So many choices came down to survival. So many. But for Severn, survival was tied to family, to duty. The simple fact of death did not and had not obliterated the fact of family. Even his own. Silence could protect Elianne, if it was necessary.
“One of my friends,” he finally said, “has the same marks.”
“I wish to speak with this friend.”
“No.” Possibly the hardest refusal Severn had ever offered. He knew what his death would to do to Elianne and the girls. He uttered no further words of defiance; he simply waited. The first blow rocked him back; the second doubled him over. He fell to his knees, splaying his hands flat to avoid planting his face into the worn stones that girded the well.
“I wish to speak with this friend.”
“No.”
There was blood in his mouth. A cracked rib, maybe two. His shoulder was either broken or dislocated. In the distance, as if sensing blood, the Ferals howled.
“Take me to this friend.”
This time, Severn remained silent, braced for further blows. Those came, but they were carefully delivered; none broke his legs. It didn’t matter. He had been hurt before, and this kind of pain passed, one way or the other. He did not beg, although he considered it; he might have tried if he’d had any sense that humiliation was what the fieflord wanted.
The beating stopped abruptly, although the pain lingered. Severn was hauled to his feet, facing the fieflord.
“Benito,” the fieflord said, which surprised him. “Tina—Christina, I believe, if one is being entirely correct. Anali. Do you recognize these names?”
Severn nodded.
“Ah. Amal. Shardan. Lina—again, a diminutive.” He continued to speak names, and Severn understood two things: they were the names of all those who had been murdered or sacrificed, and he recognized every single one of them. Some, of course, he’d learned on the street. And those names he almost expected to belong to people he knew—the gossip would barely reach him otherwise. But some of the names? He’d heard nothing.
This, then, was what he feared, and had feared from the beginning. He knew all of the names. He had interacted with all of the dead. And...so had Elianne.
Lord Nightshade watched him for a long moment after the last of the names had faded.
Severn swallowed. “Who is doing this? If you tell me—”
“If it is as I suspect, you will not find him; he might hunt here, but this is not where he dwells. If you managed to find him, you would die. I think you too old to be sacrificed, but it is clear to me that you have a connection with the intended, ultimate victim—and that connection is vital. Let me ask another question. When did these marks appear on your friend?”
“Maybe three years ago. Maybe less.”
“You should have come to me sooner.”
Severn said nothing. They both knew that this was theoretical. It would never have happened. It would not happen now, not beyond this one meeting.
“Time,” the fieflord continued. “These deaths might have started the moment the marks appeared, but it was too early. The risk of being caught was too high. The risk is not small now. I wish to know how they found your friend, but that is not a question you can answer.”
Severn wanted to know as well. If he left—if they left—would Elianne be safe? Or would it start again, somewhere else?
“I do not know how much time is left for your friend. Tell me, boy, have the marks on their skin, the marks with which you are familiar, changed at all since the killings began?”
Severn did not answer for one long beat; it was not an act of defiance. He struggled, for that moment, to breathe. The fieflord’s eyes were the color of night, wide and unblinking. He approached Severn, and Severn stood, frozen, until the fieflord’s eyes were the only thing he could see.
“The marks on the corpses we have managed to retrieve—and we have not retrieved all of them—are identical. There is no shift or change in the marks made upon those bodies.” He paused. “Were you twins—and I assume you are not—I do not believe any of the other deaths would be necessary. Were your friend your child, they would not be, either.
“But you are too old. Neither of these can apply.”
“What—what are they trying to do?”
“Do you not already know? Or do you ask simply to confirm your growing suspicion?”
Severn closed his eyes.
“I will not tell you what the marks signify. To you or your friend, they might be simple disfigurements. This magic is not a magic I can easily use, not a magic I would have ever considered. But I will say this: with those marks comes power. It is a power, in its prime, that is almost sorcerous in strength—but perhaps that means little to you.