by Gwynn White
How long would Radomir and his men cower before realizing that she had no white heat to toss at them?
At a loss on how to break the stalemate, she bit her lip and tried to think of options.
Averin shot her a troubled look that perfectly summed up their precarious situation, then shouted, “Enjoying your new rank Lieutenant Radomir? Last time I saw you, you had a captain’s bars on your shoulders. Take Stasha on, and you might find yourself as a lowly private, scrubbing out your captain’s privy. That’s if you survive her white heat.” He hadn’t moved from her side. Without magic, he wouldn’t survive in a battle against two dozen or more Pyreack fae. If they knew he’d used up all his magic on the jump, he’d be a prime target.
The sound of running feet reached her. She twisted to see Trystaen and an unknown pale-skinned fae with long, silvery hair racing down the alley toward them.
The new fae wore black fighting leathers with no insignia, yet his gait was familiar—Suren. He’d glamoured himself to hide his identity. No fire magic danced around his fingers. His mother and sisters were on his family’s farm back in the Kingdom of Pyreack. If he were recognized as a deserter, they’d be killed. Radomir knew Suren and his power well, so if Suren used magic, it wouldn’t take long for Radomir to figure out who the white-haired fae was.
Sword in one hand, Trystaen’s other hand trailed at his side. Her heart leapt. She’d seen how secretly he could call on his earth magic. No one seeing the big fae with his chestnut-colored ponytail and laughing green eyes would believe that he could unleash horror from his fingertips.
Still, she had to do something to help him.
The glamour Trystaen and Suren had tossed over their end of the alley had fallen away to reveal the square jammed with noisy revelers. It was surely only a matter of time before the drunken crowd spotted them.
There was only one thing for it.
She tossed her head back and screamed, “Pyreack fae! Pyreack fae! Over here! Ocea forever! All praise to Princess Boadicea and the rebels!”
Klaus and Vlad took up the cheer. “All praise to Princess Boadicea and her rebels.”
“Pyreack fae?” a voice from the square slurred. “Let’s get them!”
Now this was something she could help with. She pushed up her sleeves, ready to fight.
A tidal wave of drunken fae stormed the alley. Some wielded bottles like weapons. Others blasted off unruly ice arrows and water spouts.
Above the cacophony, Stasha heard Radomir scream, “Curse that bitch! Everyone who can spirit out, do it now.” He flashed and vanished, six fae quickly following. That left a wavering line of fire coming from about a dozen Pyreack fae facing her and the rabble army of drunks at her back. Leaving Trystaen and Suren to deal with the Pyreack, she spun to face the drunks.
Averin called to Trystaen. “Clear a path to Eliezar.” Cut off from them by the Pyreack, Eliezar was still on the other side of the alley. “Suren, keep Stasha’s drunks at bay.” From Averin’s tone, he wasn’t impressed with how she’d handled this particular encounter. “Care to help him, pit princess? A few fireworks to liven up the party?”
Her face bloomed at Averin’s sarcasm. Fire would be the worst thing to flash around now—not that she had access to her flames. Her stupid magic had taken Averin’s scorn as a command and had curled up into a tight, uncooperative ball.
“The drunks—” Feral Fox squeezed her arm. “The lads and me—we’ve got this.”
“Yes!” Vlad pumped both fists into the sky and broke into a wild charge toward the rabble. Yelling at the top of their lungs, Feral Fox, Goul, and Ivan also stormed the drunks. Klaus tried to hobble after them. They left him in the dust. Unable to bear his disappointment, she shelved her plans for fighting the rabble, grabbed his hand, and pulled him around to watch Trystaen.
The big fae flicked his fingers at the ground between them and the Pyreack. The cobblestones groaned, then cracked as the earth tipped violently to the right. Dead roots buried far beneath the alley ripped up, tearing the stones apart to the left.
Caught off guard, half the Pyreack toppled over while the rest fought for balance. Their dropped fireballs bounced across the churned-up ground before blinking out.
The rabble, Feral Fox, and the boys skidded to a stop. The fae seemed shocked into sobriety by the screaming Pyreack. They edged away down the alley, back into the square.
Another twirl of Trystaen’s hand and the broken ground heaved over. The Pyreack already on their knees screamed as, legs and arms flailing, they vanished like raisins into kneaded bread dough. The remaining few surged forward, dodging broken stones and dust. Trystaen’s earth magic sent rocks spiraling into the air, to then crash down onto Pyreack heads.
One of the fae tossed a fireball at the falling rocks, blasting them into hundreds of razor-sharp shards. Another red-clad fae gave a strangled cheer and waved his fist at Trystaen.
But what none of the surviving Pyreack seemed to notice was the ground opening like a maw beneath them—until they were in free fall into blackness. Not even the dank earth could muffle their hopeless screams as they vanished into the jagged crevice.
A click of Trystaen’s fingers and debris from the torn-up alley poured on top of them, quickly filling the crack. The shattered cobblestones shot back together as if magnetized and then flattened out across the alley as if nothing horrific had happened.
Stasha almost choked on her saliva as Trystaen brushed the dust from his clothes with an almost casual hand.
Klaus gulped. “Seems you aren’t the only one who can commit mass murder with magic,” he mumbled, face chalk gray. “How does Trystaen live with that?”
Trystaen’s pine-green eyes, usually crinkled in laughter, showed no emotion other than absolute focus. She could only guess at what thoughts that mask hid.
“Like it or not, Klaus, this is war.” His comment about mass murder had stung. “None of us started it, but that doesn’t mean we can’t finish it.”
“The sooner the better.”
“Stasha! Klaus!” Averin yelled. “Cut the daydreaming and move.”
She started. Everyone, including Suren and the boys, had almost reached Eliezar. She dragged Klaus onto her back. There was no way his mangled leg would cope with a high-speed sprint to safety.
Averin skidded up to her. “Let me carry him.”
She shook her head. “I’ve done this a million times.” And now, with her new fae strength, he wasn’t half as heavy as before.
Averin must have seen her dogged determination. “Just don’t fall behind.”
She and Klaus were the last to reach Eliezar. From Averin’s hard expression, he was thinking it would be the last time she carried Klaus.
In his dreams.
She ignored Averin and juddered to a panting stop at the edge of the crowded street. The party was still in full swing. Why Darien’s occupying army had allowed the revelers to celebrate unchecked was a mystery.
About three hundred yards away to her left, the loch glinted like cold tea. Going right would take them deeper into town.
“The loch.” Averin waved to the left. “We can steal a longboat and head out to the river.”
“Ha! And you still make such a fuss about the two silver coins I filched off you.” She shot him a cocky smile in the hope of defusing his pique with her.
“This is different.” Averin smiled right back. At least his bad moods never lasted long. “We’ll call it a royal decree.”
Trystaen, Eliezar, and the others pushed into the crowded street.
She was about to follow when Averin grabbed her arm. “Give me Klaus.” His tone and expression had hardened.
Klaus dug his knees into her side and hung on like a tick to her shoulders. At least he was with her in this battle of wills.
“Do the pair of you want to be captured?” Averin snapped. “Because right now, Klaus is a huge target on your very slow-moving back.”
“I’m not risking him,” she hissed.
Averin’s hand jerked through his hair, and his other arm flailed. “Some trust, please, Stasha. I admit that Klaus may not be as special to me as he is to you, but you are everything to me. Everything to Zephyr. If keeping him safe makes you happy, do you honestly think I’d let harm come to him?”
She chewed her lip.
Klaus wriggled off her back.
Traitor.
She was about to grab Klaus when he said, “He’s right. I’ve always said I slow you up.” He flicked his fingers at Averin. “When you’re ready, let’s go.”
She wanted to argue. To fight and scream that Klaus was hers. That he was her friend, her responsibility, her everything, but to do so would be childish. Klaus was a grown man. It was humiliating enough to be carried, let alone to be squabbled over.
Teeth gritted, she shoved and jabbed her way into the heaving mass of singing and dancing revelers. Averin and Klaus were just a step behind her. Irritatingly, it was definitely quicker to weave and dodge the drunken fae without Klaus’s dead weight on her back. She’d lost sight of Suren and the others, but if they all went in the same direction, they’d meet at the loch.
The crowd lurched forward, taking her with it. A fae with bleary mauve-colored eyes bashed into her. The contents of his upheld tankard slopped over her already filthy clothes. Yeasty. Some kind of ale.
She grimaced and tried to pull away, but the crowd had stopped to sing a particularly offensive song about the Pyreack fae.
The drunken fae leaned in and slurred, “It’s a–a victory.” His breath was sour. “Why aren’t you d–dancing?” He hiccupped, grabbed her hand, and tried to spin her.
“No one asked me. And yes, it is a fabulous victory. Raise your tankard to the truly magnificent fae who brought down Angharad.” She allowed him to twirl her once and then jerked her hand away. He rocked back against his equally drunk friend. They both laughed—or tried to—then one of them draped a heavy, sweaty arm around her shoulder.
Celebration was one thing. Being mauled by smelly fae males was another altogether. Not needing magic to deal with this, she stabbed her fingers deep into his solar plexus. He buckled and folded to the ground. His friend, who had started the conversation, gawked at him hunched on the cobbles and then lolled his head back to her. “Th–that wasn’t v–very friendly.” His now-empty tankard waved a few inches from her nose.
A short, sharp slap to the face would probably level him, but his wailing had attracted attention. All she needed was for every drunk in Swiftguard to decide to either dance or brawl with her. She looked around for Averin and Klaus, but they’d vanished in the heaving mass. She sniffed the air to find their scent but caught only cheap alcohol, sweaty bodies, and—was that feces? She grimaced and tried to wriggle away between the crush of fae ahead.
A bugle’s blare stopped her in her tracks. The fae around her froze, as if turned to ice.
In the absolute silence, the bugle shrilled.
She covered her ears with her hands and scrunched her shoulders upward, but it barely made a difference to the strident sound. The bugle stopped as abruptly as it started. No one in the crowd moved. Even she was riveted to the spot.
“Fae of Ocea,” a voice said. Its warmth and richness suggested nights around a fire with a full belly and good friends. She lifted her face to find the speaker but saw only a cloudy sky, glowing orange and pink in the rising sun. Every other face tilted upward with the same questioning stupor she imagined adorned her own.
“Give heed to your king,” the disembodied voice said.
That mesmerizing voice belonged to Darien Pyreaxos? The despicable creature that had kept the war raging for centuries and who now occupied Boa’s throne? Surely a tyrant like Boa’s Piss Swill would sound harsh, cruel, and unforgiving.
“You have been deceived.” Darien’s voice lilted with concern, kindness even. “There was no rebel victory in Angharad. The mine is safe in our hands.”
A lie— How dare he? Fire spat and sizzled on her skin.
Darien’s words exploded like a firecracker under the crowd. Fists shook amid snarls and crude profanities—all debunking the truth about Angharad.
The fae who’d tried to dance with her spat on the ground. “Boadicea is a liar.”
“She’s a traitor,” another yelled. “Upped and left us to our fate. Bloody coward.”
Someone else screamed, “She doesn’t deserve to be called an Ocea fae!”
How could Darien have messed with everyone’s minds to make them believe that hogwash? She thrust a fiery fist into the sky and yelled, “King Darien lies! Don’t listen to him. Angharad has fallen to the rebels. Princess Boa is a hero.”
“Pyreack!” someone yelled. “Look! Her hand burns.”
She spun to see the speaker—and hit the ground face first. Every morsel of air shot straight out of her. The fae who’d tackled her teetered on her back.
Not this again. The last time someone had flattened her had been in Askavol on her eighteenth birthday. These geniuses, who believed the lies their Pyreack king told them, must have seen her fire and assumed…. Who knew what?
The alcohol they’d sloshed on their clothing and exposed skin wasn’t helping. How much faster would these extra-flammable fae ignite if her magic flared?
Not wanting to hurt anyone despite her own smarting hands and knees, she pushed back with all her might. The drunk toppled easily off her back. She jumped to her feet and pivoted.
A semicircle of at least twenty Ocea fae hemmed her against a brick building. Some of them were sober enough to have fashioned rough ice spears with their magic. Maybe she was just an easy Pyreack target for them to take their anger out on.
A week ago, she’d have wanted the same vengeance. Many of these fae would have lost loved ones during the Pyreack invasion—and, even now, they were being deceived about who was truly responsible for their pain. No matter, this wasn’t going to end well—for any of them. She peered over their heads for Averin and Klaus.
Blue eyes flashing, Averin, holding a vortex of air, elbowed his way through the crowd. Klaus wasn’t on his back.
Her heart skittered. “What have you done with Klaus?”
Someone in the crowd shouted at Averin, “Hey! If you’re not careful—”
His warning and Averin’s reply were lost under another soft-sounding interruption from Darien. “My beloved fae of Ocea, it grieves me that you chose, however briefly, to believe lies spread by our enemies. You have left me no choice but to teach you a lesson.”
The temperature plummeted. Ice crackled over the cobblestones and clawed up the sides of discarded tankards and wine bottles.
Her exhaled breath hung frozen in the air, along with everyone else’s. Her teeth chattered so violently they could have rattled out of her head. Dry as old tree bark, her skin cracked like it used to when spinning wool in winter. Not even the lanolin on the finest fleeces could guard her skin against the Atrian winter, a winter warm and balmy compared to this.
Her accusers and the other angry revelers slumped to their knees and then flopped onto their sides on the frozen ground. Some writhed, others were motionless, their bodies like shriveled meat. Blood dried, then flaked off their parched, cracked lips. Even their eyes seemed to shrivel in their sockets.
“What’s happening?” she yelled at Averin.
Averin toppled. One of his hands hit the road while the other flailed for balance. His arm gave way under him, and he thudded onto the ground.
“Averin!”
Her heart froze. If he was dead.… She shook her crazy panic away. If Darien could kill this many fae at once, the war wouldn’t have lasted five minutes, let alone centuries.
Yet Averin’s chest didn’t rise and fall. He’d stopped breathing.
Tears pricked. She wiped them away with a rough hand. How dare she waste precious water on tears when Averin had been dried to a crisp? She scrambled over prostrate fae to get to him.
“Stasha, what’s happened?” Behind her, panic laced Klaus’
s voice.
Her boots ground to a halt. Was he safe? And why were her eyes drawn to Averin as if he were the only creature in the world that mattered? Darkness curse her heart for daring to let Averin in. Klaus came first. Always.
She spun away to find Klaus.
He stood unscathed in a mass of downed fae. His skin was rippled but soft, his eyes wide but seeing. She heaved a sigh of relief and was about to answer him when Darien’s disembodied voice spoke. “Stasha, little orphan child from Askoval in Atria.”
Her head jerked up, and she clawed at her leggings.
“My spiriting readers have informed me that you and your human friends are in Swiftguard with Prince Averin Trysael of Zephyr and his riffraff. Did you really think a mere girl with a single, uncontrolled talent could destroy all I have built? Don’t forget, child; you are a Pyreack fae, and your magic answers to me, your king.”
He wished. How right she’d been to make that bargain with the tree.
Darien’s silky voice purred right on. “I have a special welcome set up just for you. Your travel companions will perish in Ocea, and you will be responsible for every single death. And as for you... before this day is done, you will be captured and brought to my palace. Your king has decreed it.”
Shock shot her legs out from under her. She collapsed onto the cobbles. Ignoring the pain jarring through her coccyx, she shook her fist and yelled, “You aren’t my king! Curse you! I’ll burn everything you have before I let you harm my friends!”
King Darien ignored her. “My Ocea subjects, when I deign to wake you, you will know with absolute certainty that faith in radicals is misplaced. Only one truth will remain—Angharad is safe in your king’s hands. The same king who thanks you for your water, given in such great abundance.” Laughter bubbled like a tinkling stream. “Today, it will rain in Pyreack.” More melodic laughter and then silence. Deafening silence.
The monster had ripped the water out of every single fae in Ocea? Despicable. And what of Boa and her rebels? If he could truly plunder from all the fae in this kingdom, how much magical power were she and her human friends truly facing? And what about Averin’s magic? And Trystaen and Eliezar’s. Is this how they’d die? She gulped in breath after breath to calm her pounding heart, but it didn’t help. Her heart beat so fast it could explode.