Furyborn

by Claire Legrand

  She made it to the second floor before Navi caught up with her. The girl grabbed her arm, yanked her back hard. Eliana spun around, pressed Whistler to Navi’s throat.

  “I’m getting my brother and leaving,” she spat, “and if you try to stop me, Navi, I swear I will gut you.”

  The world spun and wouldn’t stop. Eliana dropped Whistler, sagged against Navi’s body.

  “Eliana?” Navi sank to the floor with her. “Get up, please!”

  Eliana gasped for breath, her voice choking in her throat. She tried to dislodge herself from Navi’s arms, crawl away, but she couldn’t move.

  Then Navi disappeared.

  A gloved hand came over Eliana’s mouth, pressing a reeking cloth to her face. She struggled, her scream muffled. Another hand caught the back of her skull, forcing her harder against the cloth.

  As her vision dimmed, she saw a black-clothed figure—hood drawn, mask on—gathering an unconscious Navi into his arms.

  The wrongness in the air swallowed Eliana whole. She wanted to be sick again, but the pressure bearing down on her throat prevented it.

  A voice at her ear whispered, “And when the Gate fell, He found me in the chaos, pointed to my thirsting heart, and said, ‘You I shall deliver into the glory of the new world,’ and I wept at his feet and was remade.”

  Then Eliana slipped into a narrow pit, where the fading world around her jolted sharply before folding her away into nothingness.

  35

  Rielle

  “The mountain falls under my fists

  The sea dries at my touch

  The flame dies on my tongue

  The night howls with my anger

  The light darkens in my shadow

  The earth fades beneath my feet

  I do not break or bend

  I cannot be silenced

  I am everywhere”

  —The Wind Rite

  As first uttered by Saint Ghovan the Fearless, patron saint of Ventera and windsingers

  Rielle sat on a throne in the center of a dark room.

  A narrow light illuminated her from above. Beyond lay a vastness of shifting shadows. She sensed that pieces of a world just beyond her reach were rearranging themselves, whispering to one another how best to play tricks on the foolish lit-up queen who thought she was something.

  The throne beneath her was made of knobs and ridges that bit into her thighs. A voice whispered to her, Look.

  “At what?” Rielle peered through the darkness. Doing so made her dizzy. “I see nothing.”

  Look closer.

  Rielle obeyed. Days passed. Her eyes burned; she did not sleep. Voices whispered from a distant realm.

  She rose from her throne. Desperate unseen hands grasped at the hem of her cloak. She tasted a sour ancient rot on her tongue.

  “There is nothing here,” she insisted. Time had shredded her voice.

  Keep going.

  She walked for centuries. The whispering voices grew bold. They became a conversation, then a din. They spoke in an unfamiliar language, but still she understood what every word meant and that all were spoken for her:

  Maker.

  Queen.

  Liberty.

  Rielle.

  At last, she saw a spot of light in the distance and cried out. Was this finally the end? She had tired of walking alone. She wanted no more of these voices calling for her, of sensing the nearness of others, but not being able to find them.

  When the light came into full view, she saw it was one she already knew—the illuminated throne.

  And now she understood why it had hurt her to sit upon it.

  It was made of bones.

  Exhausted, elated, she sank down onto it. She clutched the throne’s smooth white arms and knew them for the bones of those who had once tried to cage her.

  “What is this place?” Rielle demanded. “I deserve an answer.”

  Shadows slithered around the bright solid wall of her throne, then coldly across her cheeks, her breasts, the curve of her scalp. She closed her eyes; her mouth fell open to receive a kiss.

  The shadows became a man.

  “This is where we have lived for an age,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to the curve of her ear. “And where we will soon no longer be if you have the nerve for it.”

  “Corien,” she breathed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  He inhaled deeply. His mouth moved against her cheek. “Don’t make me beg.”

  Rielle brushed her lips along the line of his jaw. “What if I want to make you beg?” she whispered. “What if I want you at my mercy?”

  “Then I shall happily obey.” He moved one white palm down her body, across the flat of her stomach. His knuckles grazed the tops of her thighs, and she leaned back to make room for him—

  Rielle awoke with a choked gasp, her fingers already working between her legs. Three quick strokes, and she came apart, quietly pulsing around her hand. She turned her face into her pillow, seeking relief for her flaming cheeks, but the pillow was drenched in her sweat.

  She sat up, her body trembling. Eyes squeezed shut, stomach in knots, chest tight around her heart. Fear chasing pleasure, pleasure chasing shame.

  Then she realized how strange it was that she would have woken up in such a state, and Evyline would have said nothing.

  “Evyline?” Her voice sounded like it had been run through with razors. “Evyline, are you—”

  Something hard struck the back of her head.

  She crashed to the floor. Pain throbbed through her skull and coursed through her body in waves. Cheek pressed against the plush carpet, she found the prone form of Evyline across the room.

  Hands yanked her up from the floor. A dark heavy cloth came around her eyes. Someone tied it behind her head, too tightly, then fisted a hand in her hair, pried open her mouth, and forced a bitter liquid inside. She choked, tried to spit it up. Her attacker clamped her mouth shut. She was forced to swallow, coughing up as much as she could. Her nose burned; her eyes watered behind the blindfold.

  People were talking above her head. Whispered instructions, distorted and monstrous. Bizarrely, she was upside down. She could feel her head lolling and large arms cruel around her body.

  Wake up!

  How strange that anyone would tell her to wake up. She was awake; she had simply been poisoned. She tried to speak, made a terrible inarticulate noise. A gloved hand struck her hard on the temple. She hardly felt it. She was a girl made of fog.

  “Don’t kill her,” came a voice. Rielle thought it sounded familiar, but the poison was clogging her ears and her brain and every pore of her skin. “I want her to feel it when she dies.”

  • • •

  It was very cold, wherever they had gone. Cold and howling.

  Strong hands pinned Rielle’s arms behind her back. Her teeth were chattering; her nightgown was nothing against the wind. Under her bare feet was frigid, rocky ground.

  For God’s sake, Rielle, wake up!

  “I am awake,” she managed to mumble.

  “Not for long.” A thin, nearby voice whispered, “I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to save yourself this time.”

  The blindfold was ripped from her eyes, and her mind exploded with fear. She blinked into sheer brilliant white: snowcapped mountains. Sky and a fine mist of clouds. A cliff’s edge.

  Oh, God.

  “All hail the Sun Queen,” whispered that mocking voice, and then the hands holding her arms flung her off the mountain to her death.

  • • •

  The wind punched her helpless body through the air as she fell.

  She had no chance to scream—and no breath for it. Freezing wind slammed up her nose and mouth.

  Save yourself! Corien’s voice was frantic.

  She wa
s in the world, falling through the mountains, and she was also on the ground before her throne in that hollow dream realm. Corien scooped her limp body into his arms and tried to breathe life back into her.

  Fight this! Fight it!

  She knew he was right. She could fight this.

  She forced open her eyes; the cold pulled thick streams of tears down her face.

  I do not bend or break, she prayed. I cannot be silenced.

  But the poison had formed an immovable wall between her body and the empirium. She reached for its power and found nothing.

  She knew, then, that she was going to die.

  No, you’re not! Corien cried. God, Rielle, no, please!

  Beside the throne, his face raw with grief, Corien cradled her body against his chest. The endless dark world around him sent up wailing, terrified screams.

  A rush of swirling cold gusted up from below Rielle, spraying her with snow. A spinning ocean of gray peaks sped toward her.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw Audric and Ludivine, and her heart clenched painfully with despair, and she wished, and she wished—

  She slammed to a stop so sudden that it knocked the wind out of her.

  But she felt no pain.

  And she was rising.

  A creature beneath her let out a piercing cry, part hawk, part horse, part…some unearthly, lonesome thing that sent a pang of longing through Rielle’s heart.

  She finally let herself understand the truth:

  A chavaile—a godsbeast—had caught her midair and was now climbing up through the sky with Rielle nestled safely on its back between two massive black wings.

  Stunned, still gasping for breath, she finished her prayer in the brilliant light of the morning sun:

  I do not break or bend.

  I cannot be silenced.

  I am everywhere.

  36

  Eliana

  “We are the ones he calls at night

  We are the vessels of his might

  We speak the word that he has prayed

  Upon his wings, our souls remade”

  —The initiation pledge of the cult Fidelia

  The world was a flat gray box, and Eliana lived inside it.

  A floor, a wall, a ceiling. No windows. A metal door with a thin slot cut out near the bottom—and a narrow strip of light underneath it the only light source.

  The air filled with faint, distant screams.

  Slowly, she sat up and realized she was wearing plain white trousers with a matching tunic. Her feet were bare; the floor was cold and hard. Her knives…her knives were gone. As was her necklace.

  A cell. She was in a cell.

  She drew her knees to her chest, held her aching head in her hands.

  Memories returned to her: Rahzavel grinning down at her, the shadowed rafters of Sanctuary arching high overhead. Simon crashing down from the stairs. Running with Navi, the world lurching around her with every step. Remy. She needed to get to Remy.

  Her breath came thin and quick. She remembered, she remembered…

  A hand over her mouth, poisonous fumes shooting up her nose.

  Three women gone in three seconds.

  Fidelia.

  With a wild cry, she surged to her feet and slammed against the door—over and over, throwing her left side into each blow until her head spun and her teeth hurt. She would be bruised, but only for a little while. Might as well keep going, then, right?

  “Who are you?” She pounded her fists raw, kicked her toes bloody. “Release me! Show me your fucking face!”

  And then, she remembered one last thing: her mother. Her mother could be in this place.

  She threw herself against the door with renewed fervor. “Mother? Mother, I’m here! Someone answer me! Answer me!”

  But even her body had its limits. She screamed until her voice gave out. She crumpled to the floor, clapped exhausted palms against the door until she could no longer hold up her arms, then dragged herself to the corner of the cell and folded her body into a tight ball.

  Eyes fixed on the bright line of white below the door, she waited.

  • • •

  She woke up when she heard Navi screaming.

  Scrambling upright, she called out hoarsely, “I’m here! Navi, I’m here!” She crouched at the door, ear pressed to the metal, fingers flexed and ready.

  Silence.

  She held her breath. Had it been a dream?

  The screams began again—heart-punching, shattered sounds like something being forcibly unmade. At first wordless, and then, minutes or hours later, Navi began to beg for an end.

  “Kill me!” The screams became desperate shrieks. “Kill me!”

  Inhuman roars joined the chorus, carved into pieces as if issued from many mouths.

  Women?

  Girls?

  Beasts?

  Eliana retreated to her corner, light-headed, hands clamped over her ears. She was not the Dread in this place. She forgot everything but the awful truth of Navi’s screams and her own vulnerable, trembling body. She was a rat in this cell, and the catcher would come for her soon. The stupid animal part of her brain told her so. Faster than she had ever believed possible, it rose up to stomp out all of her training and left her shaking with fear in the dark.

  • • •

  Would they torture her for information and then feed her to a pit of animals?

  What information did they want?

  Red Crown?

  Navi?

  God, what they might have already learned from her…

  Eliana paced. Movement made the fear feel smaller. She practiced slicing through the air with the tray that had brought food she dared not touch.

  “I shall name you Arabeth the Second,” she told the tray and then laughed and told herself to stop talking to trays right this instant. If she lost her mind so soon into imprisonment, it would be an insult to her mother’s training.

  “Arabeth,” said a voice behind her, sonorous but warped and faintly amused. “A fine name for a weapon.”

  Eliana whirled and threw the tray at the shadowed shape that stood against the far wall. A woman, Eliana thought, tall and thin and…transparent.

  The tray shot through the woman’s body, hit the wall, clattered to the floor.

  Cursing, Eliana staggered back as far as the cell allowed. “What are you? Show yourself!”

  The woman obeyed, drifting forward until she knelt at Eliana’s feet. She was a colorless distortion in the air. Shimmering, thread-thin lights outlined robes, a full mouth, and a mass of hair that fell to her hips.

  “It’s true, then,” the woman murmured, reaching out to touch Eliana’s hand.

  Eliana’s vision jolted, then blackened. She swayed on her feet, braced her hands against her knees, fought against unconsciousness.

  “You don’t belong here,” she managed. “You feel wrong.”

  “I know,” said the woman, a great sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry for that. You will get used to it, if it’s any comfort.”

  “You’re Fidelia. Get the fuck away from me.”

  “I am certainly not Fidelia.”

  Eliana pressed her fingers to her temples. “I felt this sickness in Sanctuary, right before you took me. And the night you took my mother and when you took those girls from the slums—”

  “I did none of this, my queen. The Prophet does not snatch girls from their beds, and neither do I.”

  Eliana squinted at the woman, breathing thinly through the ill feeling churning in her gut. “What did you call me?”

  “There have been rumors for months that Simon found you at last,” the woman continued, her voice thrumming with excitement, “but I did not let myself believe it until now. Now, I see your face, I hear you speak, I feel you breathe, and I kno
w.”

  The woman floated nearer, cupped Eliana’s face in her hand. Eliana felt nothing at her touch except for a fresh wave of nausea. She squeezed her eyes shut and sank to the floor.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she moaned.

  “Forgive me, my queen.” The woman moved quickly away. “I should not have touched you. It is difficult for humans to adjust.”

  “Who are you, what are you, and why are you calling me that?”

  The woman bowed her head. “I am forgetting myself. If you only knew how long we’ve been waiting for this day…but then, you will know soon enough.”

  Eliana looked up as the woman stretched to her full, translucent height—eight feet, at least. Her elongated limbs reminded Eliana uncomfortably of a spider.

  “I am Zahra,” the woman said, “and I am a wraith. And you are Eliana Ferracora, the Dread of Orline, the last of House Courverie, daughter of the Lightbringer, heir to the throne of Saint Katell, the true queen of Celdaria, and…” Zahra spread her long arms wide. Her dark smile was full of joy. “You are the One Who Rises. The Furyborn Child. You are the Sun Queen, Eliana, and I have come to bring you home.”

  37

  Rielle

  “Katell’s writings show that, out of all the godsbeasts, she most favored the chavaile. Perhaps due to its similarity to the white mare that carried her into battle against the angels. Perhaps because its wings reminded her of her beloved Aryava and brought her comfort after his death.”

  —A Chronicle of the Godsbeasts by Raliquand d’Orseau, First Guild of Scholars

  The chavaile did not stop until Rielle began to heave on its back.

  They touched down on a small rocky cliff dotted with stubby tufts of grass and sheltered by boulders as big around as King Bastien’s carriage. Rielle slid to the ground and managed to crawl a few paces away before violently emptying her stomach.

  After, hollowed out, she dragged herself toward the rocks, seeking shelter from the wind. Every movement sent shocks of pain through her body. The poison had done fine work; she felt as though she’d been hammered up and down every muscle and bone. She hoped she had gotten it all out—and not too late.