Corien considered that for a long moment. “She could be here. She could be anywhere. She could be nowhere.”

Simon swallowed hard. His heart pounded like hooves against rock. He was a stampede. He held so still that his thin body burned with tension.

“Yes, my lord,” he whispered.

“Then a marque will be useful. Even one whose magic is dead and gone.”

Then, Corien froze. Simon felt a shift in his mind, and then a sudden, hard stillness, as if something had lodged deep within him and would never move again.

Corien pulled away to stare at him, and the expression he wore now was so different from what had been there before that Simon quailed and tried to move.

But Corien held him fast.

“I see it now, in your face,” he whispered. His black gaze raked across Simon’s every scar. “You are the man I saw when Rielle’s daughter came to her that day, on the mountain…” A single soft laugh. Something cleared in his face, and Simon did not understand what it meant, nor did he comprehend anything Corien was saying.

“You are Simon Randell,” said Corien. He touched his temple, his slender fingers trembling. “Of course you are. And now you are here.” He kissed Simon’s brow, and at the touch of his cold lips, a warmth bloomed in Simon’s body, steadying him.

“And now,” Corien whispered, “you are mine.”

“Perhaps I can reawaken my magic, my lord,” Simon blurted eagerly. Something had happened between them, though Simon did not know what. All he knew with certainty was that he would never be alone again. “I’ve tried, but alone I’ve failed. Maybe with you…”

He stopped, flushing under Corien’s keen black gaze. What did Corien see when he looked at him? For the first time, Simon felt the humiliation of his ruined skin.

But Corien only held out his hand, and with the other, he gently lifted Simon’s chin. Simon squirmed in his grip.

“Yes, Simon.” Corien smiled. His fingers closed around Simon’s own. “Maybe with me.”

Then Corien’s mind claimed him.

The pain came without warning. Simon was staring up at Corien, and then Simon was screaming, but no sound escaped his lips, for Corien would not permit it to. Something—some awful, insistent presence—was splitting Simon’s skull apart, tearing at each thought he had ever known, each memory living inside him. Searching for truth. Hunting for lies. It was unlike anything he had ever felt. Before, Corien had barely swept his mind.

Now, he was unmaking it.

“I am sorry, Simon.” Corien smiled down at him, watching him writhe in his arms. “The world is a strange place, and there is no stranger part of it than the twists and turns of time. I must know for certain that you are mine and mine alone. I must know I can trust you.”

Then he pressed his cheek to Simon’s brow and whispered, “We have much work to do, you and I.”

It was the last sound Simon heard before his mind shattered.

1

   Rielle

“‘But how did it happen?’ many have asked. ‘How was one zealot able to convince all of angelic kind to turn on their human brothers and sisters? We all share the world. Why was he not deemed a lunatic and punished for his bloodlust?’ The answer is simple: Kalmaroth was an irresistible force never before seen in our world—and I pray he will never be seen again.”

—The writings of Zedna Tanakret, Grand Magister of the Baths in Morsia, capital of Meridian, Year 287 of the Second Age

Rielle kept her face hidden in Corien’s cloak.

She pressed her nose to the fine dark cloth and inhaled his scent, holding her breath as long as she could. His smell soothed her; she devoured it.

She peered out from under the cloak’s hood as Corien killed each person in the merchant’s party. It was swift, efficient work, and she watched it through a glaze of calm that, distantly, disturbed her.

But when she thought about that too hard, it hurt her head, so she decided to stop thinking about it and instead watched Corien kill.

There were four men, all of them wearing heavy coats and boots to ward off the November chill, and they never raised a weapon against him. Why would they? He was a vision, approaching them with his wide smile and his cheekbones that seemed cut from pale glass, his black hair clinging to his forehead and his slender white frame shivering in the snow. A piteous figure, and lovely too. It was no wonder that the merchants had drawn their carriage to a halt when they spotted him on the roadside, waving his sputtering squat torch like a beggar. He could have forced them to stop, but he delighted in being able to manipulate them even without using his angelic power.

She waited until all the men were dead, their frames bent in the dirt and their frozen faces contorted with horror, before lowering her hood. One man lay near the carriage, arms outstretched as if he had been trying in his last moments to scramble inside.

Rielle stepped over his wide, staring eyes, gray and glassy, and climbed inside the carriage with a tiny satisfied smile. It felt like an odd sort of smile, affixed to her face rather than summoned by her own will. But it was warm inside the shabby carriage, and she did hate feeling cold.

She pitied the man though. She pitied all of them. At least she thought she did. She couldn’t think much about anything without her thoughts veering off into a calm gray sea draped with fog. She didn’t understand where the fog had come from, but she liked when it enveloped her. It was warm and still, like an old quilt.

Touching her temple, blinking hard, she recalled, with monumental effort, the pain that had drummed against her skull as Corien and Ludivine warred inside her thoughts these recent weeks. If either of them had turned the full force of their angelic might upon her with an aim to kill her from the inside out, they could have done so easily. The pain of dying in such a way would be extraordinary.

No, Rielle did not envy these men.

But she was safe now, far from Ludivine, and she hadn’t heard her loathsome voice in some days now, and of course Corien would never hurt her. Even thinking of him mollified her, like the embrace of sleep after a long day.

Rielle peered out through the frosted window and into the forest, an impenetrable black on a storming, moonless night.

It was foolish to worry that anyone else had seen them. Corien had told her this, and she repeated his words to herself. This stretch of the eastern Celdarian border was remote, he had reminded her, the unkind terrain dense with forests, mountains, and cliffs. Roads were few and ill kept. And the coming storm was rumbling closer, spitting snow and lightning. Any traveler of sound mind would stay home, safe and warm.

And yet, Rielle realized, her thoughts moving sluggishly as she tried to order them, the dead merchants had braved the night, eager for coin. If anyone else came upon them, if they caught a glimpse of her face and knew who she was, they would interfere. They would send word back to the capital. They would try to capture her in hopes of a reward from the crown, and she would have to dispose of them, ruin their trail of whispers and messages, and that could become…untidy.