by Gwynn White
She’d barely finished speaking when a cloud of burning arrows rained down on them. Her glorious blue flames leaped to meet them. The shafts burst into flame and turned to ash. Arrowheads clattered harmlessly onto the ground, some bouncing down the cliff face. She looked beyond her eerie blue light to find the Pyreack. A band of them huddled on the stairs. Their mouths gaped, and their bows hung limp in their hands.
With no time to lose, she ripped blue fire out of every pore and let it sheath her from head to toe. Reveling in her stupendous power, she yelled above the roar, “Take a message to your king. Tell Darien Pyreaxos that Stasha, Orphan from Askavol, Bearer of Wild Magic, and Weapon Coveted by Nations and Kings has escaped safely into Atria with her friends.
“Tell him that next time he speaks to me, it will be eye to eye. Tell him that he won’t survive the encounter.” She raised her voice. “And tell every fae in Darien Pyreaxos’s army that I will hunt down and destroy anyone who dares harm my friends. They will wish for darkness to fall upon them rather than to face me. You have been warned.” Burning like a blue torch, she strode across the empty landing and stepped into the Atrian catacombs. The chilling incantation still pouring from his lips, Trystaen closed the rock wall behind her.
Her flames snuffed. Cursed magic.
Inky blackness and unnerving quiet engulfed her. Only the sound of her panting breath interrupted the still silence of the dead stone.
“Averin? Klaus?” she clawed at the darkness. Her fingers met slick, warm blood. “Averin. Is this you?”
“You could have saved that light, pit princess.” Averin’s arms encircled her and his mouth fluttered against her hair.
She slid her fingers under his bloody tunic and prodded for his wounds.
“My fire doesn’t think it needs to do mundane things, like lighting dark rooms.” How strange it was to talk of such silly things when they’d just escaped a battle, and her heart pounded faster than it ever had before.
“I’m here too.” Klaus laughed in the darkness. He was making fun of her! That was just wonderful. She laughed with him while her exploring fingers dug under Averin’s bloody tunic. Although sticky with blood, his rock-hard abs and sculpted chest seemed whole and unblemished.
Averin’s lips brushed her ear. “Stop fussing. It was just a flesh wound.” He didn’t move away from her or drop his arms encircling her waist. A dark chuckle rocked him, and a breeze fluttered her hair across her face. Too sharp to be his breath, it had to be his magic.
Relief slumped her against him. Under the stench of his blood, and the musky mildew that filled the catacombs, his delicious sun-ripened-oranges, snow, and chai smell embraced her.
His breath pushed the hair back from her ear. “Your magic works fast when no one tells you what to do.” Laughter vibrated against her. “I’ll have to learn to keep my orders to myself.”
She smiled in the darkness. “Now, was that so hard to admit?”
“Unspeakably so.” He gave her a last squeeze, then pulled away. It was suddenly bitterly cold, even though the stale air was only cool. “Call your name so I know you’re safe.” Averin’s voice echoed all businesslike in the darkness.
“Me and the boys are good,” Feral Fox called out.
A scuffle, then Ivan said, “As he says.”
“And me,” Vlad chirped.
“All good here,” Eliezar answered quietly. “I have some magic back, but not all of it.”
“Then you’re in the same shape as me. It probably won’t fully return until we get home,” Averin replied. “Suren? Trys?”
“My magic is fully charged,” Suren said.
“Trys?” Averin’s clothes rustled as if he was looking around in the dark. Pointless, when she could see nothing but cloying blackness.
“There’s usually a torch on the wall near the door. I’m looking for it. And as for magic? I might not be home, but this is Atria, so mine’s back in full force.”
She heaved a sigh. Everyone was okay. And the Pyreack had learned what would happen to them if anyone hurt one of these precious friends.
“Found it.” The hollow echo of Trystaen’s boots as he moved stirred the reek of moldy dust. She covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. It reinforced that this was a catacomb, the final resting place of the dead.
The shiver that rippled through her had nothing to do with the temperature. How the Atrian fae could choose to live here rather than above ground was an unfathomable mystery. What cowards they must be.
“Now for my tinder box.” It sounded like Trystaen was rummaging through his satchel.
“I’m wary of light,” Averin said. “Let’s just lie low awhile to see if we’ve been detected.”
Flexing her fingers, she leaned back against the rough wall, wriggling to find a spot that didn’t dig into her shoulder blades.
“That was the plan,” Trystaen said. “But we’ll need some light once we start moving, and I’m not sure where else we’ll find a torch.”
“Shouldn’t we just get moving?” Ivan sounded jittery. From the rasp of his boots, it seemed like he was pacing. Maybe the thought of a mountain above his head was getting to him.
She didn’t like it much either, but better this than more time on the river or in the freezing cold with Pyreack stalking them.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Vlad said. “I just want to get out.”
“Patience, Master Vlad,” Averin said. “We don’t want to rush ahead only to find ourselves joining the corpses who lie around us.”
“Those Pyreack could have heard Trystaen wailing the password.” Ivan sounded truculent.
“Hush your mouths! Both of you,” Feral Fox hissed. Ivan and then Vlad grunted, like they’d been elbowed. Neither said another word.
“It’s called an incantation,” Trystaen said with a smile in his voice. “And even if the Pyreack heard it, they aren’t Atrian nobles, so the doors won’t open for them.”
The ground rumbled, like rock rolling across rock. She pressed her boots into the stone to steady herself and lifted her hands in readiness to throw the fire crackling under her skin.
“Weapons,” Averin hissed just as someone said, “And how exactly do you know our sacred password?”
Fire spiked on each of Stasha’s fingertips. It cast flickering light on a band of fae dressed in bottle-green tunics, golden armor, brown leggings, and boots… who were rising up through the floor on a stone platform. Arrows nocked and aimed, they stepped off the platform and fanned out in front of Stasha and the team.
She sucked in a breath.
So much for passing through the catacombs undetected.
No one moved. Arrows trained on all their chests. Stasha’s flame flickered, and her water surged through her. She shoved the water back down.
The fae who had spoken cocked his head to the side. The light of his torch caught gold flecks in his long, dark hair, hair that trailed to his hips behind the wooden combs that swooped it out of his face. It made his pointed ears look even more elongated. He stared at her through sharp, unnerving emerald-green eyes.
She looked away to study the rest of him, then swallowed hard. His plated armor shone gold in the light of her fire—armor far finer than anything Boa and her rebels had worn. But his skin was the real oddity. Whiter than snow, his confinement underground for the last few centuries was painfully obvious. When was the last time this fae had felt the sunshine on his long, narrow face?
Trystaen inched a step toward the newcomer. The rest of the Atrian fae spun to point their arrows at him. Trystaen threw his shoulders back and straightened his spine. “I’m Trystaen of House Wisteria. Son of Gorduin and Ismene Wisteria. I have a right to these catacombs, just as any Atrian who’s laid their family to rest here does. I demand safe passage for myself and my companions.”
The commander jerked up the spear hanging at his side. “House Wisteria was wiped out hundreds of years ago.”
“Two hundred and eighty-seven years to be exact. And not ent
irely wiped out, Homrik.” Trystaen didn’t miss a beat. “After witnessing my parents die to protect your queen, I escaped to Zephyr.” He looked Homrik up and down, like the Atrian fae was a bug to be squashed beneath his boot. If they negotiated their way through this encounter, maybe he’d explain how he’d survived such a deadly attack.
Homrik blinked in surprise, then narrowed his eyes. “If you are who you say you are, then you’re an Atrian deserter. And a fool, too. Do you know what we do to deserters and traitors here?”
Trystaen took one more step, closing the gap between them. Homrik wasn’t as built as Trystaen, but he rivalled him in height. “If I’m a deserter, then so are you.” He didn’t acknowledge the subtle sound of leather bows tightening, or the rattle of arrows in quivers. His narrowed eyes never left Homrik’s. “You’ve hidden underground for centuries. You’ve eaten and drunk your fill, waiting for the war above you to run its course of destruction on your homeland. On your defenseless people. Do you even know what’s happening out there?” He gestured an open palm at Klaus, Vlad, Ivan, and Feral Fox. Stasha, Averin, Eliezar, and Suren had moved protectively in front of them. “These humans are Atrian. They’re your people. They lived in poverty before being shipped off to die in Angharad death camp.”
Homrik’s already pale face turned silver. “If that is the case, they’d be dead already. Angharad wouldn’t let slaves go—”
“They didn’t,” Stasha interrupted. Homrik’s eyes snapped to her and then trailed to her burning hands. “They didn’t let them go. We took them back. Many of our people didn’t survive. Their deaths are on you.”
Homrik’s lips parted. A few of the fae shuffled and glanced around at each other.
Trystaen’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Angharad has fallen. And you would know that if you ever deigned to leave this hole in the ground to see what has been done to the humans and fae you deserted.” His voice hardened. “How do you think they’d react if they learned that the last surviving heir of House Wisteria, a warrior who spent his entire life fighting for their freedom, was killed at the hands of their own queen’s captain?”
Stasha bit her lip. Despite her unknown origins, she’d grown up in Atria. So had Klaus and the others. And no fae army had ever come to protect them from the Pyreack, or from the Martka and the Kňazer. Then again, maybe the Martka and
Kňazer weren’t trying to hurt the orphans in their dubious care. Perhaps they were just trying to survive a war which left more children than adults in its wake. This fae queen and her soldiers were the true enemy.
These catacombs brimmed with traitors.
Homrik’s spear lined up with Trystaen’s chest, but Stasha could see it quaking, and a flash of uncertainty crossed his face. It was gone in an instant. He pushed a hank of hair off his shoulders and stood taller. “Trystaen Wisteria, your fate, and those of your strange travel companions”—his eyes flickered to her—“will be decided by Queen Calarel.” As one, the Atrian fae lowered their bows. Sliding like oil across a floor, they circled Stasha and her friends.
Homrik jerked his chin into the darkness. “You can douse that fire, Pyreack fae.” His cloak swooped back as he strode forward.
“I don’t take orders from you.” Hands burning, she scowled deeply. There was no way her fire would douse now. She’d have to wait until it deemed the threat over.
Homrik’s hand drifted to his sword. Seamlessly, blue flame replaced her orange-and-gold fire. Hands that clenched bows flexed, and the faes’ weapons quivered. Homrik’s hand dropped away from his hilt and made a chopping motion. “Everyone, follow me.” He turned on his heel and strode down a wide stone passageway.
Wise choice. She’d have hated to fry him and his companions. That would probably have brought the Atrian army down on them. Not the best move when they could still negotiate their way through this mess.
Klaus shuffled next to her. Averin took her other side, and together they shuffled forward with the rest of the group. Homrik’s footsteps on the stone floor were as silent as those in the tombs.
Both her flames and Homrik’s torchlight illuminated the passageway. Pearly-white stone coffins lined the walls like ale barrels in the Kňazer secret cellar. Fae carved from the cold stone lay sleeping on the lids with swords or roses in their hands. Symbols and words in a strange language identified each one.
Stasha leaned in to whisper in Klaus’s ear, “Do you know what language that is?”
Klaus’s shaggy hair tickled her cheek as he shook his head. “I’ve never seen inscriptions like those before.”
“Yatrisian,” Trystaen mumbled behind them. “Atrian nobles still teach it to their younglings. That’s how I’m able to speak it. You’ll also hear it spoken by the scholars in the library in Zephyr.”
She counted each coffin as they passed through convoluted tunnels, stopping when she reached two hundred. Her flames had long since crawled off in boredom.
“Why are there so many dead fae down here?” Vlad whispered to Suren. “I thought you lot couldn’t die.”
“Everything dies, Master Vlad,” Suren answered quietly. “Even fae. We can be killed, which is what happens in most cases. Alternatively, we can live so long, we finally fade into oblivion—or whatever comes next.”
Immortality.
She grimaced. Despite her new fae status, almost everything that was fully fae felt ever so slightly out of her grasp. How long would her human soul linger before she became truly fae?
They reached an elaborate arbor carved in the stone. Despite the utter lack of sunlight, roses clung to the rock. Their blush and white petals glittered in the torchlight. Normally sweet and fragrant, here in the tomb, they smelled of stagnant water. The impression was reinforced by the trickle of water that interrupted her and the battalion’s noisy footsteps. Its drip echoed under the haunting lilt of wind instruments.
They passed into a massive hall as big as the Ocea temple. Countless golden glowworms glinted on rose vines that snaked up the walls and curled across the ceiling. They illuminated petals that fluttered down, dissolving into nothing as soon as they touched the white-and-gold-marble floor.
But it wasn’t the magic that made Stasha suck in a short breath. Fae dressed in fine pure-white and golden linen crowded the hall. A group of minstrels, clad in rich, matching blue, gold, and brown tunics, leggings, and boots, played evocative music, which mixed pleasantly with the light chatter. Some of the fae nobles twirled in a slow, stylized dance. Others crowded long tables covered with pearly cloths and laden with golden platters of food. The mouthwatering aroma of fruit, light pastries and cream, and the twang of sweet alcohol filled her nose.
A haze of red fury at the opulence rushed to her head. She stopped mid stride. These vile fae had lived virtually beneath her feet while she, Klaus, and the others had starved at the hands of the Martka and Kňazer. She’d always believed the Martka, Kňazer, and the two-faced god to be the villains in her story, but maybe she’d been wrong.
About the Martka and Kňazer at least.
Perhaps in the beginning when the orphanages in Atria had first sprung up, the Martka and Kňazer had wanted to do good. But with no help from their queen, had it been any wonder they’d cut off meals to children twelve years and older to let cruel nature decided who lived and died?
A small shove in the back forced her to pick up her feet and follow Homrik to the front of the great cavern.
The chatter in the hall died as fae turned to watch them.
Homrik stopped and dropped into a low bow. “Your Majesty, Queen Calarel.”
Busy fuming, Stasha hadn’t noticed the woman sitting on a hollowed tree trunk embedded with green jewels. This was no feasting hall, or safe house for refugees.
This was a throne room.
Queen Calarel dipped her chin at Homrik. Her long auburn hair shifted across her shoulders like a silk dress. In the golden light, her tresses shone like a halo around her head. Eyes the color of fresh green olives glowed in her chalky-white
face. Unlike the other fae, her linen robes were as green as oak leaves in spring and plated with gold over her shoulders and around her narrow waist. Her flowing trumpet sleeves, embroidered with tiny gold leaves, were nearly as long as her floor-length gown. Almost-white, bare feet laced with golden ribbon rested lightly on a footstool carved into the tree.
Stasha glanced at the other fae. All of them were deathly pale, their skin untouched by sunlight. More proof of their cowardice.
“Homrik.” Queen Calarel’s voice was deeper than what Stasha would have expected from such a delicate-looking flower. Her fingers fluttered. “Who are these… creatures? Why are they in our sacred sanctuary?”
Homrik straightened. “We were patrolling the Shadowland crypts and stumbled upon them.”
Queen Calarel’s eyes narrowed, then flicked past Homrik to study their ramshackle group. “Prince Averin!”
Averin didn’t bother bowing, or even bobbing his head. Shocking, given how diplomatic he usually was.
Trystaen stepped forward. “Queen Calarel—”
“Isn’t that Gorduin Wisteria’s son?” someone in the crowd called. “I’d recognize that face anywhere.”
“If so, he’s a traitor!” another hissed and spat on the marble floor.
Trystaen didn’t flinch.
Queen Calarel’s eyes widened in recognition. Her lips quivered before she could clench them. What did this fae queen have to hide that Trystaen’s unexpected arrival had unearthed? “It is indeed Trystaen Wisteria.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “The last time I saw you, you were a youngling.”
“Which of the many times I saw you should I mention?” Trystaen shrugged. “I know… I’ll lead with that fateful day in Ruepa. You were sitting on your throne in a room that looked remarkably similar to this, feasting as if the war would never reach our shores, and Pyreack soldiers weren’t already ravaging our land.” He glanced at their surroundings and gave another dismissive shrug. “It seems the only thing that’s changed is the venue.”