Gabe snorted.
“One good thing,” Malcolm said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Fount piece. He must have taken it from Gabe, at some point, thinking the steward of the piece should be someone conscious. “We were right. This is it. Gives me pins and needles.” As if to illustrate his point, he dropped it on the packed earth between them, not wanting to touch it for too long. “Finn undeniably knows what it is and why we have it, but he at least hasn’t taken it from us.”
The piece shone in the dark, seamed with gold. The smallest chip at the corner, where Hestraon had hacked off the flame carving, trying to be more like the gods He loved. “Yet.”
“Yet,” Malcolm agreed. “And there is still the question of how in every hell we’re supposed to get it to the Mount. I doubt Finn is going to give us a ship.”
Gabe gave him a level look, one that said everything he didn’t have words for.
Malcolm gave a shuddering sigh. “I can’t, Gabe.”
“What if we don’t have a choice?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Gabriel, please.”
Gabe’s head fell back against the wall.
One small door was the only entrance or exit to their tiny cell, solid wood without even a barred window. It looked more like they were being kept in someone’s cellar than a prison.
He rubbed at his temple again; something was odd about the feel of his skin there. It took him a moment to realize his eye patch was gone. He’d worn the thing for so long, he never even felt it anymore.
“You burned it,” Malcolm said.
“What?”
“When you burned the Brotherhood,” Malcolm said, “you went up in flames, too. But they didn’t touch you. They burned off the patch, but the rest of your clothes were fine.”
When he’d first lost his eye—first joined the Presque Mort—Gabe had been ashamed of it. Of all the wounds borne by the other monks, his well-healed missing eye was fairly tame, and only the infection that had set in made it a close enough brush with death to give him Mortem. But it was a reminder of his father’s betrayal, a reminder of his own weakness, and he hated it. Long after it was healed, his empty socket sealed cleanly shut, he’d still worn the patch as if the scar was something to hide. Still ashamed, though he logically knew there was nothing for him to be ashamed of.
It made sense to him that he’d let the patch burn. He’d gotten rid of the thing that mitigated his fierceness, made him easier to look at.
Lore hadn’t said a thing about it, as if she didn’t even notice. Just like he’d barely noticed the scarring on her temple. Both of them marked, neither caring.
The door creaked open.
There wasn’t enough room for Finn to stride in, but he still looked regal as he stepped over the threshold. “Good. You’re awake.”
Neither Gabe nor Malcolm spoke, both staring him down.
Finn sighed. “We aren’t enemies. Just so you know.”
“Locking us in a cellar sends a different message,” Malcolm said.
“That’s merely for convenience.” Finn leaned his back against the door, kicked a boot up against the wood. “We’re on the same side. We both want to stop the Sainted King from joining with the Kirythean Empire. Really, everything I’ve done has been for your benefit.”
“Then why the prison?” Malcolm asked.
“You’re gods,” Finn said flatly. “One of you just burned alive half the ruling body of Caldien. Forgive me for taking precautions.”
Here was where Gabe should feel some remorse, some horror at what he’d done. He didn’t.
“You killed one yourself,” Gabe said. “How does murdering the Prime Minister help prevent Auverraine from joining with the Empire? Seems more like that might speed things along.”
His name made Finn’s lip curl. “Eoin was useless,” Finn spat. “He would have played cult leader up until the Empire was knocking down our door. I suppose I should have expected Eoin would try to take your power for himself, instead of doing anything to benefit Caldien. Idiot man.”
There was no tenderness in his voice when he spoke of his former lover. Whatever care Finn had for Eoin had been gone long before he cut the other man’s throat.
“So you decided to beat him to it?” Malcolm asked. He’d hidden the piece of the Fount, putting it in his pocket again, and now he was flexing his fingers back and forth, as if trying to get rid of the pins and needles.
