Chapter Thirty-four
She tore to the window to watch the Illyrians and Fae of the Hewn City pour from buildings all around, weapons drawn and striking those down who were unlucky enough to be in their path. Illyrians launched into the sky, taking flight to soar above the buildings. Some took Faeries with them, dropped them from high enough that their heads split open like melons when they crashed back to the ground.
It wasn't long before the streets were painted in red, before bodies were littering everywhere she looked.
Naya darted back to the door, pounded her fists against the locked exit, screamed when she thought she could scream no more. She was too high, too high to jump three stories down, and with no wings she couldn't very well fly.
She lifted a broken brick that lay on the floor beside the wall it had fallen from, threw it at the glass of the window. It shattered and rained down to the cobblestone below.
"Help!" she screamed. "Someone! I'm up here!"
Her pleas were drowned out by the mighty beats of Illyrian wings, by the death cries of those who were falling.
She had to get to Azriel. She had to tell him this wasn't the only attack, that Marcius and the females would soon be facing down an army too.
Naya kicked out the rest of the panes of the window, until the glass could not cut her, peered down to the ground. She had never been afraid of heights before, not when she'd had wings to take her to the stars. Now, her body turned liquid, her muscles shook with fright.
If she could just get across the ledge, twenty feet in one direction, she could climb to a nearby roof, use the water drain to slide down to the alleyway.
She swallowed her terror and threw a leg over. Her boot was unsteady on the ledge; her fingers could only grasp at the places where the mortar had chipped away. She pressed herself flush against the brick, prayed she wouldn't slip, that none of the enemies would spot her before she could get to her destination.
One shuffling step to the side at a time, she told herself. She tried to filter out the chaos behind her so she could focus. She was halfway there. She could see the details of the shingles on the roof.
A piece of the ledge was loose, broke out and crumbled beneath her step. Her foot slipped, threatened to take the other with it. With all her might, she dug her fingers as far into the wall as she could get them, clung for her life until the debris finished falling and her footing was secure.
She drew in breath, held it in her lungs as she convinced herself to go on. She tested her next step carefully, waited to see if it would give way past the gap she had made. When it didn't, she moved slower than before, knowing that each second that passed was another second closer to more death.
When she unlatched herself from the tiny ledge and had feet on solid roof, she allowed herself to exhale. It refreshed her mind, cleared her vision from blackening. The water drain was nothing. It held securely under her weight as she wrapped her hands around the metal and slid down the length.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was running. She didn't know her way around Velaris, didn't even know if she was going the right way. No buildings looked familiar, no shops. If she could just find the Sidra, she could follow it to home.
A great shadow passed overhead, carrying a sword made of red light, so far above she could not see his face. She only recognized him by his siphons. Seven, red gems that glowed and manifested the weapon he wielded to strike down the predators in the sky.
Those he killed rained down to the streets, discarded Illyrians who were no match for Cassian even with their numbers. A dark cloud of them circled him, wings enclosing him in a cocoon of darkness she couldn't see him through.
His blinding, ruby light shone out between the cracks of their bodies and as if it burned straight through them, they burst apart, fell dead away.
"Cassian!" she yelled his name. "Cassian, I'm down here!"
He could not hear her from way up there, didn't even glance down in her direction before he was flying away towards the next wave of Illyrians.
Rhysand and Feyre would be up there too. Azriel somewhere. The Sidra or them, she bolstered herself. Just get to one.
The alleyway ended in front of her, blocked by a towering building that allowed her no exit from this way. She had to double back, would have to go through the streets…over and through the bodies.
She peeked out around the corner, checked for anyone who would be left alive. There were moans coming from many of the fallen, weakening hands holding together split wounds, but she knew she could not help them. Not now. Not like this.
There were Fae from the Hewn City mixed in, even a few Illyrians. There were not nearly as many against the citizens who had lost their lives, but enough that showed their fight and unwillingness to go down without one.
A kitchen knife was buried in the belly of one of the Illyrians, the hilt the only thing showing amongst his spilled guts. His bloody sword lay clutched in his grasp.
Naya ran to him, peeled away his dead and still warm fingers so that she could take the weapon. She may not know how to use it, but if push came to shove, she would learn in the moment.
The screams were growing fainter from where she was, whether from her friends crippling the army against them, or from there being no citizens left to kill. Naya followed the last of the cries, ran towards them.
That's where her friends would be, in the heart of battle. Flashes of red colored the clouds with each burst of Cassian's powers, visible to her, confirming her guess.
She took off in a sprint. They would believe her, she had to tell herself, to keep her feet moving. They would see the lies Keir and the Illyrian leaders had laid against her. Azriel would know that she had not tried to show him his worth only to prove it all false, a ruse to get him close so she could betray him.
Elain would be alive, and on her way to healing.
Tears blurred her vision as she tried to keep from tripping over corpses. She could see darkness ahead, a wave of it that had to belong to either Rhysand or Feyre.
She opened her mouth to call their names when an Illyrian stepped out in front of her. The tip of his sword dragged along the ground, scraping over the stone as he walked towards her as though he had all the time in the world to savor her fear.
She went to lift her sword, bloodied from the last person it had killed, when the blade of another shot through the Illyrian's chest. When it was yanked back out, his body fell away and it was Azriel who stood behind him, who had dealt the killing blow.
The relief sagged her body, and she cried out, a hand coming to her throat. She let her weapon fall to the ground, clatter over the cobblestone and be lost amongst the blood. Her legs moved to carry her towards him, her mouth opened to speak, her eyes lifted to his face.
She froze. The rage he wore showed him as an Illyrian she had never seen before, neither friend nor lover, no kindness spared to offer her. She sank back on her heels, and true terror ripped through her at the sight of him.
She thought of what he would see, of what he would make of how he'd found her: her standing in a pile of his citizens corpses, a bloodied sword in her hand that still dripped with the wetness. The Illyrian who had walked towards her hadn't screamed, hadn't raged against her. From an outside perspective, behind as Azriel was, he may have thought he was coming to rejoin her.
"Azriel." She tried to speak, but lost her voice as he stalked towards her, his sword still in a grip that turned his knuckles white. He was the embodiment of death delivered on swift wings.
She backed away quickly, falling steps that she couldn't control, that had her falling too. She landed hard on her backside, and was forced to use her hands behind her to crawl away.
He was going to kill her.
"Azriel, no!" she lifted her arm to shield her face, an attempt to block the swing of his sword that was sure to come and slice through her.
He stopped in front of her, grabbed her by the throat in a grasp that nearly strangled her. He levelled her with a glower that seared her with his hatred.
She looked away, could not bear to see it, could not stand to witness the eyes that had looked on her with such fondness turn to this. Her body tensed, prepared for the pain of death.
The sensation of winnowing had her wrenching her eyes open, and she was pulled from her spot on the street. Together, they landed in a different room than the one she'd been held prisoner in, but not by far. The feeling was the same.
She thought the size too, though she could not be sure of it as she could not make out every wall. A chair sat in the center, a candle on the floor illuminating the wooden seat, leaving it the only truly visible thing in her line of sight. Straps were bolted into the arms of it, at the feet.
He was not gentle as he shoved her towards it, forced her to sit down and tied them to her wrists and ankles to restrain her.
When he was done, he stepped away, ready to leave.
"The camp!" the urgency in her voice gave him pause. "They're attacking it now. Marcius. The females. Please. Please, just get someone there."
She didn't know if he would listen, didn't know if her cries would be believed before he left the way they'd come, by disappearing on wind and shadows. He didn't even grant her a parting look before he left her alone.
OOO
The darkness always made time pass slower. It was like she was trapped in tar. It clung to her body and coated her with its filth, slowing her down, making it impossible for time to move.
Her body and mind needed rest. She had not slept in over a day. Her brain was becoming foggy, begging her to give into the alluring call of slumber, but adrenaline was pumping too hard through her veins, images and guesses of what was going on beyond these walls tormenting her thoughts.
She waited, and she waited some more in agonizing sluggishness.
When he finally returned, he wasted no time in crossing the room to tower over her. He drew Truth-Teller from its sheath; his thumb brushed across the blade as he lifted it in a ploy at inspecting it. He'd done it so that she could see, so she could fear what he would do with it. A coldness had settled over the entirety of him, freezing him into someone that scared her even more than when he'd stalked towards her with his sword. At least then, her death would have been quick.
"Was it the Illyrians or Keir you worked for?" his tone was flat when he asked the question, but he might as well have screamed at her the way she flinched against the accusation.
"I never helped either of them." She tried to lean towards him but the bindings held her fast. "If you'll just listen to me. Please-"
"When you shared information about us in that shop, who was it for?"
She didn't know what he was talking about. She'd never told anyone anything about them. She had been with them for so long, almost always remaining in their sight, told him that now.
He shook his head, rejecting her explanation. The jewel atop Truth-Teller flashed in the candlelight, drawing her attention to it.
She tried to think back, tried to remember anything that would be close to what he was suggesting. She was ready to accept he'd gotten the wrong information when it struck her.
When Keir had first been allowed to enter the city, shops had closed against him and his people. She had been sent by Rhysand to get herself a wardrobe, and she had had to convince the shopkeeper that she was not one of them. She had talked about them, had shared information she thought was harmless.
She looked at him with a desperation for him to understand, knew it didn't look good. "I didn't mean to. I was only-"
He didn't hear her, didn't want to. "When you went to talk to the females alone in Windhaven was it a ruse to plant Kirtida in her camp so that she could return with us?"
"No!"
"How long have you had this planned?"
"I didn't plan anything. You-"
He lowered himself dangerously close to her face and the shadows that hid in the plains of his own made him look deadly. "Did you make me fall in love with you so that you could gain my trust?"
It was there hanging between them, the words she didn't think he would ever speak, the feeling she didn't know he could ever be able give her in his self-loathing and pain. Even if it was spoken with a hatred that chilled her blood, it made her heart pump wildly. Her fingers ached to reach for him. Her heart longed for him to believe her.
Her face lifted towards his. Just a touch. She only wanted a touch.
"Marcius is dead."
She reeled back, slammed into her chair.
"No." she breathed out. She'd warned Azriel of the attack, had prayed he would get to them in time.
"No." she cried. Marcius had been through so much to get to where he was, had managed to shape his torment into a passion that would change the world instead of let it mold him into another of the same. He was good and kind and a friend. He was one of the few who deserved millenniums of life to spread his pure heart and laughter.
Azriel straightened, and motioned behind him, crooked his finger for someone to come forward. Naya could barely see him through her tears, hadn't even known Rhys had stood in the shadows.
His expression gave nothing away. The mask was almost as good as Azriel's.
"We're going into your mind." Azriel spoke, but Naya couldn't focus on his words through the roaring in her ears. If Marcius had fallen, the camp had fallen with him. It was more than she could take.
"We're going to see if you had a part in this, and if you did," he forced her chin up so that she would look at him, could see the threat. "Not even the Cauldron will be able to save you."