Death Marked (Death Sworn #2)(10)

But aimed at what? What was she supposed to attack?

Not what. Who. She knew how assassins thought. Whatever strike Absalm and the master had planned, it would be aimed at killing as many sorcerers as possible.

But the master was dead. So it would be Absalm and Sorin’s plan, now.

Thinking of Sorin physically hurt, a knife slicing at her from the inside. She had been so afraid that he would hate her, once he knew she had killed his master. But he had looked at her exactly the way he had back in the caves. As if what he felt for her mattered more than all the other things he was supposed to feel. As if being with her made him, for those brief stolen moments, less of an assassin.

But he wasn’t just any assassin, not anymore. He was their leader. More than ever, he couldn’t afford that weakness.

And neither could she.

She turned from the window and went to the bed. It had an ornate iron headboard and colorful bedding and was raised higher than her simple bed in the caves. But furniture or no, the room felt familiar, right up to the sense of rock closing in around her. She would have traded that window in a second for the possibility that Sorin could knock on her door. She wanted desperately to rest her head on his shoulder and cry.

Not that he would have much sympathy for her.

She hadn’t thought it would feel like this, after she walked away. She had never been all that comfortable around him anyhow. It didn’t make sense that missing him was a constant gnawing ache within her, a thin fog of sadness that colored everything.

And it made even less sense that seeing him today had made it worse instead of better.

How did he know where I was?

But of course he knew. He was the master now.

No. He isn’t. She forced her mind steady. He wasn’t some cold, all-knowing puppet master. He was the boy who had cradled her in caves beneath the earth, had kissed her fiercely and against his better judgment, had let her walk away when his duty was to stop her. He wasn’t the master.

Yet.

And if she did what he wanted, maybe he never would be. Would he still be a killer if this war didn’t require it?

She opened her hand. The borrowed magic surged within her, and a magelight floated above her palm. The simplest of magics, a child’s trick, that had been impossible for her just this morning. She smiled even as tears burned her cheeks.

She had power, now, too—and even without power, she had outsmarted Sorin before. She would figure out how he had found her, and she would determine what exactly his plan was, and then she—she—would decide whether to play her designated part in it.

She kept the magelight afloat as she readied herself for bed, its light warming the insides of her eyelids until the moment she fell asleep.


The next morning, Ileni woke with the dawn, so tense and excited and terrified she didn’t even consider going back to sleep. Magic waited for her, and she itched to use it. She sat up, rubbed her crusty eyes, and resisted the urge to vault out of bed. It had been so long since she had been eager to start her day that she didn’t trust the feeling.

And she shouldn’t. This is the Empire. I am surrounded by my enemies, and I am a weapon.

She reached out for the lodestones . . . so close, and brimming with power. Her skin tingled, and she realized that she had drawn some of the magic in without thinking.

It was like being herself again, after she had been someone else—a stranger—for months.

But who was really the stranger? The girl with no power? Or the girl who would use power she knew was evil, just so she could pretend magic was still a part of her?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think past the shame and the joy twined tightly within her. If she was going to pretend she was a student here, she had to use the magic.

But she couldn’t let herself forget that it was evil.

She pushed the blanket off her legs and got to her feet. The wardrobe contained a selection of clothes, none of which fit exactly right. She chose a large plain dress with a belt she could pull tight. There was no mirror in the room—because there didn’t have to be: a flicker of magic turned a section of the stone wall reflective, and Ileni gave herself a cursory glance. The dress was far from elegant, but it would do.

She had forgotten how much easier magic made everything. The belt tied in back—no problem. The tangles in her hair unknotted at her command. Dirt disappeared from her skin, and the tinges of blood that had been clinging to her for days took only a moment to banish. How had she ever lived without this?

How will I live without it again?

She was in the middle of a spell to make her dress blue when someone knocked. She hesitated, then let the spell go and opened the door.

Evin’s eyes swept up and down her dress. “You didn’t have to stop on my account. What color were you going for?”

She was startled enough to answer. “Blue.”

“Dark or light?”

“Uh—”

“Never mind.” He murmured a spell. A surge of power tingled over her, and her dress was midnight blue, close to black. “Dark looks better when you’re threatening people with knives, I think.”

Ileni gaped at him.

“What?” He held up both hands, his sleeves falling to his elbows. “I can change it back, if you don’t like the color, or—”

“I can change it back,” Ileni snapped.

“Okay.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Breakfast?”