Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(60)

From floor to ceiling, rows of dented, metal shelving lined the fabric walls of the tent, every inch crammed with the large, shackled creatures. The mutated, infected things were folded and contorted in an effort to pack as many of them in as possible, the mania on their faces clear as they screamed and yelled. The once bright hues of their skin were brown and diseased, large gashes littering their bodies from clawing at the ones who sat next to them.

They screamed as they fought against the tiny shackles that bound them, their faces turned up at me, almost as if they could sense my magic amongst them. Even from so far away their magic was so strong I could barely breathe.

Ilyan’s fingers dug into my hand as his own fear gripped him, our heartbeats speeding up in time.

I gasped and pulled my magic away from the contagious hatred that filled me, my eyes snapping open to the dimly lit room. I wanted to say that I was safe, that I had left the putrid magic behind, but I could still feel it. I could still feel the panic wind through my frayed nerves.

“How many more of the tents are there?” Ilyan asked of me, his body shaking in fear as he moved to mark the tent we had just seen on the map.

I did not want to feel the poisoned magic, but I had no other choice. I closed my eyes and sent my magic back through the forest that surrounded us, the glinting tendrils floating through the trees as I counted the tents. My eyes snapped open as I felt the last of them, my palm tensing against the table as I tried to control the fear.

There were ten tents.

Ten weapons.

I stared blankly over the surface of the map as ink spread from my fingertips. It flowed over the surface of the map, forming small, black boxes where each one lay. I stared at them as they darkened the paper, my breathing still trying to regulate from the smothering sickness that had infiltrated me.

“All those are Vil?s? I thought Edmund had killed them all,” Wyn asked, her voice shaking as the fear in the room seeped into her.

Ilyan said nothing; he only nodded as he watched the last box appear, his lips a hard line as the plan he had formulated crumbled to the ground.

“My Lord,” Sain said, his voice tentative as he broke the silence. “Were they infected?”

My head snapped up at his question, my teeth grinding together in fear. I could see everyone else turn toward Ilyan in question, different levels of fear clear on each of their faces, but I couldn’t look away from my father. I couldn’t look away from an answer I was terrified to hear.

“What do you know, Sain?” Ilyan asked, his jaw hardening as he glared at him.

“I am unsure, My Lord,” Sain replied. “I only saw one, in the beginning, after I made sure the birthstone was delivered to my daughter. They captured me and forced the water into me. I didn’t know what I was seeing at first as I did not know who I was, but I saw it in that sight, a Vil?. It was sitting on Edmund’s dresser, like a prized bird.”

“Edmund’s dresser,” Ilyan repeated, his voice suddenly monotone. I looked at him in question, sucking in breath at the weird, distanced look in his eyes. “Was it next to his bed?”

“Yes.” The word shattered through the room in waves of terror.

Ryland’s eyes darted to Sain in shock while Wyn looked like she was ready to explode.

Ilyan groaned beside me, his hand dragging through his hair as he moved away from the table, his steps heavy in frustration. His muscles tensed as he paced in the darkness away from us with mumbled Czech on his lips.

I looked from Ilyan to Thom, to Wyn, desperate for some form of explanation, but no one was looking at me.

“He found a way to strengthen himself,” Wyn said, her voice strangely odd and distanced, like she was repeating something she had heard before. “You don’t think it is the same, Ilyan?”

“I do,” Ilyan replied from behind me, his strong voice echoing around the elongated room.

“But Cail never said anything about a mutation.” My legs almost buckled at the use of his name. I had no idea what they were talking about, but right then, I didn’t care. I could already feel the fear creep in, see the mortar in the wall turn to blood.

I looked to Ryland unwillingly as my body began to shake in fear—his dark eyes meeting mine—and I cringed, the anger pulsing, screaming at me to attack him, to kill him. I gasped as I tried to push the emotion away, my ears filling with the beat of my heart as I gulped in air.

“Cail never spoke of many things, Wynifred,” Ilyan growled, the repeated use of the name like a blunt blade gashing me open. My fingers dug into the wooden edge of the ancient table as I attempted to steady myself, my knees trying their hardest to buckle underneath me.

“Ilyan, you know that he would—” Wyn’s voice was sugary sweet again, and I cringed at the unfamiliarity of it.

“Do not use your prowess on me, Wynifred. This is hardly the time.” The loud snap of Ilyan’s voice ripped through the thin layer of my serenity, my torso folding over as I fought to hold onto my sanity.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“He has obviously done something to them, but what? And why?” Ilyan’s voice was softer now, the volume coming right down on top of me from where I lay over the table. I almost expected his hand to press against my skin, his comforting magic to fill me, but that never came.

“They will turn you mad,” Ryland said out of nowhere, the hard edge of his voice increasing the lack of stability I was experiencing.