Journey Into Nyx by Jenna Helland Page B

walls and flee into the night. But all she could manage was breathing. And those breaths were short, sharp, and desperate.
    Outside a woman screamed. It was an unearthly cry of pain. There was a growling sound, as if a beast prowled around the perimeter of the tent. Frantic shouts rang out in the distance, but sounds of music and dancing continued. The revelers must be oblivious to the threat of violence lurking on the edges of the shifting firelight.
    A shadow fell over Elspeth and Daxos.
    Elspeth moved then, not of her own will but as if invisible strings were attached to her shoulders. Under someone else’s control, she found herself sitting on the edge of the couch with Daxos still sprawled motionless behind her. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap with her chin lowered in enforced deference. Two people had entered the room, but she could see only their lower legs. One of them was a man, but the other had the hooves and crooked legs of a satyr. Whatever was controlling her forced her to raise her chin. And Elspeth saw the face of King Stranger, the prisoner that she’d talked to inside the Kolophon of Akros. Behind him was a man in a dark hooded cloak with gold trim. His face was obscured by shadows.
    “Elspeth,” the satyr said. “It’s time you know my real name …”
    “Xenagos,” she replied as he placed the information in her addled brain. The effect of his spell intensified, and her senses became hyperaware. The blue of the canvas walls stung her eyes, the wails from outside pierced her ears, and the smell of burning flesh made her nauseous. Xenagos forced her to look into his yellow eyes, and the slits of his pupils widened and expanded under her forced scrutiny. She could see the fingerprints in the red paint smeared on his chest. She could hear his raspy breath. She could sense the shard of metal lodged near his rapidly beating heart. It was an arrowhead. He, too, had been someone’s prey.
    Xenagos grabbed Elspeth’s wrist and yanked her nearly off the couch while she desperately tried to dispel his magic over her. Muddled by fear and disorientation, she couldn’t shake it. Her own spells kept slipping away from her mind, as unattainable as leaves swirling in a storm.
    “Where is Purphoros’s Sword?” Xenagos demanded. His minions were trashing everything as they looked for the blade. Her eyes flicked toward the wooden table where she had left it. From her vantage point on the couch, she could only see a corner of the table. But if her blade had been there, it would be clearly visible to everyone in the room.
    “You thought it was in that room?” Xenagos shoved her back down on the couch. “Stupid girl. She didn’t even know it’s gone.”
    The satyr motioned to the hooded figure, who stepped forward. The small fire burning in the brazier illuminated the man’s features. Elspeth would have screamed, if the satyr had permitted her the use of her mouth. The hooded figure was Sarpedon, the man she had met in the Temple of Phenax in Akros. He was the Priest of Lies who had read her mind and urged her to seek Heliod, but his handsome face had been ruined. His lips had been cut off and the skin sewn together with rough black stitches. His veiled eyes were stark and gray, like the sky before a storm.
    “Phenax didn’t like the way Sarpedon handled his encounter with you, planeswalker,” Xenagos sneered. “But an oracle as powerful as he is never unclaimed for long. No vessel is too damaged for the God of the Underworld to covet for his own.”
    Outside, blades clashed against each other. They sliced into flesh as desperate laughter turned to mad ravings. The discordant music was accompanied by what sounded like a pack of hounds tearing into their prey. Again, Elspeth tried to force the satyr out of her mind and recapture her free will. But the only memory she could conjure was being with Daxos at Hunter’s Crossing, and the memory of a forest gave her no power at all.
    “Fortunately,