Death Sworn(27)

She lifted her hands, closing them around the two thickest-looking stones. They seemed solid and sturdy. She took a deep breath and pulled.

It wasn’t quite that easy, of course. Sorin had done it in one motion, but she had to pull herself onward three times before she was on the other side. By the time she stood up, her arms and back felt covered with bruises, and dirt rained from her hair.

They were in a small space barely big enough for the two of them. It seemed pitch-black until Ileni’s eyes adjusted to the faint light creeping in between the hanging stones.

“All right,” she said. “Do you have a reason for these elaborate precautions, or are you just having fun?”

“Both.” Sorin held his hand up, and something flashed in the dimness: a blade. Ileni leaned back sharply, bumping against a sliver of stone. Trapped. She felt for her ward, and sensed it as a faint tingle wrapped around her skin. “I found the knife. The one used to kill Cadrel.”

Ileni blinked. He smiled at her, sly and proud, and she stopped paying attention to her ward. “How?”

“That’s not important. Can you find out who used it on him?”

Her throat felt suddenly like a block of wood.

“Well?” he said impatiently. She felt the whoosh of his breath on her cheek.

She tried to pull up some power, knowing it would be futile. The effort—and the sickening lack of response—made her faintly nauseated. She did her best to hide it as she bent forward to examine the knife. Her mind whirled, frantically and uselessly. “I . . . I can’t. Not here. There’s not enough space.”

Sorin rested one finger against his chin. “You think I can’t tell that you’re lying? We’re trained to read people. Do it now, Sorceress.”

She moved carefully this time and managed to lean against the wall without scraping any part of her body against stone. She put her hand on the knife hilt, right next to Sorin’s fingers. His skin brushed hers, dry and warm, as he edged his hand away. She closed her eyes, assumed what she hoped was an expression of deep concentration, and murmured some random spell-words. They sounded thin and weak in the dry air. But when she opened her eyes, Sorin was waiting expectantly.

She took her hand away, a dull leadenness in her chest. “It’s been too long, been handled by too many people. The traces of whoever used it to kill Cadrel are gone.”

Sorin looked disappointed, but not—thankfully—suspicious. “Are you sure? Is there another spell—”

“No,” she said. Too swiftly? She tried to sound angry and disappointed. “Nothing. Magefire!”

Sorin didn’t move. He was so close she imagined she could hear his heartbeat. “You’re sure?”

Ileni shifted. “I’m sure.”

The space felt oppressive and small. She should have been afraid—and she was, a little bit; what if he realized she was lying?—but mostly she was ashamed. Tears pressed at the insides of her eyes. She had the knife, and yet she was not one step closer to learning who had used it, because she wasn’t strong enough.

I’m sorry, Cadrel.

She clenched her jaw and let the silence stretch longer, so she could gain control of her voice. She had no idea what Sorin was thinking. She was sure he could feel her inadequacy radiating off her.

“Well,” she said finally. Her voice was almost steady. “If that’s all . . .”

When he didn’t move, she lowered herself to the floor and began inching her way under the stones. Sorin landed on the ground behind her with a quiet thud, then shot past her. She pulled herself halfway through, then rolled over onto her stomach and crawled the rest of the way. When she was finally out, she turned away from him as she pushed her hair from her face and combed her fingers through it to get the dust out.

Sorin’s voice was sharp. “What is that?”

She stiffened. “What?”

He reached forward and brushed her hair away from her neck. The touch sent a shiver through her, and she went even stiffer.

His breath whispered against the back of her neck. “What is that?”

Suddenly she understood. She felt his finger press against her skin, right below the hairline. “What does it look like to you?”

He didn’t move or speak for so long that, if not for his breath against her skin and the finger still resting on her neck, she would have turned to see if he had gone. It should have made her afraid, his hands so close to her throat—all he had to do was slip them forward and close them, and he could strangle her before she had a chance to call for help. It should have, but it didn’t. She had to force herself not to turn around and meet his eyes.