She bristled, rising. “I have the casting,” she said shortly. “That’s more important than anything right now, for if the Gate falls, all else is pointless. And I didn’t leave you for him. I left you here to carry out my duty. A duty you placed upon my shoulders. You instructed me to put myself into harm’s way, to make myself vulnerable to a creature who is ravenous for me, because it would help Celdaria. And I was only too happy to do it, because I love you, and I love my home. But you can’t have it both ways, Audric. Either I am to be the Sun Queen and do whatever is necessary to protect us all, even if that means risking my life—or I am to sit at home, safe and cosseted, under lock and key. Useless and ornamental.”
Audric looked up at her in silence, but the weariness in those great, dark eyes of his told her the truth. He was sorry, and he loved her, and he felt as conflicted as she did.
Before he could manage to say anything that would make her feel worse, anything that would remind her of the awful unkindness she had dealt him in that snow-frosted cave, Rielle rose, her throat aching. “I’ll take my breakfast downstairs. Lu, keep watch over that damned shield until I return.”
Then she turned away from them both and fled for the solace of the temple’s strange, perfumed shadows, her guard at her heels and a knot of shame turning slowly, sharply, gleefully in the pit of her gut.
26
Eliana
“Meridian was the first land of the western continent to fall to the Empire. Once a lush, verdant country, scattered silver with lakes and brilliant rivers, each constructed by Saint Nerida’s own two blessed hands, Meridian is now a wasteland of razed forests and murky waters. More battered than Ventera, more dangerous than the innumerable, nigh unnavigable islands of the occupied Vespers, Meridian is a husk of its former radiant self. Saint Nerida would weep to see it, and her tears of rage would drown the world.”
—The Sorrow of Saint Nerida, as written in the journal of Remy Ferracora, November 13, Year 1018 of the Third Age
They made port in a small cove off the northwestern coast of Meridian. An abandoned village awaited them, ravaged by long-ago invasion forces and left a ruin of memory. Its skinny, patchwork docks swayed atop the water, as if a few more stubborn gusts of salty wind might send them drifting off to sea.
The crew of the Streganna rowed them to shore in dinghies—Eliana, Harkan, Patrik, Jessamyn, the boy Gerren, and twelve other Red Crown soldiers, in addition to thirty-one refugees.
Once everyone in their party had disembarked, Eliana stood on the shore and watched the dinghies leave, until she could no longer pick out their shapes in the black. It was the middle of a moonless night. The Streganna sat dark and quiet, nearly invisible, out on the water. If Eliana hadn’t known where to look, her eyes would have passed over it entirely.
Patrik came up beside her, adjusting the weapons belt slung around his hips. “Hello there, Eliana. What horrors are you thinking about?”
His cheerful voice nettled her. “If I told you, you might never recover.”
“Fair enough. Let them stay in your black heart where they belong.”
They stood in silence, insults and barbs circling through Eliana’s head until she felt so laden with them that she had to sit down in the damp, gray sand and brace her tender hands against the ground.
“I wish my heart was black,” she said after a moment. “I wish it was hard as polished stone. Impenetrable, incapable of shattering.”
Patrik joined her. “If you’re trying to make me pity you, I must warn you, it’s an impossible task.”
“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m pitying myself.”
“Your friend Harkan is a good man,” Patrik said, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s helping the orphans find shelter, distributing rations.” He clucked his tongue. “If I were a younger man, and if my heart didn’t already belong to another, I might just have to declare my adoration for him. Loudly and passionately. Perhaps on bended knee.”
“You’d be disappointed,” Eliana said quietly. “He favors women. One in particular.”
Patrik placed a mocking hand over his heart. “Please don’t tell me it’s you. The world would not be so cruel as to pair such a man with such a monster.”
This time, when the memory of Remy manifested in her mind—No, he had said, backing away from her, you’re the monster—this time, the pain that followed felt dull, blunted.
Well done, black heart of mine.
“The world not cruel?” She laughed, a mere breath of sound. “That’s a fine joke, Patrik. And here I thought you had no sense of humor.”
For a time, they were quiet. Tireless waves lapped against the shore. Eliana listened to the refugees settling in what remained of the dock houses, the rebels taking stock of their weapons and supplies. Harkan laughed, joined by another. Foreign sounds, even illicit, in such a place.
“I want to tell you our plan for tomorrow,” Patrik said, all humor gone from his voice. “Not because I trust you, but because I only have one other truly exemplary fighter here with me, and I’ll need you ready. The moment I catch a whiff of any trouble, I’ll shoot you without hesitation, and I won’t miss.”
Eliana nodded. “Is it Jessamyn? The other fighter?”
“Indeed. And if I’m dead by the time you decide to betray us, she’ll be the one to kill you.”
“Can you tell me one more time, please, what will happen if I betray you? I’m still unclear on that point.”
Patrik chuckled darkly. “As I said on the Streganna, most of the people in our care are from the city of Karlaine. The Empire presence is weak there. It’s a city of minimal strategic importance, not located on any major waterways or roadways. But a straight path to the city is blocked by the Nalora River, some ten miles away from Karlaine. There’s a small outpost there, on the west side of the river. The land is flat and open. Sentries could see for miles.
“Our goal is twofold: to provide a distraction while the refugees cross the river and flee to Karlaine. And to raid the outpost, freeing as many prisoners as possible. We’ll take the survivors to Karlaine, if we’re able, and if not, then we’ll trust that our refugees have made it to Karlaine and retreat with the survivors to a Red Crown safe house about thirty miles south of here. It’s not ideal. I doubt they’ll be in any condition to travel, but at least they’ll be out of that laboratory.”
Eliana turned to face him, suddenly alert. “What sort of laboratory? Fidelia?”
“Our intelligence was patchy, but yes, I believe so. This outpost exists to guard it.”
Then a thought occurred to Eliana, and with it came a warm rush of relief that soothed some of the chaos raging in her mind.
“What is it?” Patrik was watching her. “You’ve thought of something.”
“When Navi and I were held by Fidelia, she was experimented upon and tortured. By the time we fled, her body had begun to change. She suffered for weeks.”
Patrik closed his eyes. “I am sorry to hear this. A great pity that she was the one to suffer, and not you.”
“You are admirably consistent in your hatred.”
“Did she die?”
“No. Harkan and I found an antidote.”
Patrik sat up, his expression brightening. “Do you have more of this?”
“We do. He packed what was left in his bag before he… Before we left.”
“Will you share it with the survivors we liberate? To assuage what I hope is an all-consuming, ever-present guilt?”
“No,” she said lightly, “I thought I would toss it all into the river as we pass by.”
Patrik laughed a little, scrubbing his face. “I have had very few joys in this life, and even fewer since being separated from my Hob. Your news is one of them, and I thank you for it.”
“Have I improved your opinion of me?”
“Ever so marginally.”
�
�Ah. Progress.”
They sat quietly, watching the sea. Then Patrik spoke, his voice gentler.
“Were you separated from Remy during the invasion?” he asked. “Or did you leave him behind deliberately?”
A hot clutch of tears seized Eliana’s throat. For several seconds she physically could not answer him.
“Harkan took me,” she said at last, her voice a shadow of itself. “He wanted to get me away to safety. He drugged me and dragged me out of the city before the Empire could reach the palace. He was well intentioned, and utterly misguided, and I’ll never forgive him for it. I don’t know what’s happened to Remy. I don’t know if he survived the invasion.”
Patrik sucked in air through his teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She laughed.
“Truly, I am. That was a grave error on Harkan’s part.”
“It’s probably better this way. Remy will live longer, the farther away from me he remains. I’m not safe.”
She sensed Patrik glancing at her hands. “What does that mean?”
“It means many things.”
He nodded, gazing out over the water. “And Simon? Was he well when last you saw him?”
“When last I saw him,” she said, her voice trailing off as she recalled the way he had looked at her that evening in her rooms. How his mouth had blazed a hot trail across her jaw, her neck.
How furious he must have been—and, perhaps, how frightened—when he’d realized she’d gone missing.
Now that I’ve known a life with you by my side, I’m not sure I could bear that kind of loneliness again.
“Yes.” She crossed her arms over her middle, against the chill of the sea. “He was well.”
• • •
They arrived at the Empire outpost after three days of travel. Caebris, it was called, according to Patrik. A series of squat black buildings huddled against the banks of the Nalora River. Surrounding them stood a high stone wall with slender, square towers at each of its corners.
Eliana scanned the outpost. Flat on her belly, hidden by the scrubby grasses of a low ridge, she waited for Patrik’s signal. Night had fallen. A western breeze slithered between the thin, dry stalks of grass that clustered across the flat riverlands.
She glanced once to her left. Several yards away, Harkan waited with Jessamyn and two Red Crown fighters—Dasha and Viri. Small bands of refugees hid in tussocks to her right, not half a mile down the riverbank, where a narrow bridge allowed passage across the river.
Looking at the bridge, Eliana tensed. It was a wide river; the bridge seemed to stretch for miles. Thirty-foot watchtowers stood at each bank. Patrik hoped the havoc they would wreak, once inside the walls, would urge any sentries from their posts, leaving the bridge clear for refugees to flee across. The boy Gerren, who was not made for close combat but was a prodigious marksman, waited near the closer watchtower with his rifle, ready to pick off adatrox from the ground.
A shift of light caught Eliana’s eye, drawing her attention back to the outpost. The main doors were opening, admitting a thin wash of torchlight from within. Dark figures moved through the light—some entering, some exiting. Horses being moved, supplies carried and dragged. A shift change.
From a few paces ahead of her, hidden in the grass, came the low call of a quail, followed by a second.
Patrik’s signal.
Eliana pushed herself to her feet and ran down the slight hill toward the river. She glanced to her left only once and saw the other attack parties echoing her progress, in groups of two or three. Rebels mostly, but also a few of the refugees who were strong enough to fight and itching for the chance.
Harkan was in the group nearest her, running swiftly through the tall grass—revolver in hand, sword swinging at his side.
She sent a silent prayer into the night to the deceitful saints she had glimpsed in Zahra’s vision: Keep us safe. Help us run swiftly. Light our path.
Her castings jolted, sharp and hot, startling her.
Immediately, the outpost exploded—a series of detonations along the front wall. Four total, blasting great holes through the wall and the outbuildings. Debris and adatrox alike went flying. An alarm bell clanged from one of the high watchtowers. Shouts and cries of pain rang out from the ruins.
Eliana stopped running, breathless.
Patrik’s plan had only called for a single explosion, one of their precious remaining bombardiers thrown at the open doors. The chaos would allow them to fight their way inside, at which point they would detonate two more bombardiers and release a barrage of smokers. Patrik and Harkan and a few of the others would remain outside the laboratory, fighting off adatrox and creating as much confusion as possible with what remained of their ammunition. Eliana, Jessamyn, and their party of four others would enter the Fidelia laboratory. The others would gather as many survivors as possible and help them out of the compound by way of a small auxiliary door that Patrik’s scout, Ursula, had discovered during one of her patrols.
And Eliana and Jessamyn? They would slaughter anyone who got in their way, allowing the laboratory prisoners time to get to freedom.
That was the plan. But those explosions did not belong to a bombardier.
They belonged to Eliana.
She felt their echo, tingling in throbbing patches along the underside of her arms.
Her heart pounding, she turned her hands over and back again, examining her palms, then her knuckles, her wrists. It was happening again—her castings, pulling at the empirium unpredictably, just as they had done in her rooms, with those rows of snapping fire, and in the Nest, flames devouring the market like disease.
Zahra’s box, stuffed in her coat pocket, began to hum as if the explosions had awoken it.
Eliana clamped a hand over her pocket, wildly hoping that the box would shatter—but it remained intact, and its humming ceased abruptly. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm her racing heart. She should have made her castings larger, stronger. More chains, more metal, entire plates of it, her hands weighed down by layers upon layers, enough to stifle any instincts her traitorous body possessed.
Perhaps then her castings would function as they were supposed to, wrangle her confusion into order, subdue her fear, channel the power she could not seem to control.
“El!” Harkan roared from somewhere in the smoke. “Come on!”
His voice jolted her. She ran.
At the entrance to the outpost, smoke-riddled and scattered with tiny fresh flames, swords rang and shots fired. Eliana pounced on an adatrox guard, Arabeth in one hand and Nox in the other. He swiped at her clumsily with his sword; she ducked, spun, gutted him, and ran on. Another was locked in combat with Viri, a few feet away. Eliana ran for them and plunged Arabeth into the adatrox’s back just as he reached for his gun.
“Thank you!” Viri said, panting. A flash of white, a smile in the smoke, and then he was gone.
Eliana ran on toward the heart of the compound. Bombardiers exploded around her; she tried not to count the explosions, tried not to think about their dwindling ammunition supply. Her hands blazed around the hilts of her daggers. She tried to ignore that as well. It meant nothing. It was her burns, still tender, never allowed the chance to heal. It was the heat of the burning outpost around her. There was no danger; her castings wouldn’t once again summon unquenchable fire that would devour them all, as it had in Annerkilak.
She found the laboratory at the same time Jessamyn did. They tried the door—heavy and wooden, reinforced with metal bars—but it was, of course, locked. Jessamyn cursed and swiped a hand across her smoke-stained face. The four others in their laboratory team joined them, their sweat-slicked skin caked with dust, but their eyes blazing.
“Stand back,” Jessamyn ordered them all. Eliana complied, ushering the others back and noting with an automatic appreciation that came from years of living as
the Dread how elegantly Jessamyn moved through a battlefield, how easily she existed in her own body. Eliana hurried the others to shelter behind a neatly stacked pile of bodies, their discolored, chapped skin marred with familiar sores.
Jessamyn joined them, unflinching, though she tossed a horrible glare at the bodies. “This is bullshit,” she declared, and then she withdrew a bombardier from her pocket, kissed it, and glanced at Eliana. “Last one.”
She tossed it at the laboratory’s stone wall. Seconds later, it exploded, the structure giving way with a groan. The entire front wall wavered and collapsed.
Eliana ran for it, Jessamyn beside her and the rest of their team just behind. Inside the laboratory, they met a squadron of four adatrox, the brutes coughing and bewildered, struggling stupidly through the rubble. Eliana dispatched two, gladly falling back into the rhythm of her former life—Arabeth to the gut, Nox to the throat. She whirled, saw Jessamyn yank her own dagger from another guard’s belly and then spin to meet the other. She knocked his arm with her elbow right before he fired his gun. The shot went wide and harmless down the corridor. Jessamyn wrenched his arm, breaking it with a horrible snap. He cried out, those dead gray eyes flickering, and then she drew her blade across his throat and watched him drop.
One of the refugees in their party, a solid, kind-eyed woman named Catilla, who was adept with a sword, turned away and promptly got sick on the floor. Another refugee, Jaraq, crouched beside the bodies, swiftly searching their uniforms for keys.
Jessamyn’s blazing eyes met Eliana’s. She jerked her head at the corridor beyond. “Shall we?”
As the only one to have been inside a Fidelia laboratory, Eliana had drawn a map of the Rinthos facility for the team leaders to examine. If this building was anything like that one, she knew exactly where the prisoners would be kept. If it wasn’t, they would improvise.
Jaraq cried out in triumph. “Here!” He tossed a ring of keys at Eliana.
She caught it, nodded once at Jessamyn, then turned and hurried down the corridor. Galvanized lights flickered overhead, their casings shattered. From outside came the distant sounds of battle, fading as Eliana ran deeper into the laboratory, her team close behind her. Rasping, inhuman cries filled the air, sounds that the black animal deeps of Eliana’s gut recognized with a horrible lurch.
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