Ride the Storm

by Karen Chance

  “Damn you, pull back!” I yelled. “Now, now, now—”

  “Pull back,” the fey in charge started yelling. “Pull back! Pull back! Pull—”

  The voice cut out and I was snatched violently out of the image, and up to a face I couldn’t see, because it was made out of shadow. But I didn’t need to see it. There was only one spirit in here besides me, the one whose body I’d hijacked. And it looked like he’d figured out that he still had company.

  Probably about the time I started yelling orders.

  And then agony tore through me.

  I staggered and went down, my vision blurring, my hearing fading in and out. And wondered if the fey had just made a killing blow. And maybe he had, but the severity of the attack was also my salvation. A glittering cloud of my power flooded the air, blazingly bright in the darkness, causing the fey to stumble back in surprise.

  And giving me a chance to tear away.

  I scuttled under some nearby images, power still gushing out of me because I didn’t know how to stop it. I was panting in pain and fear, ducking and dodging, trying to find a path through the constantly moving images, to see a pattern in their movement. But if there was one, I couldn’t tell.

  Until I focused a little too long on one off to the left, where I thought I saw a familiar face. Only to have it suddenly speed toward me, like a freight train. No, I thought desperately. Not now—

  And then it grabbed me.

  * * *

  “What happened?”

  It was Rosier’s voice, harsher than I’d ever heard it.

  I opened my eyes, and got an odd glimpse of a room, like I was lying on the floor with people’s feet scurrying in front of me.

  Maybe because I was lying on the floor with people’s feet scurrying in front of me. My hair was in my face, and this time it was brown. This body was annoyed by that. It wished it had enough strength to remove the glamourie. It didn’t want to die with brown hair.

  Or in a female guise. What if the glamourie was too good? What if no one came back for him? What if they left his essence to be absorbed by such a place, always alone, always searching, always trying to connect to what he could never hope to see—

  Someone kicked me.

  “This one.” It was the older, redheaded witch I’d met at Nimue’s. She looked like she’d like to kill me again, only I was already pretty close. She must have thought so, too, because she didn’t waste the energy.

  “One of your own?” Rosier asked, looking confused.

  “No. Svarestri.” In her mouth, the name sounded like a curse. “His kind gutted him and slapped a glamourie on him, so we’d think one of ours had been wounded. We had this place locked down while we tried to break Nimue’s spell and get the princess out. But you know how she is. A healer won’t refuse help to the injured.”

  “And now that she is the one injured?”

  The redhead’s lips all but disappeared, and she didn’t answer. But she shook her head. For a moment, no one spoke.

  “And Emrys?” Rosier rasped.

  “He showed up just after everything went to hell. Got caught up in the fighting one floor down, or he might have seen it. Glad he didn’t.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The redhead looked defensive. “We told him. We had to. The damn Svarestri came after her as soon as Aeslinn sprang his trap. They knew she was a threat, but they don’t know about him. Don’t even know he’s her son. She hid him well.”

  “Hid?”

  The redhead opened her mouth, but someone else made a sound. And Rosier turned away. To where Morgaine was resting by the fire.

  I thought that was odd. Why was she on the floor? Sure, she had blankets around her and a pillow between her and the wall, but still . . .

  And then I noticed the blood-soaked breast of her gown, and understood.

  “I always wanted to be fey,” she said softly as Rosier knelt beside her. “My mother’s dream, passed on to me. She sent me to court, when I was young. But I—” She broke off, gasping.

  “You don’t have to speak.” Rosier’s voice was gentle, unlike any I’d ever heard from him, but Morgaine shook her head.

  “No. I want to. I must.”

  He didn’t try to dissuade her again.

  “My sisters stayed behind. Their magic was weak, and they didn’t seem drawn to it as I was. But I jumped at the chance. It was so lovely there, so unlike anything I’d ever seen. I thought my father’s stronghold fearsome once, a great craggy fortress on the coast, the waves smashing into the rocks below like thunder whenever there was a storm. But hers . . . the throne room sits in a huge cavern, under a river. Did I ever tell you?”

  He shook his head.

  “It glides along suspended overhead, like a great jeweled snake. It casts the most beautiful light everywhere, emerald rays streaming down and moving across the floor. It makes the whole cave gleam like a gemstone. . . . It’s beautiful. Like so much about their world. . . .”

  She trailed off, and for a moment, I thought that would be it. She looked pale, her face almost waxen. The only color came from the soft glow of the fire.

  But she rallied. “It was my mother’s dream, but it was mine, too. Fey magic was so much stronger, its pull so much sweeter. Earth magic came hard, and grudgingly, to my hand. But theirs . . . tasted like honey.”

  “Temptation usually does,” Rosier said softly.

  She nodded. “But I couldn’t see that then. I couldn’t see anything, except that I was a quarter fey with no chance of being more. Just some little charity case, tolerated for my connection to the throne. And then only because my mother was showing signs of age. She would not live long, they whispered. Someone else would have to take her place, and manage the trade in the humans they keep as we do draft horses. When I refused, I was sent back to earth in disgrace. Where I met you, and your clumsy attempts at seduction . . .”

  “They weren’t clumsy.” Rosier smiled slightly.

  “For an incubus, they were clumsy,” Morgaine said, laughter in her voice. And then a hitch. Rosier’s fingers tightened, but she shook her head at him, swallowing. “But the approach didn’t matter once I realized . . . all those women you’d been with, all those fey. They gave you more than you knew. Not a son, but talents, skills, elemental magic . . .”

  “I had no idea.”

  “How could you? You didn’t use it. But I did.” There was wonder on Morgaine’s face now, despite the pain. “You can’t imagine how it felt, after that first time, to discover that I could control the winds. Baseborn, they’d called me, and lack magic, and unclean—yet suddenly I owned two elements. And owning the second made the first so much stronger! Tasks that I’d had to strain to accomplish became almost effortless. I didn’t know what to think, until you happened to mention something about abilities passing over. . . .”

  “I wondered why you stayed,” Rosier said. “I’d taught you the basics; you could have learned the rest on your own. I began to think you cared.”

  And maybe she had, a little. Because there was sorrow in the beautiful voice the next time she spoke. Fey voices were so expressive; it sounded like spoken tears.

  “I didn’t care for anyone in those days, or anything but my own ambition. My long-held dream was within my grasp, and it was all I could see. I thought, if I acquire them all, if I do what no one else has ever done—then. They must accept me.”

  “And acquire them you did.”

  She nodded weakly. “Some of those women, fey of every type and clan, had gifted you with their power when you joined with them, and I took it from you the same way. And it happened so quickly. I already had water and wind, and soon after came fire. So easy to manipulate, almost like a liquid, too. The final was earth, small and stubborn, and so hard to coax forth—”

  “I never bedded a Svarestri,” Rosier said. “But someone must
have carried a thread of their blood, weak and dilute, but enough. One of the Returned, perhaps . . .” He trailed off.

  “Perhaps. But it came. Finally, it came to me, and I had them all! But by then, you had something, too. . . .”

  “A son.”

  “Yes.” The expressive voice rang hollow now. “I should have stayed.”

  “You had no choice. Nimue took you.”

  “There are always choices.” Her beautiful eyes grew distant. “You would have found it amusing, I think, to see me return to court. Expecting triumph, expecting praise, expecting . . . I’m not sure. All those new powers . . . Can you imagine my horror, when I realized they only made things worse? Three-quarters human, yet able to outshine them all. Three-quarters human, yet owning four elements. And having acquired them in such a way!”

  She had to rest for a moment before continuing, and the room was strangely quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the flames, and the hiss of rain from outside the windows. I didn’t even hear anyone breathing.

  Even the tears streaming down the blond witch’s face were silent.

  “Grandmother wouldn’t let me tell anyone,” Morgaine said. “She silenced those who knew, or thought she did. Wouldn’t let me use my powers, wouldn’t let me go back. And by the time I finally escaped, and fled here . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She laughed suddenly, and the sound was bitter. “I had gained a small amount of wisdom at last, enough to know he’d be better off without them, without me. A half demon possessing four elements? They would have killed him. At least your people look at power, not bloodlines, and I knew he’d be strong—”

  “They’re not his people. He never—” Rosier broke off.

  “No.” The sorrow in the voice was almost overwhelming now, a tangible thing. “We didn’t give him one of those, did we? You wanted a son, to help you hold your kingdom; I wanted power, to give me access to mine. Neither of us thought about what he might want. Or where he might fit in, if he didn’t share our ambitions.”

  “Yet you sent him tonight,” Rosier said, a question in his voice. And then his head tilted. “The gods used elemental magic, didn’t they?”

  “A different one for each piece of armor,” Morgaine confirmed. “And once they are fused together, only one who commands them all can—” She broke off, choking.

  “Let her be,” the redhead said harshly, coming forward.

  “No,” Morgaine said. “Please.”

  “What would you have of me?” Rosier asked, bending close to hear her, because her voice was fading.

  The lovely eyes rose to his. “You named him Myrddin. . . .”

  “Sea Fortress. It seemed . . . appropriate.”

  “But I named him Emrys.” She clutched his hand. “Immortal. Don’t let it be a lie!”

  “I don’t have my power here—”

  “You are Prince of the Incubi! And you are his father. Rosier! Bring back—” The voice hitched and went silent, and the lovely eyes fixed, unseeing. And just that fast, she was gone.

  “Our son,” Rosier finished for her.

  * * *

  “Cass! Cass!”

  I looked up, tears streaming down my face, to see a hazy version of Billy’s red shirt dodging through the images. I stared around, suddenly afraid, but there were no murderous fey in sight. Just Billy, looking frantic and furious. And then vastly relieved when he spotted me.

  “You’re in here?” He zoomed over and started shaking me. “Why are you in here?”

  “I— It’s hard to explain—”

  “Never mind. Just get out! Get back inside you!”

  “I can’t. I think I ended up in one of the leaders, and he—he has some kind of communication spell on him.” I stared up at Billy’s freaked-out face, and the pieces finally came together. “Billy, I think it might be Seidr!”

  “So?”

  “So Seidr doesn’t just let you see what’s happening.” I looked around at all those images, all those minds. And remembered Mircea saving Rhea’s life from a few thousand miles away. “It lets you influence it.”

  “Cass!”

  “Just listen! I’ve been stepping into minds that are linked by the spell. I possessed this guy, kind of by mistake, and now I can leap into any of them! I don’t have to fight the fey for dominance. I don’t have to burn through shields with power I don’t have. I don’t have to do anything—”

  “And I say again—so?”

  “So I think that’s why Ares cut Mircea’s Seidr connection to me on the drag. I’d blundered into the spell he was using to communicate with the leader, and it made him vulnerable. He was afraid Mircea would use it to hurt him—”

  Billy shook me some more. “Ares isn’t here!”

  “But someone else is. If I can find the right mind, I may be able to help—”

  “Help yourself! You—” He broke off, staring around wildly. And then pointed at a nearby image. “There!”

  It took me a second to realize that he’d found this body’s eyes. Which were showing me another battle between witches and Svarestri, only this time, they were in the great hall. And they were fighting over me.

  Literally.

  A bunch of Svarestri were near the door to the right of the hall, maybe trying to rescue their beleaguered captain. Only instead, they’d run into some witches coming through the door to the left, from the stairs leading down from the royal suite. The predictable had resulted, with the battle taking place over my and the fey’s prone bodies. And knocking us about every time the floor shook from a deflected spell, which was pretty much all the time now.

  Something that was not great news to a person hanging precariously over a massive gap in the floor.

  “Come on!” Billy yelled, to be heard over the sounds filtering into the fey’s ears from outside.

  I shook my head. “Not yet! There’s something I have to do first!”

  “Yeah! Not die!” Billy screamed, and then screamed again as the body we were in was hit by a spell, causing it to flop around all over.

  I guessed that was what had distracted the fey from searching for me—a greater threat. Only it had just become great enough to convince him that he couldn’t deal with the problem outside until he solved the one within. Because a second later, he appeared out of nowhere, standing over me, sword in hand. It was a shadow, too, but that didn’t matter. It was made from his own energy, which meant—

  It was deadly, I thought, looking at one just like it suddenly sticking out of his stomach.

  The fey looked down at it, too, for half a second, before toppling over and smashing into smoke against the floor. It wouldn’t last; he wasn’t dead. This whole thing would have disappeared if that were the case. But he was hurt, and that meant—

  “Whatever you’re trying to do,” Billy yelled, sword in hand, “do it now!”

  I stared around, knowing I didn’t have long. But it wouldn’t take long. If I could only find the right image, the right mind—

  And then I did. It was small and far away, but when I concentrated, it zoomed toward me. Like a wide-screen TV and then a theater screen and then an IMAX, filling my view.

  And this time, I let it come.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  The sky was blue again. It arced overhead, like an upside-down bowl, clear and strong and perfect. I could see glimpses of the fight that raged beyond: the shadow of a body, as if thrown against the sky, magnified to giant-sized before disappearing again. Streaks of light, like deadly rainbows, flashing overhead. Flames dancing in the distance, like trees glimpsed through fog.

  But all of it strangely peaceful.

  Because all of it was outside the watery protection of Nimue’s shield.

  Under the dome, the Svarestri I was possessing dodged a stinging arc of sand and then threw it back, laughing. Because earth was his
element, and wasn’t likely to work against him. And because Nimue was at a serious disadvantage.

  Aeslinn’s brain obligingly informed me that the fire the witches had started had been aimed at the shield. Being attacked by a wave of Svarestri early in the duel had forced her to encase the combat area in her protection, ensuring no further interference. And putting Aeslinn’s device completely out of reach.

  I could see it now, glowing under the sands of the arena: Arthur’s sword was pulling power from the other pieces of that cursed armor, and becoming stronger by the second. But one look at Nimue’s face showed that she was too lost in an Ares-inspired frenzy to notice. And no one else could reach it until the duel ended.

  But it didn’t look like that was going to be anytime soon. A tornado exploded through the small area under the dome, sweeping the body I was using off its feet and into a maelstrom of fury. But not for long. As soon as Aeslinn hit earth, it flowed over him, cradling him, pulling him in. Building a bulwark around him that the pounding winds couldn’t penetrate, and allowing his opponent to exhaust herself for nothing.

  Yet he didn’t go on the offensive when the winds abruptly stopped, raining sand down everywhere. He didn’t do anything. Because he wasn’t trying to win; he was trying to run out the clock.

  And he was succeeding.

  Pritkin and the witches were turning the stadium into an inferno to try to evaporate that shield, and let them in. But it was like trying to burn through the sea; all their spells barely touched it. And deploying it had limited Nimue to a single weapon in an element that was not her own.

  The result: she was losing, but not fast enough. And I couldn’t help her; the immense amount of effort needed to throw that other fey’s spear offside had been nothing to this. No matter what I did, Aeslinn’s efforts remained undisturbed, elegant and lightning fast. I wasn’t the one holding him back—he was.

  He was teasing her, egging her on, keeping the fight going and them entrapped in their own little world. But not hurting her—not really. Because then . . .

  What would she do then?