Such a Daring Endeavor (39 page)

Ren blinks in confusion. He was forced to be in the room while Tyrus and she kissed and shared more than he should rightfully have witnessed. Gwynn was so adoring, so complacent and entreating. So subservient, yet holding the upper hand…

“It’s common knowledge that the second in command leads the army once their leader has expired. And Tyrus is like all the rest of you—too foolish to grasp he’s about to be misled.”

Realization dawns heavy and slow over Ren, padding down on his mind like a curtain. How could he not have seen it? Always—
always
when Tyrus and Gwynn were discussing things, she managed to get him to acquiesce to her wishes. When he snapped at her she would bend instantly to his demands and somehow twist them back to fulfill her own.

“Where is Tyrus while you’re off going against his bidding?”

“He’s too busy building Stations and moving to the attack phase of this war. With Haraway gone, he sees no need to train the new recruits. His focus has changed.”

“He’s not even giving them a chance to learn to defend themselves,” Ren says inwardly.

Gwynn laughs. “Defend themselves against what? A bunch of docile citizens who barely feel enough to work or feed their families?”

“Feihrians aren’t docile,” says Ren.

“That they’re not,” she says as though she knows this personally.

“You’re insane.” Ren pulls again at the chains, desperate to break free. Gwynn said she knew he was coming and that she knew why—how could she have known?

“Talon is the obvious man for the job. He will succeed at killing Tyrus because I wish it,” she says. “And then I will be at the head of this army.”

“What about your mother?” Ren asks, not stopping to think of how laughable it is, the prospect of General Gwynn. “Your home? Our home, our people. Why would you turn against them—wouldn’t it make more sense to take out the Arcs? You’re on the inside, you have all the advantage! It’s their fault Clarke was there to wedge his way into your life in the first place. Tyrus and the Arcs did that to you.”

“Shut up! My mother was weak.”

“You’re fighting the wrong battle. I’m sorry about what Clarke did to you. But you’re still letting his actions control you. You’re not free—not really. It’s our choices that make us truly free.”

“Shut up, I said. This is
my
dream!”

Ren keeps talking. “You bought your freedom with those tears. Now do something to be worthy of that freedom. Come with me—join us. You could help us.”

“Worthy,” Gwynn scoffs. “Do you miss me, Ren? Is that what this is really about?”

She saunters forward, seduction in her eyes—a ploy he now recognizes, having seen her play this move on Tyrus countless times. She strokes a soft hand up his forearm. His jaw clenches, and he pulls at the chains still binding him.

“I know you’re here because you love me. Or you did once. Are you hoping my dormant feelings for you will spark?” Her eyes widen in mock surprise, and then her lips pout in forced pity.

Ren struggles to break away. This is a dream, it’s not real. He’s not really chained; she can’t have this hold over him.

Gwynn tiptoes up so her glossy mouth hovers near his. “This is my dream, Csille. And you’ll leave here when I want you to.”

Gwynn chuckles under her breath, that eyebrow still raised. To his relief, she backs away, and begins pacing. One finger trails along his shoulder, sending unwanted shivers down his spine.

“You know, I’ve always wanted a pet. You’ll make a lovely pet, Ren Csille. So quick to tell me secrets because you felt sorry for me. Do you have any secrets for me now?”

“I thought you knew everything,” he says as sarcastically as he can. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before lowering it.

“You want me to be happy, don’t you Ren?”

He swallows.

“I’m not Tyrus, Gwynn, you can’t win my affections by thrusting your fake ones at me. You know what? I changed my mind. I don’t want anything from you.”

He fights the chains, but they hold him fast. Gwynn’s eyes slim into a scowl. She leans closer and speaks into his ear.

“This is
my
dream, Ren,” she says. “Don’t think you can slip away so easily.”

I
wipe a shaking hand across my forehead. Every other time I’ve managed to sense the power streaming from canteens, from devices, from the people around me, and to somehow channel that into the teardrop. But Solomus is right. After having Ren and then Talon in my mind, after taking Ayso’s drugs, I’m not fully myself.

My nerves tingle as if to remind me of the fact. “It’s not working,” I say to my brother’s clenched body in frustration.

“Let me see that thing,” Shasa insists, reaching for my teardrop.

Talon’s hand shoots out to grab her wrist before she can jerk the chain away from me. Her mouth drops in his direction. “It’s hers,” Talon explains. “You can’t just take it.”

Shasa huffs as the door opens behind her, and Ayso sneaks back in.

“You didn’t find her?” Solomus pushes slowly to his feet, his bones not wanting to bend.

Ayso plummets onto the cot across from Ren’s. “I searched every room. I talked to Zeke and Cadie. No one has seen her.”

“Angels and brimstone,” says Solomus, hobbling over to the window as if expecting to find her standing outside.

“I could really use her help,” I say. Together she and I used the teardrop to bring Shasa back. What would make her leave?

“Maybe we can help instead,” Shasa suggests.

I inhale, hestitating before standing. Any other time I wouldn’t dare trust Shasa with something like this. But Shasa cares about him. My joints squawk at the strain I was using. Jomeini isn’t here, but together, maybe Shasa, Talon, and I can make it work.

“All right,” I say, wedging my way past Talon and around to the opposite side of Ren. I kneel and offer my hands to them.

“You’ve got to trust me,” I say. “I’m going to siphon energy from you, using this.”

Talon’s green eyes slide their surety to me. His palm meets mine and I squeeze, silently thanking him. Shasa slaps her palm into my other outstretched hand.

“Pray,” I say.

Shasa and Talon sweat under the pressure, but it’s nothing compared to the beads dripping from my forehead. The teardrop propped between our collective hands is alight with golden facets. Colors fan in and out of the crystal’s prisms. But it’s different this time. It doesn’t energize me; it doesn’t hum and take the energy from the room as it has in other times I’ve used it. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m not holding it directly, or because I have others holding it, but something isn’t the same.

It grows more and more tiring, drawing on my vitality as though I’ve been running for hours. I push through, try to hold on. Ren clenches again, making chuffing noises as though he’s being smothered from the inside. He arches away from the cot.

“What’s happening?” Shasa demands, her palm slick with sweat.

“Keep holding the teardrop!” I order. I heft myself to my feet and push against Ren’s shoulders. Veins bulge at his neck and along his arms.

“Hang in there,” I say to him. “Just hold on—”

But my hands slip. Talon, Shasa, and my weight all crash to the cot, exactly where Ren’s heaving chest was moments before.

He’s vanished.

***

Ren grits his teeth, trying to get the chains to drop. If this is a dream, the shackles aren’t real, are they? Still, the links are so tight he can barely move his hands.

An invisible hook jerks him from those chains, and Ren gasps, plunging as though from a true dream. He blinks and staggers forward, taking in the marble-lined fireplace, the potted plants decorating the room’s corners, and Gwynn rising from the four-poster bed with its draping fabric as though she was sleeping this whole time.

She smooths down the red tank top and smirks at the young man standing near the door.

He’s studious and young, around his own age, Ren would guess, with a thin beard hugging his jawline before meeting with his brown hair.

The young man bends over a piece of equipment about the size of a vehicle’s engine, though the mechanics of the thing are much different. Wires and tubing, intricate, intertwined, and boxy, are exposed on one side.

“It worked, Warwick!” Gwynn exclaims.

“So I see,” says Warwick as though bored.

“How did we get here?” Ren demands, still fighting the chains. He edges toward the door.

Gwynn bathes her attention on Warwick, grinning for all she’s worth. “I’ve acquired more magic. I thought it was strong before, but the power of a wizard is in my hand. It’s…” She stares at her purpled skin as if mesmerized.

Not really listening, Ren breaks for the door.

“Stop him!” Gwynn shouts.

Warwick lunges, barring the way between Ren and his exit. Gwynn crosses to them, twisting a key in the lock. She gloats at Ren while dusting a hand down Warwick’s shoulder and passing the key off to him.

“This is Warwick Cunningham, and he’s just created the final step in a very important piece of machinery. At first Tyrus only wanted to drink the tears.”

“They can’t be drunk,” says Ren through heavy breaths. He examines the remainder of the space. Another set of doors leads to what must be the balcony. And to his right is what he assumes is her bathroom. He isn’t sure how to get out.

“So it would seem. I carried them in a Xanther box for a time just because none of us could so much as touch the things. But then I had an idea. It’s not enough to take a person’s magic, Ren. You saw what happened when a soldier tried to use magic without his subjugate nearby.”

“It’s painful,” says Ren, remembering trailing Tyrus everywhere he went just so the general could use Ren’s magic. And he wasn’t the only one. Several men had to dress into mock-up uniforms for the sole purpose of tailing Tyrus, to make their magic available for the leader when he needed it.

“Tyrus traded through us, actually,” says Ren. “He said it was easier that way.”

“I’m coming to understand the reasoning,” she says, lifting her hand to stare at its purple hue. “But I thought of a way to eradicate that pain, Ren. And that’s why you’re here. Warwick worried about experimenting on someone in case the process kills them. Honestly, I wouldn’t care if it did, except for the fact that we still need their magic. Once a subjugate is dead, their magic fades from us.”

Ren doesn’t like this. He feels like retreating, but he suddenly can’t move.

She closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose.

“How are you doing this?” Ren asks. “This is Ambry’s dream!” Angels, what effect is this having on his sister?

“You were in Ambry’s mind. But I told you, I’ve acquired quite a bit of magic.” She twists her purple hand at the wrist. “I…managed to pull you out of it. With a little help,” she adds with a laugh.

“Who would have done that? No one could have told you.” Ren can’t figure it out. The only ones who knew what they were up to would never have told Gwynn anything.

“Miss Straylark came to my room to give me some firsthand advice, having just witnessed it herself,” Gwynn says a little too gleefully.

Miss Straylark. Gwynn said something about having a wizard’s magic. “Jomeini?”

Gwynn shrugs. “She paid me a visit. I think she meant to kill me, but I got the better of her before she could. Or I should say, my claw got the better of her.” Gwynn laughs again.

“Impossible,” says Ren. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Just like she wouldn’t burn her captor to a crisp? Yeah, she told me.”

The evidence is all there. He wants to deny it. But Jomeini was like two sides of a coin, flipping from heads to tails without so much as a warning.

Did the others know she betrayed them?

“And you subjugated her?”

Gwynn laughs at this and digs her hand into the pocket of her jacket. “What do you think? With the help of my claw, she told me what I wanted to know. And I…” Gwynn sneers. “I made good use of her.”

“Angels, of all the people you could have subjugated,” he says with disgust. “You really are heartless.”

Jomeini had to have thought she was helping in some twisted way. Still, Ren can hardly believe it.

Gwynn pulls something that looks like a green jewel from her jacket pocket. Her eyes twinkle. “Oh, I’ll take good care of her. Don’t worry.”

Ren decides to try for whatever goodness might still be lingering in her. “I thought you got your feelings back, Gwynn. Let me out of here. Whatever this is, you don’t want to do this.”

“That’s the problem with you men. Always thinking you know what I want better than I know myself.” She turns away from him to the shorter, studious man with grease under his fingernails.

“Go easy on him, Warwick.”

“So you do care,” says Warwick dryly. Then after a pause, “You’re sure about this?”

She tilts her head to one side. “It worked on Jomeini. We need to make sure it will again.”

Cold beads of sweat trickle down Ren’s back. “What worked on Jomeini?”

With the push of a button, Warwick starts the machine. He pulls a small jar of blue liquid from his pocket.

“Are those tears?” Ren asks.

“Observant.” With a smirk, Warwick places the small vial in a specially designed slot where they latch in perfectly. The machine clicks at the tears’ entrance. Warwick then turns and slides his hand into a gruesome-looking glove with several protrusions on its back.