Flay went wide-eyed with dismay. “Do you even know when you're lying?”
“You must free me.”
“Beg your princess to save you. Perhaps if you scream, she'll hear you in Edinburgh. I saw her there. Do you think I'm a fool? Do you think I'm an idiot? I should kill you here, you bastard. You deserve it.”
Gareth dropped his chin to his chest at Flay's scorn. It couldn't end from jealousy. Such a small emotion to tilt the world.
“Touching,” came another voice from the door. Cesare strolled in, grimacing uncomfortably at the aura wafting off the talisman. He glanced at the war chief. “Why are you here, Flay?”
She retracted her claws with obvious effort. “I wanted to see the Greyfriar alive one last time.”
Cesare looked at Goronwy, who studied Gareth as if he were inside a test tube. “So your trinket works, Witchfinder.”
“I told you they would, my lord. You are the master of humans and vampires now.”
“Yes. Just as it should be.” The young king-to-be laughed. He crossed his arms and regarded Gareth. “I admired you when I was young. You were going to be a great king; my only future was to be your councilor. Then the bottom dropped out of you. When Dmitri needed you after the Great Killing, you weren't there. But I was. And in an odd way, I was angry with you. You were such a colossal disappointment to everyone. Even to me.” Cesare leaned against the wall, lost in his own memories. “I almost wish I didn't have to kill you, but I can't allow anyone to know that my brother was the Greyfriar. It reflects badly on the entire family, you know.” Cesare reached out and clamped his hand around the back of Flay's neck, half playfully, but with clear threat. “Your days are done, Gareth. There is no one here to help you.”
Flay said in a restrained voice, “What of his princess?”
“Ah yes.” Cesare raised a curious eyebrow. “The Death Bringer. Empress Adele.”
With sudden alarm, Gareth said through bloodstained teeth, “You don't think she's stupid enough to come here to save me, do you? She won't fall into your trap.”
“This isn't a trap,” Cesare replied cavalierly. “I don't want her in London. She's far too dangerous. I've brought my packs back into the city in case she was to wander in here. But I'm leaving for Edinburgh in a moment to kill her. And to kill everyone who lives there. Alone. Personally.”
Gareth laughed. “You don't stand a chance. She'll render you into a pile of ashes.”
“Normally, I might agree with you,” Cesare replied as he fumbled awkwardly in his coat pocket. He drew out a chain with an odd bluish crystal hanging from it. “But, you see, I am far more intelligent than you. I had the forethought to prepare a weapon against the empress.”
The human geomancer chuckled with self-satisfaction and nodded. “My lord, don't bring that talisman too close to this one or it may fracture the facets.”
Gareth had felt a slight weakening of the fire burning on his chest when Cesare revealed the blue stone. Cesare noticed the concern on his brother's face and clutched the cold talisman in triumph.
“This little thing,” Cesare said, “will counteract Adele's abilities long enough for me to slaughter her. Correct, Witchfinder?”
“That is so,” Goronwy responded. “It is a triumph of research.”
Cesare grinned at Gareth and repeated, “Yes. A triumph of research. Your fearsome empress will be nothing more than a helpless girl.”
Gareth surged forward, straining against the chains, snarling. Cesare nodded to Goronwy, who pressed the talisman hard into Gareth's chest. The Scottish prince screamed as fire lanced his veins, and the world went black.
When Gareth's eyes opened again, he made out blurred images of Flay and the human witchfinder. He muttered, “Cesare.”
“Gone,” Flay announced. “An hour past. Bound for Edinburgh.”
Gareth tried to move, willed his weak limbs to fight his bonds. He couldn't hear the chains make the slightest jangling. Even so, he gasped for breath from the effort. He looked up. “Flay, I'll give you anything you want. I'll make you queen. I beg you. I have to stop him.”
The war chief glanced swiftly to Goronwy for an instant, as if there was the briefest chance of believing again. Gareth held his breath until her eyes dropped to the floor. Then she quickly turned away and walked out the door.
Gareth summoned up the last of his pitiful strength to scream, “Flay! Please!”
There was no reply.
uSS BOLIVAR SMELLED horrible.
It had been a week of being trapped in close quarters, in narrow corridors, and tight cabins with a crew of two hundred, plus companies of marines. The airship never dropped into temperate atmosphere to air itself out. The aluminum-burst engines filled every crevice with a nauseating metallic tinge that infected every bite of food, every swallow of water, and every breath taken.