56
The Source
Alasyr had been scouring the hard peaks and valleys of Icebolt Mountain for hours. The mid-season storm pushed clouds in his way. Ice peppered his wings, knocking him off course more than once. It would be snow later, which was more forgiving, but there wouldn’t be a later.
He never looked behind him. His mother wouldn’t come after him, any more than she’d gone after Ravenna. She had lived by their traditions and would die by them, no matter the personal cost. She had other children, more pliant and willing than Ravenna and Alasyr. Alasyr’s one regret was not seeing it when Ravenna did, so he could have left with her. It would have spared him this new pain, more acute than any that had come before.
He found a clear patch in the sky and glided sideways, scanning the fresh swash of mountainside. There was nothing but the blinding white of snow. The same snow he’d known all his short and limited life. He’d never walked through a field of fresh blossoms, or witnessed color that was not born of magic. He didn’t know the taste of venison, or the rich scents of a bustling town in the middle of summer. Until Ravenna disappeared, he’d never even stepped foot on the land of men. He’d never wanted to.
They are evil, and would lay their evil upon us, if we allowed them. His instruction on the world of men had been meager, but stark and clear. Men were only reluctant allies. Men would harm them if given the chance. Men were evil.
Ravenna understood this, but it had taken the words of this strange and powerful girl for him to finally see. This girl who had been more determined to become a better version of herself than any Ravenwood Alasyr had ever known.
He entered another cloud patch, wobbling through as the turbulent winds threatened to knock him unsteady. A dozen loops he’d done, and no sight of her, but she had not simply disappeared. She was here, somewhere, and he would find her. He would return her to her family, who deserved to mourn her properly. Not in the hollow way Alasyr had been forced to mourn Ravenna.
Alasyr spotted something dark against the snow. His heart thrummed hard within his raven form, and he angled himself downward, never letting his raven eyes divert or even blink for fear of losing sight of her.
But as he closed in, he saw it was not Ember at all.
It was his father.
He supposed he should feel something about this. Sadness. Loss. Anger. But in their place was only a void.
Alasyr climbed high into the skies once more, to continue his search.
* * *
When Asherley awoke, the first thing she noticed was that she was no longer a woman, but a well-plumed bird.
Right, then. I should have known when Emberley appeared in the skies.
Her talons stumbled for purchase. She smacked into the balustrade like a drunkard at the end of a long night. She imagined this would look hilarious to onlookers, but she had no humor left in her. She just wanted the disorientation to end so she could take to flight and find her daughter.
She soon discovered, it was as simple as moving her wings.
* * *
Alasyr wanted to cry out her name, but had never learned to speak as a man in his raven form. Some Ravenwoods had. He’d never had use for it. When he had wings and a beak his only desire was to fly and be free of all that. Until now.
His wings ached. The weariness settled into his bones. He dropped lower, beneath the clouds, to encounter less resistance, but the wind was more animated here, and so he went lower and lower until he was nearly skimming the mountain’s surface.
And there she was.
At the entrance to a small cave. The overhang had hidden her at greater heights, but as he drew closer he could make out all the things he’d once recited in his head as flaws; her beautiful flaming hair, that strange way of dressing, in leather and cloth, wearing a blouse and pants like a boy.
Her broken body twisted unnaturally. As he landed, his talons unfolding into legs, he could see that her arms had been shattered from the force of her wings being ripped apart by Varinya’s bolts.
Alasyr bit down hard on his lip and knelt beside her. Her body had cooled, her lips painted a deep blue. He had to get her out of the storm. She didn’t belong out here, exposed, for a buzzard or mountain goat to feast upon.
When he pulled on her arms, they flopped back against the snow. He reached instead for the spot under them, where her shoulders met, and with a grunt he heaved himself backward. The effort was easier than he expected. She was smaller than he realized. She moved easily as he slid her inside the cave.
He was not the first one to have taken refuge here. The remnants of several campfires caught him by surprise. Only a Ravenwood could fly this high, but if a Ravenwood had been here, it could not be for any reason involving good. This was a place for secrets and hidden things.
His mother had taken him to a cave like this one, and it didn’t seem as if that visit was her first. He could fill a book with all he didn’t know about his people, and they’d killed any curiosity left in him to find out.
Alasyr let his hands hover over the leftover twigs and sticks from one of the campfires. Flames roared to life. The relief was immediate, though quickly replaced by the sight of her again.
He fell back to Emberley’s side and when the tears came, he didn’t recognize them, but nor did he deny them. He leaned over her and pressed his face to her chest, allowing the sobs to rip through him, here, where no one could bear witness and tell him that it was not behavior becoming of a Ravenwood.
His hands spread over her broken arms as his vision was lost to the blur of angst.
“Ember, I failed you. I failed us both,” he cried. The sorrow was so intense he feared he’d lose himself. He wanted to lose himself. He deserved to be lost. He had nowhere else to go.
He tried to remember how she looked, standing stubborn and strong in the Wintergarden. She’d never once been afraid of him. She wasn’t mesmerized by him, either, as the men and women of Wulfsgate often were when a Ravenwood swooped down from the sky. She’d only wanted to know him, and he’d let her believe this was a desire that was not shared.
And then Alasyr imaged her this same way, but in the cave. The soft, boneless flesh of her arms snapping into formation. He pressed his lips to the edges of the hole in her belly, shrinking it away until there was no wound at all, only the pale, unblemished skin that should be. She was cursing him for something, telling him he had it all wrong, as always, and especially about her, and—
Ember launched forward, gasping.
Alasyr stumbled back onto his hands as he watched the color return to her cheeks. She licked her dry, cracked lips with a confused look, then looked down at her forearms, turning them upside down and around.
You brought her back.
Just like the goat.
“Emberley,” Alasyr whispered, breathless.
“Alasyr?” She looked down at her whole, healed body with powerful confusion.
He crawled back to her. His eyes traveled the whole of her, from face to arms to legs, moving across every fold of her flesh. He gaped at her in pure wonder. “Emberley.”
She twisted her mouth. “Alasyr, what else have you been hiding from me, you odd boy?”
Alasyr’s sobs turned into laughter. He reached for her hands, but decided that no, it was her face he most wanted to touch. And though he expected her to slap him away, she did not, sliding her own hands over his, linking their fingers, her own tears coming now as if on cue.
Alasyr closed his eyes and kissed her. On the mouth, on both cheeks, on her hands. Nothing was enough. It would never be enough.
Ember reached for his hands and stopped him. She gazed into his eyes, and his heart paused.
Then she wound her arms around his neck and he was forever and ever lost.
57
What He Did Not See
Oldwin leaned into the moss-covered edges of the balcony. It was so slick that one wrong move would send a man careening into the stones below, no second chances. Already, he saw the op
portunities and his reign had only begun. How many Rhiagains would get to find out before his time was done?
The balcony was small, an octagonal wonder that did not match the design of the rest of the keep at Duncarrow. It was accessed from a corner of the apartment office, a key stronghold of the king’s chambers for every king except Eoghan. Eoghan had done it all differently, not from a nuance in his style, but the raw ignorance that comes from the failures of a father.
Eoghan had adopted a policy of not cleaning what was not in active use, evidenced by cobwebs as thick as human hair taking residence in what was once the busiest room in the keep. Oldwin’s new rooms had looked the same before he sent the kitchen maids to their hands and knees and promised them they would trade their life for any dust his fingers could find. He was pleased when he didn’t have to order their deaths. He’d take a tidy room over the messy and inconvenient business of murder any day.
Their deaths could not come at his hand anyway. He could no more kill a Rhiagain than a Ravenwood. Still, there were creative ways around this, as Ravenna had discovered with Thane. She’d unearthed her terror, but it had been his own fear that caused his heart to burst. He could use men as his tool, as he so often had before. Or he could simply allow the whims of fate to take their course, as he had when he’d failed to intervene in the death of Khain Rhiagain.
In his hand he clutched the vellum that had come by raven from Whitechurch. From Darrick Rhiagain. He wouldn’t be the first pretender to rise up and make this claim, and this was Oldwin’s instinct when he read the words. Another lowborn grasper in the throes of his own delusions. He’d heard the tale before. In hiding as a pauper only to bide their time to become the king. Pathetic.
Except these ravens had flown to every corner of the kingdom, confident in their bold message. How did he know this? Because news of the one he was holding now arrived even before it did. Ravens were finicky about crossing the White Sea. They would not attempt it unless the tides were calm. By the time Oldwin had read these fated words from the once-dead prince, so had most of the kingdom.
This message comes to you from Darrick Rhiagain, rightful heir to Duncarrow. My brother Eoghan ordered my death, but allies conspired against this cowardly command, secreting me away to the Wastelands, where I have served in conditions I would wish upon no man. I am now returned, to relieve the kingdom of the terrible reign they have suffered under. I am returned, to avenge the total genocide done upon the Saleen in the name of Eoghan Rhiagain. To Eoghan, I say this: I am coming for what is mine, even if I arrive five years late to the task. And I am not alone.
Oldwin had news of his own for Darrick Rhiagain. He was the king now, of a kingdom that had never had but one use for him, and soon he would see that use realized. Darrick’s return gave him pause, but it would not stop him.
No, what troubled him about this provocative piece of vellum in his hands was not the truth written upon it, but that he had not seen it coming.
He had not. Seen. It coming.
His visions had brought them to the shores of Duncarrow centuries before. His, and his alone. Centuries before, the sorcerers had searched, slipping through veil after veil, frustrated, defeated. There were only so many worlds it could be in, and they’d been to many of them over and over, poring over what they’d missed, wondering if they’d gone about it all wrong. Over half the sorcerers born from the magic of Ilynglass perished during their searches, and some abandoned the cause entirely. By the time Oldwin saw it in his mind’s eye, there were only four left still possessing the determination to see it through to the end.
Somewhere along the way, four had split into two. Isdemus and Lysanor were still thick as a band of brigands, but Oldwin and Mortain both had conditions for one another. They needed each other’s magic, but they did not need each other. He was surprised that Mortain’s death wounded him as it did, but then, there was something to be said for the old ones; the last ones. Their differences were greater than their affinities, but they had survived millennia, together, and now, no more.
But he hadn’t seen any of it.
Not Mortain’s swift death at the hands of a mere boy.
Not the end of the war between the Reaches.
Not the return of Darrick.
Just as, long ago, he’d failed to see the truth of Dain Rhiagain, not once, nor even twice. Every last word he whispered to Eoghan about his half-brother were pretty guesses, designed as much to deceive as to hide his blind spots. He peppered them with the small bits of intelligence he gleaned from Correen’s spies, which gave them the substance of truth.
He hadn’t seen Mortain’s true plan for the Saleen, either, though it was brilliant. With the Saleen gone, this cleared a path that did not exist before. A path to the end of this treasure hunt that had consumed most of his life, and once complete, would elevate it to a place far beyond his imagining.
But first, there was the matter of Darrick Rhiagain.
There was the matter of Dain and his descendants.
And there was Isdemus and Lysanor, whose bold interference in his magic would not be borne.
It was time to send his news into the kingdom.
That Eoghan Rhiagain was dead and Oldwin of Ilynglass was now King of the White Kingdom.
* * *
“It is done. Arguing will not undo it. I must go.”
“Is this why she sent me away? So that I could not stop you?”
“Now it is you, brother, who speaks in the vernacular of men.”
Kael grunted. “For you. I do it for you.”
Kian turned to him. “You are wrong. She sent you away because Ryan Strong is Yanna’s son. He is kin. She did this for Yanna.”
“Yanna was a traitor.”
“None die beyond forgiveness. To hold fast to anger is not our way.”
Kael curled his lip. “He has no memory.”
Kian was aghast. “You left him? Like this?”
Kael rolled his eyebrows up. He moved to the chair, their mother’s chair, and slid down into it. “My charge was to save him. I saved him.”
“From one fate, but left him vulnerable to another.” Kian sighed. “You do not learn. This is why you will never lead.”
Kael gestured to the chair he was in. “Nothing impedes me from sitting here.”
“Sitting is not leading.”
“If Mother dies when you are gone, I will not wait for you.”
Kian set his satchel aside. He didn’t know when the two of them had diverted down such different paths. Kael was led by his pride, and, to what would be his downfall, an anger that Kian did not comprehend. Kian would not exempt himself from such scrutiny of self, but he feared leaving these lands when Kael was on the edge of his volatility. Once he stepped over, he would not easily return. Who would he take with him?
“Someone must go to the Saleen lands. None of the Medvedev are protected if one is vulnerable. This you know.”
“I could go in your place. I could lead them.”
“Mother asked me.”
“Do you always do what Mother asks?”
“I am true to her. She has led us well. She has loved us well.”
“She fears what cannot come to pass. Man cannot enter our world without us. The end of the Saleen made that harder, not easier.”
Kian pressed down his anger. If he engaged it, he could no longer say he and Kael were so different. It threatened to bubble up, but he was stronger than the evil. He must be. “It is our magic that keeps our borders closed. That holds the veil. There are no Saleen there now to bind it. Mortain has seen to that. Others will take his place.”
“Go, then.” Kael waved his hand. “How many will you take?”
“As many as she sends with me.”
“She does not know everything, Kian. She says Yanna’s son will save us, but she turned him from our lands when he sought us out.”
“He was not ready. All things, in their appropriate time.”
“Her sickness has left her mad.”
“Her body is dying, not her mind, Kael.”
“Her mind is no better than mine! Than yours!”
“Do not forget the oath you swore. It binds us, beyond our loyalties to one another.”
Kael scoffed. “Because she says so?”
Kian took a step up and looked into his brother’s eyes. He no longer recognized what glared back at him. “Because it is so. We serve her, because she serves what we protect. If you cannot do that, then may Mother have the strength to do what I could not.”
He backed away, holding out a hand for his familiar, his one true friend.
“I will know, Kael. If you do not live true to your oath. I will know.”
Kian grabbed his satchel and left.
58
Jamesan
“He’s not ready, Lysanor. Nothing so important has ever come as quickly as you wish it would.”
“Not ready? He’s been in there for so long he might not be himself when he comes out. He’s been in there far too long.”
“Not long enough.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s the one. We designed this, we waited for it all these years, and we will not destroy him. He is not delicate, like a millennial flower that must be guarded.”
“We both know there are no millennial flowers anymore. Why are you in such a rush?”
Lysanor looked toward the east, where they’d stepped through the veil. “Oldwin knows that I’ve interfered with his magic. That my own has protected Dain and his children, keeping his eye cast away from their truths. He knows, and now he will see us, see what we have, what we will do with it. All these years, we had nothing but time. Now, time is the one thing of which we are in great deficit.”
“Are you certain?”
“That he knows? Yes. And he has rightly deduced our role in his blindness toward the return of Darrick Rhiagain, and the death of Mortain. He already knows Dain lives, and in time he will see that three of Dain’s four offspring live as well. Soon, he will know about Jamesan. Once a magic has been breached... Isdemus, my protections have given way to a relentlessness that will see them all destroyed. We cannot delay.”
The Broken Realm Page 61