Lightbringer (Empirium #3) - Claire Legrand Page 0,86

of a thumb against skin, making the world’s flesh stretch and pucker.

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she lowered Remy gently to the courtyard below, the clean white stone now marred by something Eliana could not bring herself to look at. Instead, she watched a pair of guards lift Remy to his feet and escort him away until he was lost in the shadows.

She huddled on the terrace, shivering against the parapet. She laid her cheek on the rough cool stone, and as she listened to the sounds of soldiers carrying away Ioseph’s body, something broke within her. Not a snap, but a gentle giving way, as if a tree gone soft and half-rotted had been standing too tall in harsh winds and could no longer bear its own weight. An exhaustion unlike any she had felt before fell over her, drawing a thick blanket of numbness over her thoughts.

She barely noticed Corien helping her rise. He smoothed her hair back from her face, wiped away her tears.

“What a waste to make you endure this,” he said. “We would make a happy family, if you allowed it. You, me, Remy. Your mother too, once I’ve found her. I’ll let you flay Simon down to his bones if you wish and keep him alive for every second of agony.”

Corien’s thumb caressed her jaw. He watched her with eyes blacker than the sky above them. “Send me back, Eliana, and you’ll never have to feel like this again.”

Then he turned and was gone, and Eliana slipped into a quiet dark tunnel devoid of life. When she found light once more, she was on her clean white bed in her clean white rooms, every surface awash in soft moonlight. She curled atop the blankets, shivering.

A crackling sound spit through the room, a warped buzz that reminded her of the sour hiss of galvanized lighting. From a brass funnel affixed to the wall, high in a corner of the room above a bundle of thick wires, came the soaring melody of the orchestra playing in the theater downstairs. The brass device distorted the sound, making it seem as though the orchestra were making music on a distant high mountain.

Eliana did not know how Corien had achieved this, nor did she care. The music struck her ears like the blunt heels of vicious hands, and she let them pummel her to sleep.

• • •

Eliana awoke to the nauseating smell of breakfast arriving.

She watched dully as her white-robed attendants carried dishes to the small white dining table by the south-facing windows—a plate, a bowl, a pitcher, a goblet. The scent of food sat in her nose and mouth like a sour film. Eliana turned away from the neatly set table. If she looked at it for another second, she would be sick.

There was a moment of silence, and then from the doorway came a sharp huff of impatience. Jessamyn appeared, marching over to Eliana’s bed in her trim black uniform. A small collection of sheathed knives hung from her belt.

“You will eat every bite,” she commanded, yanking Eliana upright. “His Excellency commands it.”

Eliana did not resist. Once on her feet, she followed Jessamyn to the table. Her mind felt muddled; to move her legs, to think her thoughts, was to slog through a swamp. She felt as though she had been pulled through a tight chasm into a state that was neither awake nor asleep.

And yet her gaze flitted to Jessamyn’s daggers. How easily her thoughts tipped to Arabeth and Nox and Whistler, her own beloved, long-gone knives. Slowly, an idea began to form.

Eliana sat before her breakfast and measured her breathing, allowed her idea to grow. If she moved too quickly, she would disrupt the fog that kept her mind torpid, and Corien would sense what she intended and stop her.

“Eat,” Jessamyn snapped, standing tall beside the table.

Eliana lifted a spoonful of mash to her lips. Morning light filtered through the windows; the glass was spotless, and beyond it, a dove perched on the gutter preened its feathers.

Eliana’s idea turned and sharpened, steadily taking shape. She could not—would not—help Corien. And yet she could not endure more of this. The endless nightly torment, Remy brought before her and abused, the inability to trust her own mind.

This was the answer. She had to end his game before he could win, and this was the only way to do it.

She ate under Jessamyn’s watchful gaze. Spoon from bowl to lips until the dish was clean, and