A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 68

Less than a blink. That's how quickly things changed.

A sharp intake of breath, her watery eyes widening wide as Beron's finger descended.

Screams of protest climbed from Gwyn's throat. Her cries went unheeded. Clove slumped to the floor, her neck bent unnaturally.

Gwyn slammed her eyelids closed against the image. Of those vast accusing chocolate browns, staring up at her from the floor. So much, too much like Sangravah. Too much like...

Foolish of her to avert her gaze. To allow herself to be vulnerable. She realized that. Not when all around her was a cacophony of discord. The cavernous space rumbled like thunder at the grind of chairs propelled back against the floor and heavy booted strides. The whine of bracing weapons. Feminine gasps and sobs as the temperature of the chamber intensified to near sweltering.

Only then did Gwyn peel her eyes open to survey the scene. Beron's men, outfitted in glinting bronze armor, arranged and poised for battle on one side of the inlaid six-pointed star entwined with vines at the center of the marble dance floor.

Eris's smokehounds huddled, crouched between pairs of ankles, their ears and tails steepled high, growling. His own sentinels, donning battle leathers of striated brown and black, appearing nearly identical to tree bark, settled row after row behind him.

As did his Vanserra brothers. Shoulder to shoulder. Four of them. A first, perhaps.

There was no turning back now. Not as lines had been crossed, loyalty asserted.

A canyon of space lay between them and where Gwyn stood.

Lady of Autumn rose from her seat and shuffled backward until her rear touched the wall in the farthest corner. Her russet eyes were round, palms clasping her throat in horror. Her lips moved in hushed prayer.

Cries and shouts resonated off the vast ceiling above as the chamber erupted in anarchy.

"It won't budge!" one lord yelled, bracing his foot against the threshold while jerking on the handle, grappling to free the door. A sea of panicked guests crowded behind him.

"Oh, gods, we're trapped," an elegantly adorned female wept.

Trapped.

Gwyn turned her attention to the head of the table, discovering it forebodingly empty. Only smoke and soot and ash lingered, drifting to the ground.

Terror, undiluted and palpable, coursed through her veins. Icy alongside the fire teeming within.

Run! it shrieked. And the feminine voice,sounded so familiar, so much like Ca—

But she didn't get a chance to obey, to run. Flames ringed around her, pinning her arms to her sides. An arm constricting around her chest like a band of steel hauled the Valkyrie until her back met a chest. The piercing metal of a blade nicked into the thin skin of her throat.

She told herself to remain relaxed, to consider. To remember to breathe. Sought to find the best method of attack. This was a position she'd been in many times during private dagger lessons with Azriel, capturing her like this and instructing her to break free.

Limbs restrained, she could always jump on the insole. The sharp heels would indeed hurt even through boots, but—

Her fingertips skimmed her gauzy skirt, her thigh. Right. No weapon.

Inhale through the mouth. Exhale out the nose. She could always thrust her head back, break his nose. Then, as he struggled to staunch the bleeding. Clutch his wrist, put pressure on the dead inside center, and strip his dagger.