Bright Burns the Night Page 4

  Evelayn stiffened beside Ceren, who just listened, watching their exchange in baffled silence.

  “What do you want, Lorcan? What must I do to ensure her safe return to …”

  “Quinlen,” Ceren supplied. “And our younglings.”

  Evelayn spun to face her, eyes wide. “You and Quinlen? You … you have …”

  Ceren nodded, the thought of Clive and Saoirse sleeping peacefully, innocently, at home—their fates now in the king’s hands—sent a shock of terror through her, turning her body cold.

  “What do you want?” Evelayn repeated, turning to Lorcan once more, who was watching them silently, his expression unreadable.

  He didn’t respond for a long, terrible space of time in which Ceren could hear only the pounding of her own heart and the crackle and hiss of the fire in the hearth.

  “You wish to bargain for her safety and freedom,” he said at last, a stony statement.

  Evelayn lifted her chin, her jaw set. Ceren hadn’t seen her for a decade, but she remembered this—the queen’s indomitable strength. It bolstered her own flagging courage.

  Lorcan leaned back against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other. Despite his nonchalance, power still emanated from him, a beacon of tension in the room. “And so desperation shall drive yet another hasty decision, spinning the web of regret ever larger.”

  Ceren glanced to Evelayn to see if that odd pronouncement made sense to her, but she looked just as confused as Ceren. Before she could think on it further, Lorcan continued.

  “You know what I wish, my lady queen. As I have wished it for ten long years.”

  The scent of Evelayn’s distress flared into lightning-charged anger in the blink of an eye, but rather than lashing out as Ceren had expected, she merely said, “If that is your price,” through gritted teeth.

  Lorcan nodded once, a brief, severe movement. “Then it shall be done. When you keep your word, I’ll see to it that she is returned home safely.” He gave two quick jerks on a bell pull before looking Evelayn up and down once again. “And you will change so that you don’t look so pathetic when I announce our impending Binding.”

  Ceren gasped. “What?”

  Lorcan ignored her and continued, “I will give you five minutes of privacy to put on that dress before I come out and do it for you.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the adjoining room.

  Ceren whirled to face Evelayn, grabbing her hand. “You can’t do this. It’s not worth it!”

  But Evelayn remained standing as stiff as a statue until the slamming of the bedroom door made her flinch.

  “It’s already done.” She stared down at their clenched hands. “I couldn’t bear it if he … if you … You have younglings.”

  Despite the fissure of fear in her heart that threatened to crack open at the thought of her family, Ceren repeated, “You can’t do this. Sometimes you have to sacrifice the few for the many. We’re not worth this.”

  The flames in the hearth reflected in Evelayn’s eyes, a flash of firelight burning in her violet irises. “Never say that again. I’ve made my decision. We’re not discussing it further. Now help me change before he comes back out.”

  Ceren bit back her retort at the command in Evelayn’s voice and merely nodded, her stomach clenched in horror as she thought of what Lorcan was requiring of her queen.

  THE DRESS WAS LUXURIOUS, DRAPING OVER HER BODY as though it had been made for her. And Evelayn hated it as much as the male who had given it to her.

  “There’s no time to really do anything with your hair,” Ceren said as she finished tying the bodice.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Evelayn ran her fingers through the tangles, trying to keep her trembling under control. I am strong, I am not afraid, she coached herself silently, even though the words rang false. She had to figure out a way to save her friend, and if this was what was required, then so be it.

  If Tanvir had survived, she would have—but he hadn’t, so there was no use thinking of what might have been. Ceren’s future and safety rested in her hands; she would Bind herself to Lorcan to ensure whatever punishment he’d intended to dole out be rescinded. And despite her friend’s protests, it was worth it.

  A knock at the door startled Evelayn. She’d forgotten Lorcan had summoned a servant. Lorcan emerged from the adjoining room and paused for a moment to look her over, his gaze traveling from the top of the dress to her bare feet and then back up again. Without a word, he turned and cracked open the door, shielding them from view.

  “You summoned, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes. I require two guards to escort a female to the prison.”

  “What?” Evelayn burst out, but Ceren grabbed her arm, yanking her back when she moved to storm toward the king.

  If the messenger was shocked at his king’s request or the outburst from inside his quarters, his voice didn’t reveal it when he coolly replied, “Yes, Sire.”

  “And one more thing.” Lorcan leaned forward, murmuring so quietly to the servant that not even Evelayn’s acute hearing could catch his words.

  “Yes, Sire,” the servant repeated, and then Lorcan shut the door and faced the two females once more.

  “You will not take her away.” Evelayn stepped in front of Ceren, hoping she looked braver than the trembling in her knees suggested.

  Lorcan’s eyes narrowed. “Consider carefully what you do in the next few minutes, my lady queen. I have not said I will keep her there—yet. But I must do what is necessary to help you realize the gravity of the situation so you don’t do anything rash, such as change your mind.”

  “Evelayn, don’t,” Ceren whispered, her voice so quiet Evelayn barely heard her warning.

  “I refuse to let you put her down there!”

  “Why ever not? It was good enough for me and my family, wasn’t it?”

  Heat rose up Evelayn’s neck. “You were a threat to my kingdom—to the entire island of Lachalonia!”

  “How can you be sure? What had I ever done to give you that impression?”

  Images flashed through her mind: her mother’s enshrouded body lying on the ground before Evelayn called down the sun to consume her, Bain chasing her through the forest intent on killing her, Tanvir falling to the ground in front of Lorcan—dead.

  Evelayn flung her hands out at Lorcan, reaching for a well of power that had long been empty. When nothing happened, she instead balled her fingers into fists and launched herself at him, pummeling his chest and shoulders over and over again. He withstood the abuse silently, not even flinching.

  “You are a … a monster!” she shouted, beating her fists against his body uselessly, no more effective at hurting him than a mouse nipping at a jaguar’s heels. Or a swan attempting to fight a hawk.

  “A monster, am I?” he repeated coldly. Faster than the blink of an eye he snatched her wrists, halting her attack. She struggled against him, twisting and pulling, but to no avail. He was all sinewy muscle and unadulterated power—far her superior in physical strength. He held her captive.

  “I loathe you,” she spat, having nothing left to fight him with except her words.

  “A fact of which I am fully aware,” he said in that same stony tone. “And yet, if you wish to have your friend returned home safely, I still must require you to break your vow to Tanvir and Bind yourself to me. Perhaps with time, you can learn to see past the monster to the king inside.”

  Rage bubbled up through her belly, burning hot in her hollow heart. There was a time when anger overcoming her in such a way was a warning to calm down or risk causing irreparable harm by losing control, but those memories were a hazy thing of the past. She was entirely powerless now, which made her even more furious, because he was the reason she could do nothing to protect any of her Draíolon, least of all Ceren.

  Nothing except Bind herself to him.

  “You and I both know there is nothing you can do to stop me.” Lorcan’s voice was as soft as velvet, his gaze never wavering from hers. Evelayn’s breaths came
faster despite her attempts to maintain a mien of control. “You have agreed to Bind yourself to me. If you change your mind, you will leave me with no choice but to punish your friend for her crimes.”

  “There is always a choice,” Evelayn said, trying to ignore the branding heat of his hands around her wrists and his body so close to hers.

  “Yes,” Lorcan agreed, “and right now, that choice is yours.”

  Ceren spoke from behind her. “Do not worry for me.”

  “You say that perhaps someday I will realize you are not the monster I say you are—and yet you keep acting like one.” Evelayn continued to ignore her friend. “Why don’t you prove what you claim to be true? Prove you aren’t a monster, and let her go without punishment because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “But is it the right thing to do? Who are you to say what is right or wrong? You know so very little of what has happened—or what is happening—in our kingdoms at this time.” Lorcan’s hands tightened around her wrists, to the point of pain. He towered over her, his eyes flashing as he stared down at her. But still she lifted her chin and clenched her teeth in challenge. They glared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills.

  And then as suddenly as he’d grabbed her wrists in the first place, Lorcan released her with a push, sending her stumbling toward Ceren. He sauntered over to sit in one of the massive, oversize chairs near the fire, lounging back as he regarded her, the picture of insouciance. “You, above all, should recognize that as royals we don’t have the luxury of rash decisions. Everything has consequences, and I fear that you are not quite in possession of enough facts to know whether or not this particular situation warrants the leniency you suggest.” He lifted a hand and idly summoned a flickering black flame to hover above his palm.

  Evelayn forced herself to stand tall as she gazed at the shadowflame he wielded—the casual reminder of just how helpless she was, and how pointless her attempt to defy him. “And yet, the consequences that would follow the exercise of your leniency can be bought with my heart. How convenient for you.”

  Lorcan leaned forward, his silver gaze unrelenting on hers. “Have you ever made a bargain, Evelayn? Taken a gamble because you felt the possible reward was great enough to warrant the risk?”

  Evelayn barely managed to keep control of her expression, hoping she still possessed the skill to hide her true emotions—which at the moment warred between shock and fear. He couldn’t possibly know about what had happened with Máthair Damhán, could he?

  “How is that relevant to this conversation?” She disregarded the warning squeeze of Ceren’s hand on her arm.

  “It has everything to do with this conversation,” he fired back.

  A sudden thunderous boom echoed through the castle, making the very floor shudder beneath her feet. Lorcan shot up from the chair, all pretense of nonchalance erased.

  “What was that?”

  He ignored her, his head cocked, listening. Evelayn’s keen hearing caught the sound of someone running down the hall at the same moment Lorcan turned and rushed toward the door. He was already halfway across the room when someone pounded on the thick wood and then flung it open.

  “What is the meaning—”

  Lorcan’s imperious exclamation cut off when Lothar stumbled into the room, his tunic soaked in blood.

  “I tried … to stop her … I tried …” The words came out with a gurgle, and then he collapsed on the floor.

  LOTHAR!”

  His name came out a hoarse cry as Lorcan rushed to his brother’s side. Lorcan’s hands felt like stone, clumsy and useless, as he ripped away the tunic to reveal two gaping wounds in Lothar’s abdomen. It looked as though he’d been impaled by massive, jagged swords.

  Lorcan barely registered the sound of fighting in the castle as he wadded up the now ruined material and pressed it to one of the wounds to stanch the flow of blood. Suddenly, someone else was there, pressing another bundle of cloth against the other cavernous tear in his brother’s flesh. Lorcan risked a quick glance and was shocked to see Evelayn on her knees beside him, her expression drawn.

  “He’s lost so much blood …” The words were soft, but he heard them as though she’d shouted. Light and Dark Draíolon were capable of healing fast enough to stave off death from most injuries, and royals healed even faster than any others. But these wounds were so large, so terrible …

  “Dammit, Lothar! What happened?” Lorcan pressed even harder, willing his brother’s flesh to knit together, to repair itself before he bled out right in front of him. After all the years of trying to keep Lothar from receiving the brunt of their father’s wrath and wildly violent mood swings, was this how his life would end?

  “Sire! Bar the door! Sire!” The warning shout echoed down the hallway as yet another boom shook the stone walls and floor.

  “Who could possibly attack you and do this?” Evelayn asked.

  Lorcan looked up at Evelayn, at the concern on her beautiful face, and the hold she already had on him squeezed ever tighter. “I am afraid we’re about to find out.”

  Their gazes remained locked for one breathless moment, and then she said, “You must go. Go and stop them.” Evelayn shouldered him back, placing her hand over Lorcan’s to keep pressure on his compress. “Ceren—come help me!”

  Lorcan stared down at her hand on top of his night-black one and then at Lothar’s still, bloodless face, his copper skin paled to fawn. Ice and darkness rose through his body, a massive wave of power summoned by his fear and fury.

  Another boom rattled the castle, and Evelayn practically shouted, “Go!”

  He loathed the necessity of it but knew she was right. With a growl, Lorcan pulled his hand out from under hers and jumped to his feet. Without a word, he strode out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him in hopes of protecting those inside from whatever terror had entered the castle.

  This late at night the hallway was dark, but that was to his advantage. His eyesight was as keen as any nocturnal creature’s. Ahead, a handful of Dark Draíolon barricaded the top of the stairs, wielding shadow-swords and hurtling great blasts of shadowflame at whatever intruder had penetrated the castle defenses to this point.

  Lorcan moved silently toward the sentries, all of his senses trained on what lay ahead. The air was full of the rank stench of spilled blood, the acrid musk of burnt upholstery, along with a heavy dose of fear and adrenaline mixed together like lightning traveling through snow. But there, beneath it all, was a faint scent that stopped him in his tracks.

  He took a deep, steadying breath and summoned his own twin swords made of writhing darkness and shadowflame.

  Then he plunged into the fray.

  Evelayn’s hands shook from the effort of pressing down so hard, but she was afraid to let up even a tiny bit, sure Lothar had very little—if any—blood left to spare.

  “I don’t understand. Not only does he have full access to his power, but he’s a royal. Who could have possibly done this?” she whispered to Ceren, who was likewise pressing down on his torso.

  “And during Athrúfar, when they are coming into the height of their power,” Ceren added, just as quietly. With the door shut, the sounds of the fight were muffled slightly, but they could still hear it—along with cries of dismay and fear as Draíolon in the rooms all around them were awoken by the commotion.

  Evelayn gazed down at the still, too-pale face of Lorcan’s brother. The brothers shared similar bone structure but very few other likenesses. Lothar had the same copper skin as his father, rather than the obsidian-black tone Lorcan had inherited from their mother.

  “Where is Abarrane?” she asked at the thought of the other queen. “Is she here as well?”

  “Sometimes,” Ceren answered without looking up. “Lorcan regularly sends her back to Dorjhalon to be his eyes and ears in their kingdom.”

  Another boom shuddered through the castle, accompanied by screams of pain that were suddenly silenced. Evelayn’s hands trembled against the blood-soaked
compress.

  “Is his tissue regenerating at all?”

  “I don’t dare release the pressure to look.”

  Evelayn shut her eyes and offered up a brief prayer to spare the prince of Dorjhalon. Lothar had never shown any inclination to take after his father, mother, or brother. She’d made the wrong choice when she’d allowed Lorcan to live and let him claim the power back for his people. And if Lothar died now, there was no hope of ever replacing Lorcan as king without destroying the balance in Lachalonia in the other direction … at least until he had a son who was of age.

  Realizing the futile direction of her thoughts, a tiny burst of laughter slipped out.

  “What could possibly be funny about this situation?” Ceren finally looked up, her eyebrows raised.

  “I was thinking we can’t let Lothar die, because if he dies, then I can’t kill Lorcan without permanently destroying the balance in our world. Which is quite funny actually, when one remembers the fact that I am completely powerless. Oh—and the minor detail of having now promised to Bind myself to him.” Evelayn laughed again, a hollow, almost hysterical sound.

  “You’re not powerless. There are other types of power—other ways to win this battle.” But the despair reflected back to her in Ceren’s eyes when their gazes met over Lothar’s prone body spoke a different story than her words.

  “Perhaps you are right,” Evelayn said, even though she was certain neither of them believed it.

  The door suddenly banged open, making them jump. Evelayn’s body went cold as she twisted to see who was coming for them—they had no weapons, no shields, no power. No hope of defending themselves and protecting the prince.

  But no one entered. The sounds of fighting were louder than ever. There was a thud and a dull bang, the sound of a fist slamming into flesh and something crashing into the wall. Lorcan’s voice was audible but distant; she couldn’t even make out his words. She tensed, though she had no idea what she could do.

  Another thud—a body hitting the floor?—and then a tall, disheveled Draíolon walked through the doorway.