The Sharpest Blade

But the fae in the center with gray-streaked hair doesn’t look concerned. He doesn’t even unsheathe his sword. With the door burning behind him, he—Nimael—takes a rustic red cylinder from his belt and untwists a cap. A thin, coiled rope falls to the ground, then, with a flick of his wrist, the rope snakes out in front of him.

Aren and Trev are almost on him.

“Jump! Jump!” I scream, but they don’t understand, and with another flick of his wrist, Nimael’s rope whips out. It’s long enough to swing into both fae’s legs. They crash to their knees, are up in an instant, but the damage is already done. Dicer’s illusion breaks, revealing them both to the elari.

My sword is in my hands, and I’m rushing forward already, yelling for Aren to swing right and Trev to swing straight ahead. Both their blind attacks miss, and they roll, attempting to get out of the way.

Aren makes it, but Nimael’s whip is wrapped around Trev’s calf. It wraps around his knees during his roll. He curses, swings defensively once more, and his elari attacker hesitates the second I need to get there.

My blade cuts through the air, clashing against the elari’s with an impact that rattles me to the core. The elari’s invisibility breaks, and Trev’s sword stabs upward, sinking home into the fae’s gut.

I don’t wait for his soul-shadow to appear. I whirl around to find both Nimael and the second elari closing in on Aren from both sides. Nimael has dropped his whip; I assume he’s invisible again.

“Back, Aren!”

He misunderstands my order, twisting around to swing behind him. I won’t get there in time, so I palm the pommel of my sword and thrust it into the air. It soars javelin-style and clips the elari’s side. Only strong enough to break the illusion, not to draw blood.

Dicer gives me a what-the-hell-was-that look, then the kid splits. Maybe he’s decided we can handle this? It’s two-on-two—three if you count me—and after a quick sidestep and an incredibly fast counterstrike, Aren sends the second elari to the ether.

“Where’s Nimael?” he demands, rounding on me.

“There,” I point, “to the left of the darker part of the street.”

Nimael’s nostrils flare. The glare he gives me reminds me of how cold the rain-drenched night is.

Aren grabs my arm. “The whole street’s dark.”

“The ground,” I say. “The smudge on the ground that looks like a . . . a smiley face.”

He pushes me back, then rushes forward, nowhere near where Nimael’s standing.

Or was standing.

My cry of, “He’s running!” is nearly drowned out by Jacia’s, “They’re coming!”

Five fae—all with the red-and-black-stoned name-cords that mark them as elari—burst out from the passageway between Nimael’s building and the one next door.

“Nimael!” the dark-haired fae leading the way shouts, his gaze scanning the street for the fae. But Nimael is invisible behind his illusion, and speaking would give away his location, so with one last hate-filled glance at me, the older fae turns and runs.

“Aren, to the left. He’s leaving!”

But Aren can’t follow my directions. The dark-haired fae is on him. Their swords meet in a loud clash, clash, clash. Then the second fae is there, with Jacia right behind him.

We’re outnumbered, even with Jacia’s help. Taber was supposed to be with her. I don’t know where he is, but it looks like none of these elari are illusionists. Aren doesn’t need my help, and Nimael is getting away, fleeing down a road that will take him to the eroded silver wall.

Half a second passes, then my decision is made. I scoop up my sword as I sprint past it, then run at top speed down a passageway that parallels Nimael’s. If he’s the false-blood’s second-in-command, we need him captured and questioned, and since he’s running roughly in the same direction Kyol’s approaching from, we still have a chance to do both.

The storm and late hour have made Tholm more deserted than a ghost town. Not a soul hinders me, and the rain splattering onto the ground covers the sound of my footsteps. Buildings made of stone and stucco fly past me in a blur. I shrug out of my heavy cloak and keep running. I don’t have to reach the silver wall the same second Nimael does; I just have to be near enough to read his shadows when he makes it to the other side and disappears.

I’m at an all-out sprint, practically flying over the wet pavement. The alley is clean, well maintained, but I’m heading up an incline, and the rain, the damnable downpour that let up for all of two minutes, has returned.

I reach a cross street, veer down it, and am spit out onto Nimael’s road. He’s there, so much closer than I expected but still running for the wall. He’ll reach it soon.

I push on, funneling adrenaline into my legs. My lungs burn from the cold air, and my chest is tight, tight with Kyol’s worry.

Intercept him! I try to translate those words into emotion, try to tell him I’m not running from someone, I’m running after him.

The ground rises steeply enough for stairs. I grab the two wooden handrails, use them to help propel me up steps.

“McKenzie!” Aren’s voice is distant. It reaches me the same instant I see Kyol step into the street. His head whips to the left as Nimael sprints past him.

“It’s Nimael!” I yell. “He’s almost to the wall, dead center.”

I don’t think Kyol needs my directions. He’s already moving, taking off after the elari.

It feels like it takes me hours to reach the wall, but really, it takes no more than a handful of seconds. I unsling my notebook, open it on top of the low wall, and grab my pen. Nimael’s fissured out. Kyol’s standing there, sword in hand just beside the twisting shadows, waiting for me. Or rather, for my map.

Aren bellows my name again, closer this time, but I focus on the shadows and, using my body to protect my notebook from the rain, I begin to sketch what I see. A twist of shadow in the upper left corner of my page, the tail of a river curving down from a mountain, and a clearing. A valley maybe.

I flip to the next page of the book, watch the shadows contort into more detail, a sharper image of Nimael’s location. Mountains to the east. Maybe to the north as well.

Brow furrowed, I squint at the shadows. Did he fissure into the middle of a mountain range? Aside from the smooth curve of a dark shadow, all the others are spiky and rugged and . . . fading.

Damn it, I’m going to lose him.

Aren calls for me a third time. Kyol answers him, but I’m still focused on the shadows. Where the hell did Nimael go? I should be able to track him. I wasn’t that far behind him.

Maybe the rain is obscuring my vision? I swipe a hand over my face, slicking my drenched hair away from my eyes. It’s too late to start over. I try to modify what I’ve already sketched out, find a detail that I’ve missed, or something that jogs my memory. But there’s nothing, and the last of the shadows wink out of existence.

NINE

“I LOST HIM,” I say, meeting Kyol’s gaze. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. He knows as well as I do that I should have been able to pinpoint Nimael’s location.

I break eye contact. Rain splatters on the low wall. This is the first time I’ve tried to read the shadows since the life-bond. I saw them clearly, but what if I’ve lost the ability to identify them? If I can’t name the location, my maps are nothing, just scribbles on a page that no one can understand, and I’m . . . Well, I still have the Sight, so I’m not completely useless, but shadow-readers are rare. Lena only has two working for her: Naito and Evan. Evan and I have only met a few times. I helped him and Naito escape the palace eons ago when Atroth was still alive and king, but he’s apparently terrible at reading the shadows, and Naito is already overworked. He can’t continue to track Lena’s enemies twenty-four/seven.