The Carnelian Way

7.2

Olav stomped into the room, and Rina's heart plummeted like a bucket into a well. Any feeling of regret for what had happened between her and Fin evaporated in an upsurge of fury.

His black eyes scanned the room like a hare searching for danger, met hers, and then dropped to the floor. His body curled in upon itself. A leaf singed by flame. Then he turned to the entryway, nodded, and Media swept inside on those robes that billowed without the wind.

The air seemed to crackle. The energy emanating from Media snapped across Rina's skin like static electricity.

Media inclined her head to the grey-haired magister. "Thank you, Magister Elia."

The woman bowed. "High Magister."

Before Elia's head had risen, Media's obsidian eyes had fixed on the Euran woman. "Lady Caterina, with all my heart, I had hoped the reports were false. I am deeply disappointed to learn I was mistaken." Media shook her head slowly, sadly, one hand resting above her heart—though Rina noted a slight twitch of her lips before she continued, "This is a sad day for our nation and for Amadore."

Lady Caterina's eyes narrowed into icy slits. From where she knelt, arms bound before her, she lurched forward. "How dare you say that, Media, not when you—"

From the corner of her eye, Rina saw Magister Elia swipe her hand through the air. Lady Caterina jerked from the phantom blow. A line of blood bloomed from her forehead, and again, that hollow hunger came upon Rina, though, thankfully, not nearly so strong as with Fin.

Fin. What had she done? For a moment, she forgot what was happening about her. Her gaze flicked back to Olav. Following his orders. Doing his duty for Mai. The realisation made the heat of her anger cool to guilt.

Olav moved about the room toward the prisoners. The healthy, not-so-dangerous prisoners were sent to the Devastation. What could Pietro do with his broken body? He was an old man now. Insignificant. Though the Magisterium didn't think so. At that moment, as if to justify their concern, Pietro started to thrash about like a snake caught in a net.

"Piss off, Media, you fucking bitch! I know what you're really up to. You won't get away with it. We'll—"

The strike was a physical one. A knee to the nose by Olav. Quick. Brutal. Precise.

Crimson streaked down Pietro's face, and an intense craving overwhelmed Rina to the point she thought she would vomit. She shoved past the magisters and their guards, flinging herself through the door, spitting out bile, her hands bracing her body. The bricks were blocks of ice against her palms. She paused, heaving, a line of saliva dangling from her mouth. The world thrummed. She closed her eyes, waiting for it to settle, but it didn't.

"Rina," came a tentative male voice. Olav's tall, familiar form was a silhouette against the light from inside the house. He took one step forward, foot scraping on the salted porch. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his head-turning quickly to check they were alone. "There was nothing I could do. I swear it."

She glared at him. Nothing he could do? There were a whole host of alternatives to his actions. Some worse, true. While others far less so.

A pressure was building in Rina. She thought she would explode with it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and hissed, "Fuck off."

"Please." Olav's voice was now the whimper of a chastened child. His hand came to reach for her, but Rina slapped it away and he recoiled from her.

"Don't touch me, you bastard. I should have listened to my uncle. You're just the same as the rest of them. No better than a rabid dog."

Olav flinched. His body curling in upon itself again. "I did it to protect you. To protect us."