“This way,” Rimmon said, climbing stairs carpeted with a rug woven by human fingers centuries earlier.
He led Tir down mural-painted hallways filled with winged creatures, humanlike and inhuman, coupling with mortal women. At the end of it, the vice lord paused in front of a door as if gathering his strength. A knock announced his presence before he entered the room with absolute confidence.
“I’ve brought someone to heal you, Saril.”
Tir followed. A woman sat in a cushioned chair in front of the window, bundled in a heavy quilt though the room was almost unbearably hot. She was young, no older than Araña, her face ethereal, beautiful despite the bones shown in stark relief, as if some sculptor had captured her in porcelain and absolute stillness.
The vice lord crossed the room to her, his fear palpable. “Saril!”
She stirred at the command in his voice. And he repeated it, his fingers white on the armrests of her chair. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought the sleep that would ultimately slide into a coma and then death. When she won the battle to wake, Tir saw the green fire of her father’s eyes.
“I’ve brought someone to heal you,” Rimmon said.
“Another one?”
“This one won’t fail as the others have.”
“And if he does?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“I’m not like you. I won’t let you hurt people in my name.”
“You have no say in the matter.”
Anger tightened her features. “Just as my mother had no say when she caught your attention?”
The vice lord abruptly caught his daughter’s chin in his hand. “This argument grows tiresome. She came to me willingly. And left willingly—carrying a child she then proceeded to hide from me until it was almost too late. An attempt to heal you will be made, whether you want it or not, whether you feel it taints your soul or not. If progeny came to me easily, then perhaps I’d allow you to die some foolish, noble death, but at the moment, you are my sole living descendent.”
He released her and turned away. Tir thought he meant to leave the room. Instead Rimmon crossed to the nightstand and took up a sheathed sword.
The hilt was blackened, and when Rimmon drew the blade, it was charred as well, as if it had burned in the same inferno of fire that had tried to consume the vice lord. “If she dies in your presence, I will strike you down.”
It was only when Rimmon returned to his daughter’s side that Tir could see the script etched into the blade, and the sight of it sent icy fear through him, some deep recognition that the weapon’s bite could grant him the true peace of death he’d sometimes thought would be preferable to captivity.
The vice lord said, “Heal her.”
But it was his daughter who answered instead of Tir. “Not with you in the room.”
Rimmon’s lips curved upward in a twisted parody of mirth. “As you wish, Saril. But it changes nothing.”
He left without speaking to Tir again. And for a moment Tir and Saril studied each other wordlessly.
Her gaze traveled over the tattoos on his arms, eyebrows making a faint move to draw together as she puzzled over what crimes they might represent. Finally she broke the silence by saying, “I’m sorry you’re involved in this. He has a long reach. Even if you manage to escape from the house and get away from Oakland, he’ll find you. But if you want to attempt it, I won’t call out to him.”
Her words rebuffed Tir, making him take a step backward—as if centuries of judgment were under attack. Until Araña, he’d never met a human willing to put herself at risk to offer him a chance at freedom.
“I’ll heal you,” he said, drawing the knife at his thigh, wanting to be done with it.
Her gasp was faint, as was her flinch. But the emerald green eyes never left his as he stepped forward.
“Give me your hand.”
She struggled to free it from the heavy cocoon of quilts, using a strength born of sheer determination to lift it. And even then, she could hold it only inches away from her lap.
Tir took it and felt the fine tremors going through her, the icy chill, as if the grave already claimed her. Deep in the past, among the shattered remains of his earliest memories, were those where warrior priests used him to heal this disease, though it had been called a curse in those days.
There’d been prayers said as his blood was mixed with crushed berries and placed in special vessels set aside for the purpose. There’d been exaltations to a deity who’d ignored Tir’s plight even as his blood was used to heal those who served and paid homage to the god.
But the gods of the humans who’d held him captive meant nothing to Tir. And though he could remember the incantations, they weren’t words of power to him.
He knew only one way. And his jaw clenched as he remembered the excruciating agony he’d experienced when he restored Araña to health. He knew, as surely as he knew it would require all his strength not to kill Saril, that his suffering would be made worse because he willingly healed.
Tir closed his mind to it as he slashed across Saril’s palm and then his own. He thought instead of his freedom, focused on the ancient parchment containing centuries of translations, as he wove their fingers together, pressing wound to wound.
Madness threatened to engulf him. Discordant notes tore through his mind like daggers ripping and shredding, spreading disharmony.
The urge to lash out was nearly unstoppable, but he fought it, willed himself to save the violence for when he was free of the collar and could wreak vengeance on those who deserved it.
He battled against the desire to scream. The muscles of his neck tightened, choking off the sound of his suffering and, with it, his breath.
Sweat poured off him, slowly leaching away his mindless, pain-driven fury.
And finally he was free of it.
Tir dropped Saril’s hand. Her eyes held awe, gratitude, reverence.
“The music,” she whispered, tears escaping to trail over her cheeks. “I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.”
Tir turned away from her, disconcerted by her expression.
He moved toward the doorway, intent on making his escape. She stopped him mid-stride by saying, “Are you looking for them? The papers covered with glyphs and texts?”
He was beside her with no memory of having returned, the knife held against her jugular vein as Araña had held the knife to the clerk’s throat in the occult shop. “What do you know about them?”
Saril’s gaze remained steady though he felt her fear. “A picture came, when you were healing me. I thought the pages were musical scores at first. But then I realized it didn’t make sense for me to see an image unless you were concentrating hard on one.”
Color tinted her face. Her voice softened. “I’m sorry if I stole your thoughts. I didn’t mean to. I’m a Finder. Sometimes it’s hard for me to stop being what I am.”
Thick lashes lowered to mute the emerald green of her eyes. “If you’re searching for them, I’ll help you. My debts are my own, not my… not Rimmon’s.”
Tir stilled completely. Did he dare trust her?
He pulled the knife away from her throat, feeling an unwelcome sting of shame—and recoiling from it as he’d done when he’d felt the same in Araña after she’d held the clerk at knifepoint.
Tir sheathed the blade to delay answering. Was it foolish not to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity? Or the wise avoidance of a neatly laid trap?
Her illness wasn’t feigned. Nor did he think the exchange with the vice lord had been an act put on for his benefit.
He glanced away from her and saw his reflection in a mirror. The collar around his neck caught the rays of the sunlight coming in through the window, mocking him, turning the instrument of his enslavement into something a human would wear as jewelry.