Burnt Devotion (Imdalind, #5)(62)

“Accepted,” Ilyan growled, his voice deep in what I could only assume was a formal greeting.

Their heads lifted with the word, the respect only growing as their vision shifted from Ilyan’s tall frame to the tiny simpering child he held to my shivering body that Ilyan held against him then to the long ribbon that trailed down my back and the intricate braid that still graced my head.

“My lady,” they gasped as their heads snapped back down in reverence. “Our Queen.”





Fifteen


I had never hated the term “my lady” as much as I did in that moment. I hadn’t wanted to hide in quite some time. Hell, I didn’t really want to hide right now. However, with the way they were all looking at me, I was starting to reconsider my options.

The moment the lights had flared and the war shorn Sk?íteks had come into view, it had only taken the last of Ilyan’s people a moment to see me, to see the ribbon that Ilyan had bound into my hair. The looks of wonder had come less than a moment later along with the mumbles of awe, the few people rushing toward me on their knees and kissing my hands, pressing the long length of ribbon against their foreheads.

I didn’t think I had ever felt so uncomfortable.

I also wasn’t going to take this moment away from them, either. As much as it made me uncomfortable, I could tell by the look in their eyes, by the look in Ilyan’s eyes, that this meant more to them than even I could understand. So I smiled in awkward thanks, glad when the formalities ended, and I was given the opportunity to sit sandwiched between Ilyan and a wall.

I wasn’t going to hide, but I did have to admit the buffer was nice given the situation.

Everyone was speaking a language that I hadn’t mastered yet, moving around an unfamiliar space, while I stayed still where I sat beside Ilyan in the shambled room.

The ancient furniture looked even more derelict in the dim light, a fact that was probably enhanced by the screams that still echoed from the streets outside, the pleas for help ripping at my heart. I had tried to get up to answer their calls several times, but I knew it was foolish. Just because time had passed, it didn’t make it any more probable that I would defeat the little beasts.

At least the screams were getting farther apart now, although I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

Ilyan was tense as he spoke to the pretty girl who had apparently taken over Talon’s role after everything had happened. Second in command, desperately trying to keep the few remaining survivors safe. It was no wonder she was excited to see Ilyan.

I would be, too.

She was as tall as Ovailia and Ilyan, her body lanky and built, with a sheet of strawberry blonde hair that fell down her back much the way Ovailia’s did. It was a comparison that should have wound my insides into a knot, but from what I could tell from the Sk?íteks I had seen, they all looked fairly similar—tall, slender, oddly ethereal people.

Besides, this girl Risha had a kindness in her eyes I knew at once Ovailia could never obtain, no matter how hard she tried. Even through everything that had happened the past few weeks, she didn’t look nearly as careworn as the rest of them.

Risha stood over what they had been using as their strategy table, a hand drawn map carved into the old, wooden surface. Small, everyday objects were scattered around to display where camps, Vil?s, or Edmund were.

At least, that was what I would assume. They were speaking Czech so fast I couldn’t make out individual words. I knew I could pull the words out of Ilyan’s head if I really wanted to, but at this point, it was becoming abundantly clear that I needed to learn the language. “Pass the leaves” was no longer going to cut it.

Risha said something at an inhuman speed to Ilyan before glancing to the mark on my neck. Then her eyes widened in wonder before they darted away as quickly as if I had caught her doing something dirty.

It was a simple move, one that shouldn’t have bothered me the way it had. After all, everyone who had been attacked by the Vil?s since the attack started a few hours ago would have a mark nearly identical to mine. I reacted, anyway, my nerves flaring with the knowledge of exactly what this mark meant. My palm covered it for the first time in what felt like years, the skin softer than I remembered it.

For the first time since I had left all that behind, I was aware of it there, open for everyone to see, just like the boy we had rescued whose mark was already blooming on his cheek.

I looked to him on instinct. The child was curled up on a pile of blankets in a little nest that was perfectly placed in the center of the room ‘where there is more light.’ While I understood the reasoning, it still left the child in the middle of the floor, writhing in pain for all to see.

His whimpers echoed in my head as the refugees cared for him, wishing there was something I could do to help him.

My magic pulsed. I almost expected it, for the magic to take over in such a way. It had done it before.

When I had healed Dramin and Wyn, my magic had told me what to do. It had told me where to go and paved the path of what to do. This time, however, even though I felt the pull, I could tell it wasn’t for healing. It was almost as if the child had something that my magic wanted, something that it was going to get no matter what.

The change scared me.

The thunder of my heartbeat in my ears mixed with his cries, echoes of sound that trapped me as I tried to understand the need, the pull…

“Joclyn,” Ilyan’s voice was soft, his accent thick as he pulled me from my focus, my body jumping as everything around me jerked back to life, the room seeming brighter.