Hands of Flame

Weariness lowered his head again, a sudden dull lack of interest in the world beyond his prison door. Not in two hundred years of solitude, since Hajnal’s death, had he felt so alone. All of that time his isolation had been of his own choice. Finding it impressed upon him chafed more than he’d imagined, and it was only a harbinger of what his future would hold. No gargoyle jury would forgive him for taking Ausra’s life, nor Malik’s. Moving to protect another and accidents were no excuse under Old Races law. The exile he’d chosen for himself would be ratified by a council of elders, and the idea, coupled with the throb of iron bound to his stony skin, exhausted him.

The best he could do was meet his fate with dignity. It was very early for Grace to return with the jury—gargoyles couldn’t travel during the day, and the only two in New York were reluctant guests in Grace’s tu

“Alban.” Margrit flung herself through the door with the abandon of a child, relief stealing her breath. He grunted as she crashed into him and held on hard, hoping she could impart some kind of comfort and protection with her own touch.

His scent was almost familiar, more tanged with metal than she remembered, but the chaos of the day faded as she held on to the gargoyle with all her strength. It was irrational to believe that being with him would make everything all right, no matter what crossed their paths, but she floated on that comfortable deception as long as she could. “You’re all right.” Her words were muffled against his chest, barely audible to her own ears. “I could kill Biali. Are you all right?” She pulled back without releasing her hold, eyebrows pinching with concern.

The chains Biali had flung around him had become a part of him. Bumpy, ugly links were sealed into his throat and held his hands against his chest like broken wings. Margrit cried a protest and tried to touch the mass as Alban shook his head.

“Margrit, what are you doing here?” His voice was distorted, gravel scraping iron, but the gentle astonishment and relief in it made Margrit bite her lip against tears.

“I spent half the damned day trying to rescue you,” she whispered, almost as hoarse as Alban himself. “Alban, this is horrible, can’t I—”

“You can do nothing, Margrit. Only Biali can unwind these.” Uncertainty colored his voice. “At least, I hope he can.”

“Why couldn’t he? He bound you—”

“But legends of our captivity tell stories of locks and keys, not iron coming to life under a touch to free us.”

“So go into them and find out more! We have to be able to get you free!”

Alban hesitated, then lowered his head in agreement. Margrit bit her lip, watching him as his eyes closed. She knew she asked for too much: Alban wasn’t welcome in the gargoyle memories in the best of circumstances, but maybe he’d be allowed in the worst.

Instead he flinched back with a gasp, hands spasming so that the iron lumped under his skin rippled. “It prevents me.” His voice came more hoarsely than before, shock and pain in it. “The memories are cut off by the iron.”

Margrit knotted her hands over Alban’s, anger burning horror away. “I’m going to take a sledgehammer to Biali at high noon, I swear to God. How could he do this to you?”

“He loved Ausra.” The simplicity of the answer silenced her. “As he loved Hajnal. I suspect he intended an eye for an eye in the matters of their deaths.” Humor ghosted over his expression and he lifted his hands as far as he could, gesturing at his own face and reminding Margrit of Biali’s scars. “I suppose that seems fair.”

Sick, laughter-filled disbelief crashed through her. “How can you be making jokes? Even bad ones?”

“You’ve come.” Alban sounded surprised at himself. “It seems that your presence eases even the worst of my fears. Margrit, forgive me for not stopping his abduction of you—”

Margrit opened a palm and threatened Alban’s shoulder with it. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive. It’s not your fault Biali’s stone-cold crazy.” She choked on her last words, hysteria swilling just below the surface. “Stone-cold crazy,” she mumbled again. “Guess he’d have to be, wouldn’t he?”

Alban sighed, dispelling her amusement. “I’m not certain he’s mad. He’s lost a great deal.”

“You can give him the benefit of the doubt if you want,” Margrit growled. “I’m looking at you standing here in unbreakable chains, and I think he’s batshit nuts and dangerous. Maybe not like Ausra was, because he probably doesn’t want to expose every single one of you to the human race, but he encouraged her to go after you, and now he’s come after you himself. You said gargoyles don’t go crazy, but you’re wrong, Alban. Whether it’s mad with grief or just plain bonkers, it doesn’t matter. This is insanity.”

“I agree.” Grace’s voice came from behind them, startling Margrit out of her passion. She’d forgotten the other woman had walked her to Alban’s cell, and now turned to see Grace leaning in the doorway. “Which is why I called for a jury.”

“The conclusion is foregone, Grace.” Alban sounded calm, but Grace snorted.

“You think I’ve called them here to hang you. It’s the both of you I’ll see up on trial, Korund. You’ll stand the test of ages, and we’ll see who’s in the wrong and who’s in the right.”

“The test of ages.” Alban shook his head, echoed words spoken softly. “How do you know the things you know, Grace O’Malley? That test belongs to my people, not humanity.”

“As if you’re the first or last to judge a man by a trial of hand, heart and head. Grace trades in information, Stoneheart. You should know that by now. I know a lot I’m not supposed to.”

“Grace, I have broken laws we hold dear. I am guilty. I will not stand the test.”

“God save me from puritanical heroes,” Grace muttered. “I’ll ask for it anyway, and you’ll stand it or you’ll stand a fool.” She thi

“Excuse me.” Margrit broke in, voice high. “Would either of you like to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

Grace waited on Alban, but when Margrit turned to him, his expression was impassive as he stared at the vigilante. Margrit made a sound of exasperation and turned back to Grace, who spread her hands.

“He’s to prove himself worthy in a three-stage battle. Strength, wit, compassion. The one who wins is honest or i

“A witch trial?” Margrit’s voice shot up again, incredulous. “This isn’t the fourteenth century, Grace!”

“It’s gargoyle tradition. Ask him.” Grace cut a nod at Alban, who shifted enough that Margrit recognized an uncomfortable admission in the movement.

“I don’t care if it’s tradition, it’s stupid. Nobody in their right mind would settle—”

“You’re the one who thinks Biali’s lost his mind,” Grace said, suddenly chipper.

Margrit curled a lip and tried again. “No one in this era—”

“My people are not from this era, Margrit.” Alban broke in, voice a low rumble. “But it makes no difference. I will not participate in the test.”

“Then you lose by default, Korund, and you’re condemned.”

Alban lowered his gaze. “So be it.”

“Alban—” Margrit broke off, struggling for composure. “I don’t understand you,” she finally said, low-voiced. “You couldn’t have always been so willing to let things roll over you. You fought for Hajnal. You protected—” She cast a glance toward Grace, then chose her words carefully. “You chose to stay outside the gargoyle memories to protect someone else’s secrets. Why won’t you fight now? I mean, it’s a stupid, stupid way to settle a rivalry, but you’re the one who’s been so hung up on tradition all this time. If this is traditional, why turn your back on it?”