Page 181 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Where is he now?” Elara breathed, her heart stuttering painfully.

Sorrow overtook Kalaetzu’s features. “They took him to the warden’s office to await Oorlon’s pleasure.” He paused, gesturing faintly around the chamber. “As for me, they decided my talents were still useful. They put me back to work.” His gaze shifted past Elara toward Gavriel and Lorrain and softened. “You found her.”

“Has Oorlon arrived?” Gavriel asked, his voice rough with worry.

“Not yet.”

“Then we are not too late.” Reckless hope flared again. Elara scanned the contents spread across the tables, already building a plan. “Can you make more of that invisibility draught?”

“Certainly.” Kalaetzu bent and drew a satchel from beneath the table. It was already packed. “In fact, I have been prepared since the moment they forced me back into this room.”

Chapter 83

Njall

Haskir’s sour breath brushed Njall’s face, and he fought the urge to retch.

Iron manacles bit into his wrists, holding him upright and sending jolts of pain through his arms. His magic, usually a steady hum in his veins, purred weakly—nearly smothered. His limbs felt heavy. His lungs worked harder than they should have. Even so, the worst of it was Haskir’s stench. Njall thought, mildly, that it might kill him before Oorlon ever had the chance.

“I think,” Haskir gloated, savoring every word, “I shall ask Oorlon to grant me the pleasure of driving the killing blade through your heart myself.”

Njall made a sound that might have been a laugh, if it had not carried so much contempt.

“And when you are gone,” Haskir went on, eyes bright with mean delight, “I will step neatly into what you leave behind. Your title. Your quarters in Selenar Castle.” His smile curved. “Even perhaps enjoy that High Priestess you were so fond of.”

The chains snapped tight as Njall lunged forward, shoulder tendons straining.

The movement gained him barely an inch.

Haskir retreated a step, unruffled. “Oh, yes—everyone knows,” he murmured, smug. “Why else do you think she betrayed you? Oorlon learned of it, and she surrendered your secrets to save her own skin.”

The growl that left Njall was low and dangerous, vibrating through the iron links.

“Her sentence was merciful,” Haskir continued, almost conversationally. “A few lashes. Nothing that will diminish her value. Her womb is far too useful to waste.” His mouth curved. “You, on the other hand, are expendable. A traitor. A killer of wolves.”

The fist came without warning. Njall’s head snapped sideways. He tasted blood at once.

Haskir flexed his hand with a small grimace, as though he had struck stone rather than flesh. “Praise Selvara,” he said, pleased regardless. “I have waited a long time to do that.”

Njall lifted his head slowly. Blood slid from the corner of his mouth. He spat it at Haskir’s boots.

Haskir glanced down. “Now be a good dead Champion and stay here.” He flicked the chain with two fingers, then tilted his head with a smirk. “Of course you will. You have nowhere to go.” He lifted a ring of keys and let them dangle, metal chiming softly as he swayed them once before Njall’s face. Then, with theatrical ease, he set them on the hook beside the door.

Njall spat again as he watched him go. It was not much. But it was the only defiance he could manage.

Then he dipped his head forward as the room tilted and let himself drift in the wash of pain and weakness—surrendering to the pulsing ache of iron leeching him, to the knowledge that rescue would not come, to the agony born of the mistakes he had made.

Nor would there be mercy from Oorlon. Though, strangely, that did not frighten him.

Death held less terror than the years behind him. He had known, from the moment he betrayed Oorlon, that this end would find him eventually. If Selvara and Ameriel’s halls were more than story and prayer, perhaps he would see his mother there. Perhaps he would find his father again. It was the closest thing to rest he could imagine.

The guilt, however, was another matter. It coiled in him, hotter than iron and harsher than the bruises blooming across his ribs. He had carried out Oorlon’s will for years—enforced orders he had told himself were necessary. Spent half a century trying to outrun what he was, to bury it beneath obedience and service.

Yet his blood had never been the weakness. It had been his refusal to accept himself for who he was.

Even his attempt at redemption had failed.

He had failed his father. Failed Gavriel. Failed Elara.