The Maker of Chains.
Had he not believed that Tristan lived, none of this would’ve been an issue. But he did believe it. Anna wouldn’t have said that to him were it not true. She wouldn’t have come to him and shared with him that there was something he needed to know were it not true.
Gavin grabbed Erica. He pulled her along with him. She had injuries to both shoulders, but it was possible she could heal herself with magic.
He needed someplace to hold her. Bringing her to the Dragon, close to where he now had the girl, wasn’t the right strategy. There was another place he might be able to bring her.
As they moved through the streets, she didn’t fight. She said nothing to him. They passed a few other people, but Gavin didn’t look in their direction, and they didn’t look in his. He was mostly concerned about running into one of the constables. They might question why he was dragging a woman with him, and he’d have to either reveal she was an enchantress or knock them down.
He didn’t have any trouble though. The forest rose in the background as he reached the street, and he was getting tired. He’d been forced to draw upon his core reserves as he pulled her along, worried about her using some of her power on him. There was a limit to how much he could hold, and he feared he drew close to that limit.
When he reached Cyran’s home, the windows were dark like they had been in the days since Gavin had sent him off with the El’aras. He quickly unlocked the door, tossing her in front of him, where she sprawled out on the floor. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. It was curiosity, not concern, that filled her voice. There was still the edge of hatred there.
“You and I are going to talk.”
“Here?”
“Did you have a better place in mind?” he said.
A layer of dust hung over everything in the home, and Cyran had emptied almost everything he’d kept here. There were no furnishings other than a table and pair of chairs. The cabinets had been cleaned out. The air had a stale, harsh stink to it.
“There’s something off about this place.”
“I’m sure there is. It was once a sorcerer’s lair.”
He didn’t know if that would intimidate her or not, but if it did, then good. Maybe she could detect something magical about it and could pick up on some element of the residual energy that remained following Cyran’s departure. Even if she couldn’t, he didn’t care. All he cared about now was holding her somewhere, although he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep her here either.
He lifted her again and threw her into one of the chairs. “Tell me about the Maker of Chains.”
“You’re concerned.”
“No. Simply curious.”
She glared at him. “I can tell when a man is concerned. When I came to you at the Roasted Dragon, you were not worried, which surprised me. Most men would have been concerned about the job I hired you for.”
“I’m not most men.”
“No, you are the great Gavin Lorren.” She said his name with a flourish and with a hint of an accent, a familiar sound that suggested that she knew something more about him than even he did, along with something of a sneer to it.
The only other person who had said it in a similar way had been Anna—though without the sneer—and the sorcerer. Maybe the Maker of Chains was not Tristan at all. It could be the sorcerer who’d trained Cyran.
Gavin would have no reason to believe the sorcerer would have left him alone—no reason other than the fact that he’d sent the sorcerer away. He’d completed the job, and that alone should’ve been enough reason for the sorcerer to move on, but Gavin had enough experience with sorcerers to know that they didn’t simply leave someone they found valuable. Given what he had done on behalf of the sorcerer, Gavin had proven he was valuable to him. That could have been a mistake.
He let out a heavy sigh and pulled the chair out, sitting across from the enchantress. He watched her for a reaction. The panic and the pleading notes that had been in her voice were gone. Now there was nothing more than a sense of amused confidence. It was so different than the woman he’d seen before.
“What else do you know about me?”
“You are Gavin Lorren. An assassin for hire. A man widely known as one of the most skilled in this part of the world.” She leaned forward. “And perhaps somebody with more talent than the rumors would suggest.” That was a hint about magic, though he wouldn’t acknowledge that. Her smile faded into a slight pout. “Is that not enough? I thought having a reputation like that would be all a man like you would need.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Perhaps you are wondering whether I know you are known as the Breaker of Chains.” She glared at him. “Intriguing that there is a Maker of Chains and a Breaker of Chains. Don’t you think?”
“Who is he?”
She continued to glare at him. “I will keep that to myself.”
“Fine. Keep it to yourself all you want. I’ll hold you here until you decide to talk.”
“How can you hold me here when you’re trying to protect her?”
Gavin got up and glanced down at her shoulders. The bleeding had stopped. It dried around her robes, though it wasn’t nearly as bloody as what he expected. He ripped the fabric and wasn’t surprised to see that the wounds had completely recovered.
He hurriedly jabbed the El’aras dagger into her shoulders again. She winced and clenched her jaw without crying out, but by limiting her ability to move her hands, he minimized the type of
