to himself and pretend that he had not—but then he blinked and saw the children in the mirrored room, some of them barely older than the girl in his arms. And on the heels of this image came Carroll’s voice, so close that Christian could almost feel the Captain’s breath in his ear.
Make no mistake, this is how you will be judged: on what you do in the quiet.
Thorne moved forward another few inches, holding out his arms. Distantly, Christian noted that he had a knife in his left hand. The knife was no danger to Christian . . . but it wasn’t meant for him.
“Be a smart lad,” Thorne coaxed. “Give her to me.”
I could. I could. She’s dead already.
Perhaps, Christian. But does it have to be you?
A quiet sound came from beneath his chin. Looking down, Christian found the baby looking up at him, her gaze unblinking and strangely contemplative. Her tiny hand reached up, and Christian saw that she was straining for his mace. Instinctively, he began to jerk it away, and then stopped, for her fascination with the weapon was clearly the only thing keeping her quiet. The mace’s points were sharp but clean of blood. He had never covered them in poison, as some men did with their blades. He could watch her, make sure she didn’t hurt herself. And—
What are you thinking? Do something!
“Lazarus? Your answer?”
This is it, Christian realized. The quiet, the place of judgment. And am I Lazarus, or Christian?
“No,” he heard himself say. “You won’t have her.”
“Dearest. Take him.”
The witch pushed back her hood, locking eyes with Christian. He tucked the girl against him, trying to make his arm into a shield, knowing all the while the futility of it. All the old rumors were true. The witch could kill with a glance, turn a man’s mind inside out and smile while she did it. He would die in the Creche; only as this knowledge tore through him, with unexpected pain, did Christian realize how badly he had wanted to end his life topside. He raised his mace, preparing to make a good fight of it . . . and then something happened that he did not understand.
He would not understand it for another nineteen years.
Brenna’s smile slipped. She bit her pale lower lip, glaring at Christian as though she might bore holes into him, her icy eyes wide—
And nothing happened.
“No,” Brenna whispered. “Oh, no.”
“Dearest?” Thorne demanded. “What is it?”
“Oh, God. He has it. Hidden, both of them . . .”
“Has what?” Thorne grabbed Brenna, shaking her shoulders. “Has what? Make sense, damn you!”
“The jewels,” Brenna whispered brokenly. “I cannot fight both of them, not unless I abandon you, master. I can’t fight them both.”
What is she talking about? Christian wondered. But then he felt it . . . burning, almost searing against his chest. He had forgotten the dreadful scene in the Queen’s bedroom, the way her eyes had stabbed into him. The jewel she had hung around his neck.
“What is this nonsense?” Thorne snapped. “Take the child!”
“Master, I cannot.”
Thorne slapped her, sending her reeling backward toward the wall. Christian darted away, behind Fortune, placing the horse’s solid bulk between himself and Thorne. He expected the baby to begin screaming again at any moment—was shocked, in fact, that she had not done so already—but she merely lay quiet in the crook of Christian’s arm as he skidded across the mold-slimed floor, retreating from Thorne, who had begun to edge around the horse’s flank, knife in hand.
“Are you Blue Horizon, Lazarus?” Thorne asked. “I can think of no other reason for you to be so stupid. So stubborn.”
“One needn’t believe in the better world to say no to you, Arlen.” Christian said the name with relish, meaning it as an insult . . . but then he stopped, for his mind had finally made the connection, put two and two together.
“Arlen,” he repeated. “Yes, I see. Cast off?”
The shot hit; for a moment Thorne’s mask slipped, revealing much of himself.
“The past does not concern me, Lazarus. Only the future matters.”
“Well, at least we agree on that,” Christian replied, gripping his mace in one hand, tightening the other around the girl’s squirming body. “Come on, then. No witches, no special tricks. Just you and me.”
But Thorne remained still, his eyes assessing, and after a moment Christian smiled.
“You know I can beat you, don’t you, scarecrow? Even with one hand tied.”
“Master, please!” the witch moaned from the floor. It occurred to Christian that