The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,74
howl of the wind outside made him shudder with remembered cold. His physical exhaustion was deeper than any he’d experienced before. His entire body hurt, not with the sharp fire of magical overload, but with a deep, pounding ache. His eyelids seemed weighted by lead. Sleep promised welcome oblivion, but the chill hostility in Dev’s eyes kept jerking him back from the brink.
If only Dev hadn’t seen Ruslan’s akhelsya sigil! Anger or fear, either one might easily grow to outweigh Dev’s desire for payment. But how could Kiran prevent betrayal to Ruslan or the Alathians? He could think of no argument he hadn’t employed already. Money seemed a frail thread to hang all his hope on.
His thoughts slowed despite himself, his body surrendering to sleep’s ever more insistent pull. For a time, exhaustion kept his sleep dark and dreamless. But as the hours passed and his body slowly recovered, the inner darkness faded, replaced by memories.
“What is it that has upset you, little one?” Lizaveta looked up at him from where she reclined on a low couch. Her jasmine-scented black hair slid in a heavy fall over one smooth brown shoulder to pool on the crimson folds of her robe.
Kiran was too agitated to sit. “You have to help me, khanum Liza, please. I can’t live like this, I won’t! Can’t you undo the binding?”
Her kohl-lined eyes followed him as he paced. “You know the answer to that, Kiranushka. The mark-binding is forever. No one can undo it.” She sat up and reached for his hand. “Can you not see how much he loves you? All these years he has waited for you to take your place with Mikail at his side.”
Kiran stopped short, baring his teeth. “Loves me? Loves me? How can you say that, after what he did?”
Her face remained placid, though a shadow moved through the liquid depths of her eyes. Gently, she drew him down to sit beside her. “Ruslan is sometimes...hasty. He only meant to teach a lesson. Can you not forgive him?”
He jerked his hand from her grasp, feeling the bitter sting of tears. “I will never forgive him. Never. He is a monster.” He swiped at his eyes. “I refuse to be one. I’ll kill myself, if that’s what it takes to free myself from this.” He gestured furiously at his chest, where Ruslan’s mark lay.
Lizaveta’s delicately painted lips curved. “Ah, Kiran. Always so dramatic.” She sighed. “I told Ruslan as much when he first brought you to me. This one, I said, this child does not have the right temperament for our life.” She traced a finger down his cheek. “But your life-light burned so brightly, so full of power, so eager and so loving—how could we not love you in return?”
“I mean it, khanum Liza. Help me, or I’ll seek the only release left to me.”
“Very well, little one. I will help you, on one condition.” She paused, her eyes on Kiran’s face.
“What?” Kiran said, unwillingly.
“You must give me a binding blood-promise: you will not kill yourself, by direct or indirect action, no matter what should occur.”
Kiran glared at her. “No! If I do that, you’ll just hand me back to him, the moment I step out your door.”
Lizaveta’s eyes grew hard, her face stern. “Give me this promise, and I will help you leave Ruslan. I have said it. Do you doubt my word?” Her voice cut through the air like a whip.
“I...no.” Kiran bowed his head. “I’m sorry, khanum Liza.”
“Then what is your answer?”
He was silent for a long moment, biting his lip. At last he met her eyes. “I will promise.”
She rose and glided over to an ornately decorated side table, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. A sigil glowed to life on a chest carved with spineflowers as she approached. She removed a silver knife and bowl from the chest, and padded softly back to him. Seating herself gracefully on the couch, she placed the bowl between them, and held out a hand, palm up. The knife waited, gleaming, in the other.
Slowly, he extended his own hand. With practiced, rapid motions, she cut matching lines first on his palm, then hers, following the lifeline. Blood welled up to coat the silver blade. She clasped his hand, and he drew in a sharp breath as blood met blood and her magic rose to envelop him. If Ruslan was all blazing red fire, she was something much more dark and subtle, a deep violet vine twining through