The Valley of Lies (Lightkeepers #1)

Chapter THIRTEEN: Ayer

The next Revelry was in four days, and it was to be the most extravagant in years. Ayer was summoned to the Triumvirate's private dining room to discuss her role in the debauched festivities the witches were planning. Although they included her in their conversation, it was in the way one might speak to a pet begging underneath the table, with patronizing false cheer. But unlike a pet, Ayer was forced to serve the witches their supper and copious amounts of drink while her zizhi–-the stolen fire of her free will–-flashed gold and black sparks within the walls of its cursed glass prison on display as the table's bawdy centerpiece. The wilting roses, hag stones, and clutches of brittle herbs surrounding it like a miniature shrine might have dissuaded the witches' sycophantic followers from hazarding a touch, but their foul magic could not diminish the magnificence of Ayer's fire.

It was agonizing to be so close to the piece of her soul the witches tore out the night they'd snatched her from a pleasant dream in her clan's lair. Her life had been a long, relentless nightmare since then. Without her zizhi, she was powerless to save herself. The witches could use her however they liked, and she had no choice but to obey their command. Specifically, Domira's.

A Yansu without possession of their dragon fire was as dangerous as a god without a conscience.

"Look how the flames writhe."

The Triumvirate leader grinned, leaning into the tattered backrest of her chair at the head of the blackened, clawfoot dining table. The room was doused in shadows, with only a few sconce candles to supplement the magical light of Ayer's zizhi, which was just bright enough to illuminate the witch's glamoured face as she held a crystal goblet to her lips, hesitating to sip from the oily pool of liquor.

Ayer pressed a hand to her chest, fending off the familiar emptiness. The witches exploited any sign of weakness, so rage was the only emotion she allowed herself to feel in moments like this.

"Ooo, dragon girl is mad," Foswida giggled.

The youngest and most zealous of her siblings, Foswida's large blue eyes gleamed with sick amusement. Of course, young was a relative term where ancient human occultists were concerned. Foswida looked and dressed like a child, in flouncy dresses and bows, but if Domira's offhand comments were reliable, the baby of the family was at least four hundred years old.

"Don't provoke her, sisters. Ayer'lora is our special confidante tonight and hasn't she attended to us well?"

Edril. How Ayer hated the man. Seated across from Foswida, his pale face was deceptively placid above the high collar of his pressed black jacket. It was Ayer's opinion that the carefully manicured warlock was even more vile than Domira. Edril was always scheming, and his machinations usually involved employing Ayer's magic in ways that haunted her for weeks at a time, things she would never confess to Zan. Sometimes she lay in bed at night imagining the sharp echo of Edril's glossed boots on the stone floor outside her bedchamber, and sometimes he was actually there.

She picked up the closest wine decanter, tipping more of the red liquid into his goblet. Pity it wasn't poisoned. He patted her on the forearm when he had enough, sending shivers of disgust down to her toes.

"She attends you, but what about me?" Foswida rested her chin in her hands, a bratty pout puckering her lips. "I'm starving, dragon girl. Fetch me one of those fen-jelly cakes."

The desserts were well within Foswida's reach, and Ayer was on the other side of the table, but that was the point. Foswida enjoyed her petty humiliations.

Ayer took a wide berth around Edril's chair and was halfway around the table when Domira's arm shot out, her long nails digging into Ayer's wrist. Ayer glanced down at the Triumvirate's self-appointed leader, her expression neutral.