There were too many bones, some greyish and crumbling, others white.
Morrough’s wasted hand fell on Ferron’s shoulder. “You are growing presumptuous, High Reeve.”
Ferron instantly released Helena. She dropped to the ground at his feet. It was warm, and something wet clung to her skin, seeping through her clothes. She could smell viscera and old blood. In the darkness, cold fingers tugged at her dress as the throne morphed with another rasping, rotting heave.
“How can I trust someone who presumes and overlooks as much as you have of late?”
Ferron drew a sharp breath.
“Your failures seem to be multiplying. Overlooking your prisoner’s signs of animancy. Ignoring your father’s counsel. And where are the assassins that I ordered you to find?”
The copper-tanged rot in the air choked Helena as the darkness closed around her, cold dead fingers scrabbling, trying to drag her deeper. All her fears coming to life.
“I am your most loyal servant. I will not fail you. If it was the Eternal Flame, I will find them.”
“It was the Eternal Flame. Who else could it be? Who would dare to kill the Undying? The weapon was obsidian. Crowther is ours now, but he must have shared the secrets with someone overlooked during the purge. Perhaps their identity is one of the secrets our captive animancer is trying so hard to keep from us.”
As Morrough spoke, the resonance in the air became a solid, weighted mass bearing down. Helena’s ribs bowed under the pressure, threatening to snap inwards and shred her lungs.
“Mandl’s death was a humiliation. For one so illustrious, you should have foreseen it.”
The pressure eased enough for Helena to manage one desperate breath, but the miasma coated her throat, choking her.
“I am investigating all potential avenues,” Ferron said, breathing heavily. “The records indicate that Crowther collaborated with a metallurgist killed during the final battle. I have assigned cryptologists to re-evaluate his research for any hints of other collaborators.”
“That is old information,” Morrough snarled. “How many weeks have you been investigating the deaths with nothing to show for it? Have you forgotten what happens when I am disappointed?”
“I—”
The thrumming of Morrough’s resonance concentrated and vanished. There was a crack, sharp and sudden like branches snapping. Ferron gave a broken gasp and dropped like a stone, falling not prone but over Helena, one arm braced just above her head.
She could just barely make out his face. His silver eyes above her seemed to glow as blood spurted from his mouth, dripping from his lips and onto the floor. His expression twisted, his body contorting and his pupils dilating until his irises were narrow bands of silver.
Then he screamed and went limp, collapsing on top of her.
The weight of his body, the jut of broken bones, pressed down on her, but she couldn’t feel a heartbeat.
No hint of breathing. He was completely still.
He jerked, a garbled gasp rattling in his lungs as his chest began pulsing. He convulsed as though drowning, coughing up blood, as he pushed himself off her.
“I-I will not f-fail you, I swear.” His voice shook, barely more than a whisper, and he rose unsteadily back to his feet.
“Be sure that you don’t,” was all Morrough said.
Ferron reached down, fingers spasming as he pulled Helena up from the ground again. Her head lolled back.
“Watch her carefully. The Eternal Flame will come for her soon, I am certain of it.”
“I will die before I lose her,” Ferron said, his grip tightening.
“I want them alive this time, High Reeve. These last embers who dare mock me. You will bring them to me, to kill at leisure.”
“You will have them. As I have given you all the rest.” Ferron’s voice had grown steadier. He bowed low.
Helena craned her neck, peering through her swimming vision at the green, rotted faces visible on the throne, terrified of how many she’d recognise if she could see them clearly.
She tried to rip herself free, but she couldn’t escape. Ferron squeezed harder as he dragged Helena out of the hall, pulling her through winding tunnels, not stopping even when her legs failed, feet tripping. He wouldn’t let go.
Finally he stopped and, without releasing her, allowed Helena to slide to the floor. She crumpled, gasping, still struggling to breathe. The air was cleaner, damp and swampy, but there was no more scent of blood. The stones in the tunnel were dry.
Her head hurt so much that trying to think was like touching a raw wound, but she had so many questions.
“I—” Her throat closed, convulsing. “I—attacked a prison?”
“It was after the final battle,” Ferron said, sounding far away. “Seems you were captured after levelling more than half the West Port Laboratory. You’d disguised yourself as a Hevgotian during the attack, and then disappeared into that tank afterwards, resulting in contradictory reports. The investigation was considered inconclusive until my father realised where he recognised you from. He was present that night.”
She shook her head. “I was a healer,” she said. “I wasn’t—they didn’t let me fight.”
Ferron said nothing.
She still didn’t understand. “And Lila was there?”
“Yes.”
“But she was dying when you—caught her.”
“The West Port Laboratory was Bennet’s experimental research site.”
A low sound of horror tore from Helena. She doubled over, retching. Ferron had to prop her up.
“Drink this,” he said, pressing a vial of something into her hand. “It’ll help.”
Helena’s hand shook, but she swallowed without question. There was nothing he could give her that could make things worse. Instead pain relief so bitter it was mouth-numbing washed across her tongue. She sat breathing unsteadily as it took effect.
She tried to focus but felt concussed. With brain injuries it was important to remain conscious. Conversing was supposed to help, keeping patients talking. She kept herself talking.
“Did this happen to you?” Her tongue was sluggish. She felt Ferron look at her, his pale eyes gleaming briefly in the darkness.
“More than once …” he said after a long silence. “My training was rigorous.”
“Why?”
He shifted, muffling a low groan. “To see if I’d be better than my father, or if I’d break under interrogation, too.”
She furrowed her eyebrows. “Was that—before you killed Principate Apollo?”
He released a huffing breath, as if suppressing a laugh.
“Are you wanting a confession?” he finally asked. “Shall I tell you everything I’ve done?”
She could only make out the vaguest shape of him, crouched in front of her. His breathing was still strained as he held her upright.
She wondered then if they’d paused there so she could recover, or so he could. The dose of laudanum she’d taken had eased the pain splintering her head.
A question rose to her lips, and she felt as if it was vital that she ask. She leaned forward, trying to see his face. “Do you want to?”
He was silent for a long moment, and then stood without answering, pulling her to her feet. Her body was half numb, and he had to nearly carry her the rest of the way to the motorcar.
In the light, she found she was covered in putrefied remains, rotted blood and gore smeared around her clothes and hands. All the necrothralls were watching as Ferron pulled her over to the car, handing her off to one of his own servants, letting it strip off her dress and wrap her in a wool lap cloth. She collapsed across the back seat.
Ferron sat up front. When the motorcar emerged from the tunnel, she was almost blinded by the vivid white of the overcast sky, but she managed to make out his profile. He was slumped forward, eyes closed. Pale as death.