The soldiers jerked up one of Lara’s legs, pulling off her shoe, and without hesitation, Serin pressed the hot blade against the bottom of her foot.
She screamed, and it was the worst sound Aren had ever heard.
He lunged toward her, the stone bench skidding against the ground, the manacles slicing into his wrists, blood running down his hands. “Let her go!” he screamed. “Lara!”
Serin smiled. “And here I’d heard that you cared nothing for our errant princess. That if her father chose to cut off her head, you’d hand him the sword.”
“I’m going to kill you for this!”
“I’m sure you’d like to.” The Magpie held the knife back above the brazier. “How much do you think she can take? As I recall, Lara was quite resilient. Remarkably so.”
“Please.” Aren dragged the bench, inch by inch, toward her, but the guards only retreated back a pace.
“What was that?” Serin pressed the blade to Lara’s other foot, her shrill screams echoing through the courtyard. “Age has done nothing for my hearing, I’m afraid.”
“Please! Please don’t hurt her.”
“Ah.” Serin lowered the knife. “Well, in that case, perhaps we might come to an agreement. You tell us how to breach Eranahl’s defenses, and all this will be over.”
No.
Serin snapped his fingers, and a guard appeared, carrying a leather roll of tools, which the spymaster carefully unrolled. “I’ve made something of an art of this over the years.”
“There is no way to break inside Eranahl.” The words croaked from Aren’s throat. “The shipbreakers will destroy any ship that gets close.”
“What if one had a rather large fleet at their disposal?”
“Try it. See how it goes.”
Serin extracted one of the tools. “It’s your city. You surely know its weaknesses.”
“There are none.”
“Shame.” Serin turned to Lara, glittering metal in his hand, and a heartbeat later, she shrieked wordlessly.
“Stop! Let her go! Please!” A garbled mix of words spilled from his throat, his body shuddering from the effort of dragging the bench closer. He had to help her. Had to save her.
“How do we get into Eranahl?” Serin turned to look at him. “No? Let’s see how she holds up to losing her fingers.”
“Pull out the damned gate!” Desperate, Aren screamed the words. It was the truth, except it would do them no good. But if it saved Lara . . .
“How do we manage that?” Serin picked up another tool, and Aren fell to his knees, saying, “Please.”
“A strategy, Aren. Give us a strategy, and this will all be over.”
At that moment, Lara twisted. Jerking free from the grip of the guards holding her, she threw herself toward Aren, tumbling into him. And before the guards could fall upon them, she reached up with her bound wrists and pulled the sack from her head.
Emra, the young commander of Kestark garrison, stared up at him, her eyes full of agony and desperation. Blood oozed from her mouth, explaining why she hadn’t spoken. Her eyes were blackened and swollen.
“Idiots,” Serin hissed at the guards. “Get her back.”
The men moved closer, their eyes wary, and Aren pulled the young woman against him even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them off for long. And once they had her, Serin would torture her until she was dead or Aren gave him what he wanted.
Emra made a noise, the word barely distinguishable. But the plea was clear.
Aren took a deep breath.
“Stop him!” Serin shrieked, but Aren was faster, the crack of Emra’s neck breaking stopping both soldiers in their tracks.
Slowly, he lowered the young woman to the ground, not bothering to fight as the men dragged her out of his reach.
“Hang her up,” Serin said, and Aren clenched his teeth, forcing himself to watch as the men dragged her over to the wall. One of the soldiers above dropped a rope, which they fastened around her neck, the trio hauling her up until she hung, out of reach, from one of the cornices, the blood dripping from her foot splattering against the green of the lawn.
“Is this how it’s to be, Serin?” Aren forced his voice to steady. “You mining Ithicana for young women to masquerade as Lara?”
The Magpie rubbed his chin. “Mining . . . You see, Aren, mining isn’t the correct word. That would imply we sought this little bird out, when in reality, she flew to us.”
Aren’s blood chilled.
“Your people seem unwilling to let you go,” Serin said. “And while this was only the first attempt to rescue you, I highly doubt it will be the last.” Then he gestured to the waiting soldiers. “Bring out the other two prisoners.”
But before they could move, a voice cut through the air. “Good God, Serin! Don’t you have holes and dark places where you conduct this sort of business? What’s next? Beheadings at the dinner table?”
Aren turned his head to see a slender man dressed in Maridrinian finery watching from a dozen paces away, his arms crossed and his lip curled up with disgust. He picked his way toward them, carefully avoiding the splatters of blood on the path. Behind him, two Maridrinian soldiers escorted a Valcottan woman, her wrists bound. She was tall and slender, her curly dark hair cut short, her brown eyes wide and framed with an abundance of lashes. Beautiful, but her brown skin bore faded bruises and her bottom lip was scabbed where it had been split.
“Your Highness.” Serin gave a cursory bow. “You are supposed to be in Nerastis.”
“Yes, well, we captured ourselves quite a prize. It seemed prudent that I ensure she arrive in one piece. Broken things make for less valuable leverage.”
Eyeing the captive, Serin arched an eyebrow. “General Zarrah Anaphora, the Empress’s niece. You’ve outdone yourself, Highness. You’ll be in your father’s favor.”
“I doubt that.”
Serin made a noncommittal noise. “Now that you’ve delivered her, I assume you’ll be returning to Nerastis immediately.”
Not a question, but a statement. Whichever one of Silas’s sons this was, the Magpie clearly did not care to have him in Vencia.
The prince pushed a lock of his dark blond hair behind one ear, blue eyes regarding Aren with interest. “Is this the Ithicanian king, then? I must say, he’s less terrifying than I anticipated. I’m rather disappointed to see that he does not, in fact, have horns.”
“The former king. Ithicana no longer exists.”
The prince’s gaze flicked to where Emra hung from the wall, then back to Aren. “My mistake. Do carry on.”
Stepping past Aren, he started in the direction of the tower, the soldiers escorting General Anaphora following.
But as they passed, she wrenched out of their grip, falling to her knees in front of Aren. “I am sorry, Your Grace.” Her eyes latched on his, and he saw they glistened with tears. “For all that you have lost. And for the part I played in that coming to pass. I pray one day to have the opportunity to atone.”
Before Aren could answer, one of the soldiers dragged her back up, snarling, “The only thing you should be praying for is that His Majesty chooses not to spike your head on Vencia’s gate, you Valcottan wretch!”