuses his blood to her, then she’ll die and return as a feeder.”
A part of Fisher heard that. Deep down, he registered the information, and it shattered the wall he was trying to hide behind. He stood from the table, inhaling sharply, dragging his hands through his hair.
“Welcome back,” Ren whispered.
Fisher was about to say something, but the tent flap flew back, and in came Danya still dressed in her armor from the skirmish. Her eyes blazed with anger. She growled, lips peeled back, showing teeth, as she charged across the tent, straight for Lorreth.
“Danya—” Ren warned. But it was too late. The female warrior had pulled back her fist and launched it into Lorreth's face. He'd seen her coming. Had adjusted his stance and folded his arms over his chest, but he hadn't done a thing to block her from hitting him. His nose exploded with blood when her blow landed.
“Asshole! Give it to me. Give me my fucking sword.”
“It isn't your sword anymore, Danya,” Fisher said.
“Like hell it isn't. I've carried that weapon for three hundred and thirteen years! Iearnedit!”
“Your father passed it down to you,” Fisher corrected dryly. “The sword you once carried was unmade and reforged. This blade is new. ItchoseLorreth.”
“It's mine,” Danya seethed. We all saw her lunge for Avisiéth. I couldn't have stopped her from taking such an ill-advised course of action, but Fisher, Ren and Lorreth could have. None of them did. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way. The sword she'd carried had already been silent when it had been given to her. Not even an echo of magic had remained inside it. She'd probably heard tales about what would happen to someone if they touched a god sword that didn't belong to them, but her pride was such that she reallydidbelieve the weapon hanging at Lorreth's hip was hers. He let her take it. Thesecond her hand closed around its grip, she unleashed a blood-curdling scream, and her hand detonated into a cloud of pink mist. A shockwave of blinding white light surged from Avisiéth's pommel, and Danya was thrown across the map room. She crashed down onto a chair, reducing it to kindling in an instant.
“Holy fucking gods,” Ren uttered. “It took her fuckinghand.”
“Maybe she'll stop punching people in the face now.” There wasn't a scrap of sympathy in Fisher's voice. He went and stood over Danya, his eyes glittering and cold as ice. Meanwhile, Danya awoke from an apparent faint and realized what had happened to her hand. Herswordhand. I braced for another scream, but she choked out a sob instead.
“Oh, gods! No. No, no, no!”
“There's a chance it can be regrown. If I take you back to Cahlish and get you looked at by a healer, will you stop all of this bullshit and calm the fuck down?” Fisher demanded.
Danya didn't deserve her hand to be regrown. Her theatrics had reached a point where she deserved to live with the consequences of her shitty temper. That wasn’t a charitable thought on my part, but I was well and truly over her attitude. She'd been a bitch ever since Kingfisher had shown up back at the camp. We had more important things to worry about than a petulant warrior who threw a temper tantrum every time she showed up in this fucking tent. Lucky for her, Fisher was more forgiving than me.
“Yes,” Danya moaned. She clutched the bleeding stump left at her wrist, tears streaking over her cheeks. “I will. I…swear.”
“So that's it? You're heading back to Cahlish?” Ren asked.
