by Gwynn White
A third fireball sailed overhead, just missing the top of the mast. Averin swore. “Suren—”
Suren’s hands jerked, and the shield locked into place. Just as well, as another barrage of flame hurtled their way. The fireballs exploded against the shield in a shower of embers that would have been beautiful if the intention behind them wasn’t to kill.
Given that The Sword was burning, there was no time to ponder that contradiction.
She scrambled across the ale barrels and food crates to Feral Fox. “Don’t mind me.” She tore the cloak off his back and tossed it on the merrily burning fire. It burst into flames and hurtled into the sky on a fiery updraft.
She cursed and was about to lunge her fireproof body over the figurehead when Suren shouted, “White heat. In the loch.”
With the battalion’s terrified screams clamoring in her ears, she stared at the water between the burning longboat and the wharf, now some hundred yards from them.
Furious bubbles hissed and splattered against the green hull. The steam billowing off the water heated the frozen air to bead sweat on her brow. She jumped back to stop any splashes of cursed water hitting her skin. The Pyreack had to be attacking them from below the craft.
“Stasha, we’ve got seconds before this boat vaporizes under us and we’re dumped in the water. You might survive; the rest of us won’t.” Eliezar’s quiet voice cut her even deeper than Klaus’s chilling cry that she should hurry up and save them.
And still she dithered. It was one thing to create white heat, another to destroy it. Back at Shantawa during the fiery display she’d put on to convince Boa to support the Angharad raid, Boa had poured water on her white heat to stifle it.
Would that work now? And what about Darien’s curse?
Use us, her water magic snarled. This is why you have my brother and me. To defend the weak.
With no other solutions to hand, her thoughts stuttered. To do what? Make a shield?
Weapons don’t do shields. We do this—
Water magic crashed into her torso and poured into her arms with such force, she fell forward and slammed into the curved prow of The Sword close to the burning figurehead. The railing jarred into her armpits, and her breasts crunched into the pitching hull. Hands hanging limp over the side of the longboat, she couldn’t even whimper as air—and tears—gushed out of her. Before she could steady herself—or ensure her fingers didn’t trail in the deadly water—her magic pulled her consciousness into the loch.
Now part of a battering ram as thick and wide as a fishing boat, her mind raced toward a boiling maelstrom about the size of the blue sail hanging above The Sword.
White heat.
Despite her battering-ram’s size advantage, she flinched and closed her eyes for the impact. It was white heat, after all. She, more than anyone, knew what it could do.
Her battering ram and the white heat’s intense fury hit head-on.
Two worlds colliding.
Every muscle in her body ached, seemingly torn apart by shock waves kicked up by the juddering crash, the flesh-melting heat, and the magic wrestling in her core. Stricken, her eyes shot open wide.
Bubbles in every crazy color and hue blasted around her. They shimmered through billowing steam. Split between her physical body and the battering ram, she couldn’t tell if the bubbles and steam were above the water or in it. She gasped a couple of shallow, smoky breaths, but it didn’t clear her confusion.
More ridiculously colored bubbles boiled around her. Unable to bear the head-spinning kaleidoscope, she heaved up bile, swallowed it, and retched some more.
It grounded her enough to figure that the steam was coming off the water, churned up by cobalt-blue flame racing above the water between her and the wharf. That she hadn’t noticed the tongues of flame was a testament to the force behind her water magic. It was mighty comforting to know that there was a limit to how long Averin’s confounded commands could trap her power.
Forced back by the flames and heat consuming the wharf, Radomir and his men had withdrawn to the wooden fish-processing buildings. Their retreat hadn’t stopped their white heat—the cause of the bubbles.
Bubbles she now saw clearly below the water. They were getting hotter. And closer to The Sword’s hull, even though the current tugged the longboat further and further from the wharf.
More water magic ripped from her core. Merciless, it was like a cruel hand reaching in to crush her insides. Or maybe using two magical elements at once was—
She blacked out.
She came to, slumped on the deck. Barely breathing, eyes mere slits, it took a moment to see past the charred figurehead and confirm that all the crazy colored bubbles had fizzled out. Even the white heat scalding her flame-resistant body had faltered.
Darkness be thanked. The Pyreack had dropped their magic. And someone on The Sword had extinguished the fire threatening them.
Her fire recoiled, hissing and snarling.
The Pyreack dropped their magic? Is that really what you think? Her water sounded outraged. We obliterated it! To prove the point, driven on tongues of cobalt-colored flame, her battering ram crashed unhindered against the burning posts that held the wharf up.
They snapped like toothpicks.
The logs Radomir and his men stood on collapsed. Radomir’s cruel smile slipped off his face as he and his men shot feetfirst into the crackling blue flames that rode above the loch.
Her water magic hooted. Good job, my brother. Now let’s play.
Laughing like spiteful bullies, her magic twisted together into a seething mass of fiery serpents. Two entwined the closest Pyreack, already screaming, and sucked him underwater. The fire magic fizzled and died, but the watery serpents coiled tighter around the flailing fae’s necks, arms, and legs.
Her stomach heaved. “Enough! I don’t murder people in cold blood.”
The vile snakes her magic had conjured vanished, and the fae bobbed back to the surface, spluttering for air.
Release offered them no respite.
His agonizing screams combined with Radomir’s and the other fae floundering in a whirlpool of her devastating blue flames. Those flames spilled over the broken wharf to consume the fish-processing plant.
The stench of burning flesh and timber turned her insides to mush.
She wanted Radomir dead, but not like this. Was there even a merciful way of killing someone? Sickened to her stomach, she yelled at her magic, “Get back here. Now.”
Like a released bow string, it thwacked into her core with such force, she was sure it broke one of her ribs. Crumpled on the deck, she clutched her chest as fire and water, brother and sister, danced together in her core like children at a maypole.
At least Radomir and his men now bobbed in tranquil water.
Radomir’s windmilling arms spun him to face her. His once cruelly handsome face was charred and raw. Even his clothes had melted from his lean, powerful body. Sobs racked through him as he tried to stay afloat.
Even limp with horror at his suffering, she had to admit, it was fair payment for Klaus’s burns. One miserable, soul-crushing score settled.
As for what Radomir had done to Tarik…. The scar on her palm—from when she’d tried to pull off the boulder Radomir had tossed onto Tarik that terrible day—itched.
That debt was still to be settled.
Yet the thought of killing Radomir brought her no pleasure. But if she were ever to release Tarik so she could move on with her life the way Klaus had, Radomir had to die. A life for a life.
Would the killing and pain never end?
Through her grief, she heard Ivan yell, “Way to go, Stasha. That fire was incredible.” He pumped his fist into the sky.
Whistling like a boiling kettle, Goul and Feral Fox slapped high fives. Trystaen grinned at her. Klaus just looked relieved.
Only Vlad frowned. “The bastards were burning. Why did you stop? And please tell me we aren’t going to rescue them.”
“Vlad—” She hea
ved up bile at his callousness.
Trystaen slapped Vlad so hard, the lad shot right out of his bench. “There will be no rescue today. Not with Averin, Eliezar, and me robbed of our magic. But that doesn’t mean we have to be heartless barbarians, Master Vlad. Have some compassion. That could have been you in the water.”
Vlad didn’t meet her or Trystaen’s eyes as, cowering, he climbed back onto his seat.
The current swept The Sword into a river mouth overhung with trees.
Dark face bleached white in the shadows, Suren glanced at Averin—at his pointed ears—and then back to her. “You’re a force of nature. Regardless of everything, I’m glad I’m on your side.” His words were guarded. Careful. He must’ve guessed that she’d used her water magic to defeat the white heat.
Her heart went out to him in his loss. “Thank you. For everything. Your shield made that victory possible.”
Suren looked down at his hands but said nothing about what his quick thinking cost him.
Averin gave her a wan smile. “So your blue flames trump white heat. Good to know, pit princess. You really are full of surprises.” His hands were sooty, so she guessed he’d killed the fire on The Sword.
Only Eliezar showed no emotion at her victory. He knew she’d used more than just blue flames. He had to. She looked away from his penetrating gaze to smile at Averin.
All she could manage was a strangled grimace. Her ribs, stomach, arms, legs, breasts—everything—throbbed. It was even too much effort to lift her head.
Averin’s expression hardened. “Eliezar, trim the sails. Get some speed out of the available wind. Trystaen, come grab the tiller. Everyone else row. The townsfolk are not going to be happy about us destroying their wharf. We need to get away from Swiftguard as quickly as possible.” He scrambled across empty benches to get to Suren, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Send your mother a message. Warn her.”
“Magic’s spent. Shield took everything.” Suren didn’t meet Averin’s eyes.
Averin sucked in a breath and dug his fingers briefly into Suren’s shoulder. Radomir was right about one thing: Suren’s mother and sisters likely wouldn’t live to see the sun set.
The only way to stop all this carnage was to cut the hate off at the source—King Darien had to die. Somehow, she and Boa and Averin had to rally a strong army to take him down. With Darien gone, all debts would be settled, and her world would finally know freedom and peace.
But first, she had to help Suren.
“I can scratch some magic together,” she called from her crumpled heap at the front of The Sword. The thought of using more magic made her want to sob, but she had to protect Suren’s family. “I’ve never sent a message, so tell me exactly what to do.”
Suren’s face brightened, and his eyes shot up to meet hers. “Call up a wisp of smoke. Command it to warn Tisha Vulkren, that’s my mother, to flee Goose Feather Farm with Daethie and Keerla.” His heavy eyelashes fluttered. “Thank you, Stasha.”
She dragged her remaining energy together and uncurled her palm to summon a plume. You heard. Get smoking.
Her fire ignored her.
We don’t send messages, her water magic said curtly. Or run errands.
Told you that back at the tavern. Her fire didn’t sound mean, just matter-of-fact.
She was too tired for this petty argument when precious lives were at stake.
And I say you must warn Suren’s mother. And be snappy about it.
Her water magic snorted derisively, then rolled into a ball with her fire magic. The two of them promptly fell asleep.
How she envied them.
Face as red as her boots, she looked at Suren. “I’m sorry. But my magic—”
“Refuses. I expected that.” Eliezar shot Suren a pitying look. Suren was slumped over his oar with his eyes clenched shut.
Eliezar’s gaze shifted to her. “Your magic is single-minded in its purpose. You’ll do well to remember that.”
The last of her energy drained out on a stabbing breath. She clutched her side and flopped against the hull. Tears pricked and then spilled down her cheeks at Suren’s loss and her aching body.
Averin hopped over the bench between Suren and Klaus and then pushed past Feral Fox and the boys. Oars swung in the air and splashed the water as the longboat rocked from side to side.
“Careful with those oars,” Averin snapped. “Darien has failed once today. Don’t give him an opportunity to win now.”
“He’s lost twice, you mean.” She quickly wiped her tears on her sleeve. “He tried to steal my magic when he got yours. Only, my bargain stopped him.” The Sword rocked violently under Averin’s boots. “What are you doing?” she groused, struggling to keep her empty stomach from heaving.
Averin dropped down at her side. “Helping you.” He slipped one hand behind her head and the other beneath her knees. Gently, he lifted her.
Her head lolled against his chest. The steady thrum of his heart pulled her like a magnet. As much as she longed to forget everything and to snuggle into him, this was Averin, the fae with the hidden agenda. Being so close to him without trust brought its own exquisite agony. She stiffened and pulled away.
Averin tsked as if he hadn’t noticed. “You may have beaten Piss Swill twice today, but you’ve taken a beating in the process.” He loped to an open space between the barrels and food crates and knelt.
Before he could lay her on the deck, she rolled out of his arms and flopped down on the wooden planks. “I’m fine. Just sore. Who knew that wielding magic could be so painful?” She kept her voice light to mask how desperately tired and drained she was. At least her pain was physical; Suren’s sorrow must have cut so much deeper.
“You took a couple of nasty falls.” Averin’s hand hovered next to her cheek. “May I?”
With no idea of what he’d seen to trouble him, she forced her hand up to touch her cheek. It was crusty with blood. Perhaps she’d nicked it when she’d blacked out. The cut had already healed.
“Like you said—got my butt kicked.” She forced a grin. “Briefly. Then I won. No surprise there.”
Averin leaned in until his brow touched hers. Her heart leapt hungrily against her throbbing ribs. Heavy, dark eyelashes almost touching hers, he laughed. “Don’t ever change, my pit princess.”
She waved an aching hand. “While all this is working so well for me? Not likely.”
Why, oh why, did Averin have to be so confusing? And worse, why did his skin feel so good against hers? So right? His touch was an anchor when all she wanted was to drift off into sleep and never again awaken.
She scowled at that truth. Suren had spent every drop of magic he had on his shield, yet he was back at his oar, rowing with vigor. She hadn’t even lifted a hand to toss her wells of almost unlimited magic around, but she was more exhausted than she’d ever been. What made her so different to everyone else on The Sword?
“We still have a long way to go before we get to Zephyr. A week or more, at least. Keep your magic close.” Averin pulled his forehead away from hers, leaving her cold and horribly alone. “Rest up, and then join the rowing team.” A glance at the battalion was followed by a grimace. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Even she could see their rowing was pitiful. If it hadn’t been for the icy wind billowing the sail for Eliezar to trim, and Suren’s swift strokes, they’d have been becalmed.
Averin squeezed her arm and stood. Before he could clamber away, she said, “Darien said he was going to kill all of you and capture me before we leave Ocea. Just because the first two attempts were spectacular failures, doesn’t mean he won’t try again. His cursed water isn’t our friend.” She bit her lip. Perhaps thanks to her bargain with the tree, her water magic seemed to have overridden Darien’s curse. “He could whip it up at any moment to attack us.”
Averin’s sapphire eyes darkened to a deep midnight blue. “No, he can’t. The curse was clear. We have to touch it before it can attack us. The only way f
or him to do that would be to issue a counter-curse to change his original decree. That will leave his hold on Ocea vulnerable.”
“We better hope he’s too wary of Boa’s rebels to risk it,” Trystaen said. She frowned. He didn’t sound particularly hopeful.
“I know Darien, and he won’t undo that cursing,” Averin insisted. “Not even for Stasha. He’s tried plunder and outright attack to get to her. Those haven’t worked, so next, it’ll be stealth. That’s his way.” He patted his baldric, replaced since Angharad. It bristled with blades. “I’ll make sure everyone is armed.” He pulled a curved dagger off his belt and handed it to her. “Your magic is still your best weapon, but take this, just in case.”
She took the blade and laid it across her thighs. “With everyone else’s magic compromised—”
“You still have yours, right?” Averin frowned. “What you did now was nothing compared to Angharad. It couldn’t have depleted you.”
He spoke with such conviction and such ignorance of what she’d actually done. He even believed her aching body to be the result of nothing more than a couple of scrapes and falls.
The truth could not have been starker.
She’d used so much magic, it had broken her. Surely that must’ve dented her supply?
Determined to look beyond her water magic’s spiteful sulkiness and her fire’s cheerful disregard over Suren’s loss, she looked into her core. Fire and water twined together, their stupendous power curtailed only by slumber.
“My magic is ready and accounted for.” Exhaustion fluttered her eyelids erratically. “Now I need a nap.”
Head canted, speculative expression firmly in place, Averin watched her. He grunted, as if he’d decided something, then brushed her face with a tender hand. “How long have you been fae?”
He wanted her to start counting the days? What was wrong with him? She jerked her head up and tried to focus on him.
“Pit princess, your head took a solid whack on that railing. I’m worried you could be concussed.”
“But—but fae healing?” She let the yawn clamoring for release slip free.
“There’s nothing wrong with her head,” Eliezar said with soft certainty. “Let her rest. It’s what she needs now.”