Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

My hand slipped into my pocket.

“Have you any last words to say?” Arceneaux asked coldly.

“I do,” I said, feeling sweat stand out on my skin as rage roiled in my belly. “Nihil nunc salvet te.”

And before anyone could stop me, I ducked under Golightly’s sword and slashed my sharp knife in an upward arc from his navel to his sternum, painting a bright line of red across the white vertical line of his Tribunal robes. His lifeblood poured into my hands, and I could feel the magic churning within it. The hate. The fury. The pain and shock. I let my own livid magic meet it, my control giving way like the breaking of a dam.

Then I turned and threw my bloodied arms around Zan.

“Ut salutem!” I cried.

To safety.

7

We hit the ground and rolled together, scraping over rocks and collecting twigs and bits of dry grass in our clothes. When we came to a stop, Zan clambered away from me, ripping the gag from his mouth with a loud gasp before collapsing back to his hands and knees.

“What in all the holy stars did you just do?” His voice was grating and guttural, as if it had been a while since he last used it.

I got to my feet, breathless and still burning with blood magic. I lashed back, “I saved your damn life; that’s what I did!”

“You little fool! You could have killed yourself!”

“And what difference does that make to you? Up until a few minutes ago, you were supposed to be dead! Tell me, Zan, how’s the afterlife treating you?”

“Oh, yes, these past months have been simply wonderful for me. Nothing but garden parties and pretty girls all day long, dawn till dusk. Thank you for asking.”

“Stars save me, I’d kill you right now, were it not for the fact that it never seems to stick.”

“Why don’t you just cast a spell? That’s the answer to everything, isn’t it? Doesn’t even matter that it might destroy you. Anytime a problem comes up, you think magic is the answer. Don’t want to wait for water to boil? Cast a spell to heat it. A tree has fallen, blocking the road? Cast a spell to move it. Even the stupidest, most frivolous things . . . ‘Oh, look, Zan, your shirt is missing a button! Better cast a spell to mend it!’ Never mind that a needle and thread would work just fine!”

“You’re right,” I seethed. “Using magic to keep my not-dead fiancé’s idiot head on his idiot shoulders is totally, completely frivolous. Next time, I won’t bother.”

“What about your brother? What about Conrad?”

“He’s with Kellan and Fredrick,” I said, “and Arceneaux is counting on controlling him, not killing him. Now stand up, you bastard, before they come to finish what they started.”

We might have gotten a head start, but we were at a disadvantage; we had no horses, and they’d likely bring hounds. And now that the blood magic was burning off, I was beginning to feel the leaching effects of its use: the weak limbs, the spinning head, the sluggish heart.

And it wasn’t any ordinary spell I’d cast, either: it was teleportation. The last time I’d tried to use it was just after Zan had embarked on his five-day sea voyage to visit Achleva’s coastal provinces and convince their lords to re-pledge their allegiance. I had received an anonymous tip that Castillion’s warship was waiting to ambush Zan’s vessel in Stiria Bay. I was already sick and weak when I tried to spell myself to his ship and warn him; I didn’t make it far. He never got the warning, and I spent the next days in and out of consciousness, knocking at death’s door.

That was the first time I ever experienced the Drowning Dream.

When I finally woke up, my universe had been turned on its head. Zan was dead, Achleva was at war with itself, and all hopes of uniting our countries had crumbled to dust. There was nothing left to do but retreat to Greythorne and turn our attention to Conrad’s ascension.

At least, that’s what the rest of them did. I settled into life at the Quiet Canary, close enough to Greythorne to know what was happening to the others and far enough away to keep them untarnished by my reputation. Undamaged by the scourge of my black luck.

That I was able to stand now, after attempting teleportation again, was probably because I had used only a pinprick of my own blood to do it. The rest had come from Golightly.

I had bought our freedom by breaking the Assembly’s cardinal rule: Never use unwilling blood.

My own accusatory voice sounded in my head. If Simon knew . . .

But if Simon knew . . . what could he do? Refuse to teach me anymore? Ban me from blood magic altogether? I’d earned the punishment before ever committing the crime.

And despite wanting to knock the teeth out of Zan’s stupid face, I didn’t regret the choice. He was here, alive, and more aggravating than ever, and I’d never be able to thank the stars enough.

If what I did to save our lives was a sin, then I was a sinner. It was a title I’d gladly bear.