Page 91 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“Fine,” I say, the response immediate. My voice is hoarse, the word barely a whisper. It is opposite the chaotic rage of magic and fury, swirling within me. I don’t let the Architect see my terror, my wrath. I keep my face perfectly neutral, revealing nothing at all. With my eyes still on my father, I lower to my knees. “Fine. You win.”
My mind races as we sit in momentary silence. There’s nothing but the sound of heavy rain and dozens of ragged breaths. I can barely see Rune from where I kneel. They’ve taken her to the stage, and she stands in front of my brother’s remains.
“Disappointing,” the Architect says, pulling my attention back to him. He touches his mask with a flick of magic, and it dissolves into his suit. I study his cruel, ordinary features, and the cold, empty glare of his eyes. He looks at the stage, then back to me. “Forsaking your own blood for acriminal.”
“Like father, like son,” I spit. “Isn’t that why we’re all here? Banished because you betrayed your own. If anyone has forsaken?—”
The Architect’s lip twitches. He lifts his hand in a slow, all-too-familiar gesture. Without a word, he’s commanded his men to attack. There’s no time to react, to defend myself.
His guards are on me, one on each arm, another behind me. Magic burns against the back of my neck, and I scream until my throat turns raw. The pain is blinding, scalding, unbearable. I thrash against my captors. Cast magic in futile bursts, hoping that something, anything breaks their hold. It doesn’t. Their magic spreads around me, burning my skin, twisting my limbs, breaking my bones.
I don’t know how long I’m tortured, only that eventually, I lose consciousness.
THIRTY-ONE
RUNE
The slaughter has ended, but this nightmare is far from over. I kneel in the center of the lifted platform, staring out at the wet courtyard. The Architect sent everyone away, and it was almost surreal, watching chaos dissolve into strained compliance. Masked guards led bare faced men into the Tower, the latter with their hands bound behind their backs. Tora was taken away screaming, calling for Harrick, even after he could no longer hear her.
The Architect remained on the stage with me and two guards, and together, we watched the masses work. Servants were brought out to scrape the dead from the cobblestone, and I clenched my teeth to keep from crying. They left the rebels in their haphazard pile to the right of the stage. I can see the bodies still, and I imagine it’s a warning for me to behave.
“Rouse him,” the Architect says.
I tense at the command, looking down at Harrick. After they’d beaten him into someone unrecognizable, they laid him out in front of me. He’s been sprawled across the cobblestones ever since, unmoving with his left arm twisted in the wrong direction.
One of the guards descends the stage and delivers a sharp kick at Harrick’s side. I flinch, unable to stop myself. Harrick groans. It’s long and drawn out, pained but alive. Despite everything, a streak of relief courses through me. Alive. He is alive—which means we still have a chance.
The guard wrenches Harrick up by his shoulders. His head lolls to the side, then drops to settle on his chest. His dark hair hangs over his face, hiding most of the bruises, but I know they’re there. I watched each strike land against his face, his body, his limbs.
I suck in a watery breath, unable to stop the tears. This is my fault. All of it—and Iknewit would happen. I thought, hoped, it would end differently, and now I hate myself for being wrong. For being a fool. A selfish, impulsive fool.
I look at the murdered servants, abandoned in the rain. There are four of them, and I know them all. Arnelian’s corpse stares at me with an empty gaze. He’s the reason the guards found me. Tora had left me with a good hiding place, and I’m sure the guards never would have seen me. It was only Arnelian’s odd angle, as they dragged him through the entryway, that allowed him to notice me. And whether on impulse or out of anger, Arnelian called my name, stretching a hand toward me. Again and again, until the guards realized I was there.
“He’s waking,” the second guard says, the one still on the stage.
Harrick’s movements are loose and unsteady, but the guard is right: he’s waking. Those dark violet eyes blink, slowly at first, then faster. His attention snaps around the courtyard, at the darkness that has fallen over us. When his eyes finally find mine, a terrible sob breaks from his lips.
“I killed your men,” the Architect says, sounding bored. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth. “Pitiful deaths. Your sister barely fought. I expected more from her.”
Harrick doesn’t respond. He takes haggard breaths through his teeth, and I let out another involuntary sob.
“This is what happens when you lose focus,” the Architect continues. He makes a tsking sound in the back of his throat. “I told you your duty was to me, not these vile mortals. You defied me, and now, you will suffer the consequences.”
Harrick’s eyes rake over me, and I can only imagine what he sees. I am filthy and soaked, bruised and bloodied. He must know the truth, that every second of this misery is my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m crying so hard I’m not sure he can understand me. “I’m so sorry, Harrick. I didn’t?—”
Something strikes the back of my head—a fist, maybe. I fall forward, catching myself just before my face hits the wood. The Architect grabs me by my hair, twisting me up to my knees and then my feet. He roughly drags me, and I fumble to stay upright, closing my eyes as we stop at the stage’s edge. His rancid breath is hot against my cheek, a stark reminder he’s still not wearing his mask.
“You promised!” Harrick shouts. “You promised to let her live!”
He lets out an animalistic scream, unlike anything I’ve heard. By the time I open my eyes, he’s fought his way to his feet. He’s unsteady, but still straining against the guard, trying to reach me. He raises his hands, only for the barest of sparks to light his fingers.
The Architect heaves a disappointed sigh. He maintains his cruel grip on my hair as he pulls me back to his chest.
“I’ve drained your magic, Harrick,” he says. “Go on, feel for it. It’s gone, almost to the last drop. It will come back, don’t worry. But not tonight.”
He lets his words hang in the air, and I watch as Harrick realizes the truth of them. He flexes his hands, the color draining from his face. For the first time in his life, he is as weak, aspowerless as I am. And without his magic, we don’t stand a chance.
