Bryce runs his hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. He winks at a woman walking by. She smiles and watches him appreciatively as we pass.
“There have been as many breaches in the past six months as there were all of last year,” he says once she’s out of earshot. “They’re rattled at the lack of protection, but it’s more than that.”
Hearing that makes my blood run cold. It’s one thing for the Drained to be worse at the fort. We are a smaller and more isolatedtarget. But if they’re also coming at the city this hard, that’s a very bad sign.
Bryce pauses and turns, pointing up at the building next to us as if admiring the architecture. “From what I can tell, they have the ‘unblessed’ pay blood tithes on a cycle. They have a book where they keep records of who is due on a particular day.”
I frown. “Does that work?”
Carter throws an arm around my shoulders. “You tell us. Your new in-laws are the most powerful magical family in Lunameade. I’d say it must do something.”
I shake my head. The Carrenwells aren’t just powerful because of their magic. They’re powerful because they canseemagic, and that has given them the advantage of always knowing what type of fight to be prepared for. It’s the reason that no one will challenge them outright. Those who have tried have died.
“The shift is that they seem to have adjusted the blood tithe requirement from once every thirty days to once every fifteen days,” Bryce says. “No idea why they?—”
The soft din of the square is cleaved by shouting. We turn toward the well to see what’s happening. Two city watch guards drag a man toward the Blood Well. The people in line watch with rapt interest, but the rest of the townsfolk milling about the square avert their eyes as if they’re used to this.
The man stumbles to his knees. He’s old—his body bent with age and hair white and sparse. He has to be pushing seventy.
“I don’t owe you blood. You’ve had it every month of my life since I was of age. And what do we have to show for it? A failing wall, dark nights, and an even darker future,” the man shouts.
“Sir, it’s your blood day—perhaps you’ve just forgotten,” a guard says, his voice calm and placating.
“I’m not senile! I’m just tired of the charade. The magic is failing.” The old man takes a swing at the guard.
The guard grabs his arm and twists it behind him. His partner grabs the old man’s other hand and slides his blade across the man’s palm. They drag him to the well, and the rest of the line watches in a mix of horror and resignation.
“Barbaric,” Carter mumbles as they force the old man’s hand over thewell and dark blood drips down into the abyss. The guards mumble something as the blood pours down.
Finally, they let him go. He hobbles away and takes the piece of gauze offered by a young man beside the well.
The old man spits at the city guards’ feet. “Bleeding us all dry for power. You’re no better than the Drained.”
Bryce whistles, and I scowl at him.
“What?” Bryce shrugs. “He’s got a point. I don’t claim to understand the magic of the wells, but it does seem excessive for such an old man. I thought there used to be an age cap.”
“There did. But I guess desperate times call for desperate measures,” Carter says.
“And desperate measures can be exploited,” I say.
This is the place where I can drive a wedge between the Carrenwells and the magicless people of Lunameade, and my future wife holds the key to their weaknesses. All I have to do is get her to reveal them.
The ten-year anniversary of the attack on Mountain Haven is imminent. For the first time, it feels like I’ll be able to ease this driving ache for vengeance that has lived in my chest ever since the wall fell.
8
HARLOW
The Carrenwell House ballroom is full of all the people who gawked at me the night my betrothal was announced, only now they’re being way less subtle. Their looks are a mix of judgment and curiosity.
I’m only recently out of my formal widowhood mourning period, but many of our people believe a year of mourning would be more appropriate than six months.
I stare back, challenging them to say anything.
These dinners always begin less formal because everyone arrives fashionably late. I lean against the bar and look at several couples swaying on the dance floor to the soft music played by the string quartet. The power is on tonight, so the blown-glass chandeliers shimmer in the large glass windows that look out to the front driveway.
The bartender tops off my wine, and I take a bracing sip. I cross the room and take my seat next to Kellan at the table with all of my siblings. I ignore the empty seat on the other side of me, just like I ignore that my new fiancé is late.
