Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices #1)(171)

Emma’s heart cracked. If what she had felt had been agony, what had he felt? Twice, four times as much?

“Send her away,” she heard Iarlath say irritably. “This wailing is ridiculous.”

“This is not hysterics, Iarlath,” said Kieran. “It’s because she’s his parabatai. His warrior partner—they’re bonded—”

“By the Lady, such fuss,” Iarlath hissed, and brought the whip down again.

This time Julian made noise. A choked sound, barely audible. He slid to his knees, still clutching at the tree. Pain lanced through Emma again, but now she was braced, prepared. She screamed—not just any scream, but an echoing sound of horror and betrayal, a shriek of rage and pain and fury.

Gwyn threw his arm out toward Iarlath, but he was looking at Emma. “Stop,” he said.

Emma felt the weight of his gaze, and then a lightness as the enchantment that had pinned her in place snapped asunder.

She dashed toward Julian and dropped down beside him, yanking her stele from her belt. She could hear Iarlath protest, and Gwyn telling him gruffly to leave it be. She paid no attention. All she could see was Julian—Julian on his knees, his arms around the trunk of the tree, his forehead pressed to it. Blood ran down his naked back. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as she reached for him, as if he were bracing himself for a third blow.

Jules, she thought, and as if he heard her, he half-turned his face. He had bitten through his lower lip. Blood dripped off his chin. He looked at her blindly, like a man staring at a mirage.

“Em?” he gasped.

“Shush,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek, her fingers in his hair. He was wet with blood and sweat, his pupils blown wide open. She could see herself in them, see her pale, strained face.

She laid her stele against his skin. “I need to heal him,” she said. “Let me heal him.”

“This is ridiculous,” Iarlath protested. “The boy should take the whipping—”

“Leave it, Iarlath,” said Gwyn. His arms were tight around Mark.

Iarlath subsided, muttering—Mark was struggling and gasping—the stele was cold in Emma’s hand—colder still as she brought it down against Julian’s skin—

She drew the rune.

“Sleep, my love,” she whispered, so low that only Julian could hear her. For a moment his eyes fluttered wide, clear and astonished. Then they shut, and he slumped to the ground.

“Emma!” Mark’s voice was a shout. “What have you done?”

Emma rose to her feet, turning to see Iarlath’s face, blazing with rage. Gwyn, though—she thought she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes.

“I knocked him out,” she said. “He’s unconscious. Nothing you can do will wake him.”

Iarlath’s lip curled. “You think to deprive us of our punishment by depriving him of his ability to feel it? Are you such a fool?” He turned toward Gwyn. “Bring Mark forward,” he snarled. “We will whip him instead, and then we will have whipped two Blackthorns.”

“No!” Kieran cried. “No! I forbid it—I cannot bear it—”

“No one cares what you can bear, princeling, least of all I,” said Iarlath. His smile was twisted. “Yes, we will whip both brothers,” he said. “Mark will not escape. And I doubt your parabatai will soon forgive you for it,” he added, turning back to Emma.

“Instead of whipping two Blackthorns,” she said, “you can whip a Carstairs. Wouldn’t that be better?”

Gwyn hadn’t moved at Iarlath’s order; now his eyes widened. Kieran drew in his breath.

“Julian told you he killed faeries during the Dark War,” she said. “But I have killed many more. I cut their throats; I wet my fingers with their blood. I’d do it again.”

“Silence!” Rage filled Iarlath’s voice. “How dare you brag of such things?”

She reached down and yanked up her shirt. Mark’s eyes widened as she dropped it to the ground. She was standing in front of all of them in just her bra and jeans. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel naked—she felt clothed in rage and fury, like a warrior from one of Arthur’s tales.

“Whip me,” she said. “Agree to it and this will end here. Otherwise I swear I will hunt you through the lands of Faerie unto eternity. Mark can’t, but I can.”

Iarlath said something exasperated in a language Emma didn’t know, turning to look at the ocean. Kieran moved forward as he did so, toward Julian’s crumpled form.

“Don’t you touch him!” Mark yelled, but Kieran didn’t look at him, just slid his hands under Julian’s arms and drew him away from the tree. He laid him down a few feet away, removing his own long tunic to wrap it around Jules’s unconscious, bleeding body.

Emma expelled a breath of relief. The sun felt hot on her naked back. “Do it,” she said. “Unless you are too cowardly to whip a girl.”

“Emma, stop,” said Mark. His voice was full of a terrible ache. “Let it be me.”

Iarlath’s eyes had brightened with a cruel light. “Very well, Carstairs,” he said. “Do as your parabatai did. Ready yourself for the whip.”

Emma saw Gwyn’s expression turn to one of sadness as she moved toward the tree. The bark, up close, was smooth and dark red-brown. It felt cool to the touch as she slid her arms around it. She could see the individual cracks in the bark.