by Cara Witter
“Hidden,” Saara said. “Those parts were hidden because your mother and the rest of the queens wanted to keep the throne, without regard to the will of their god. Does that sound befitting of a Daughter of Nerendal to you?”
Talia studied her, and Saara was glad that her former retorts to the god had only been in her mind. Some person she was to talk about respect for Nerendal’s will.
But she was here. She’d come when he called, once she knew how to interpret the message. That had to count for something.
“So you believe it,” Talia said. “You believe you’re the bearer.”
“It’s the only way to explain the things that have happened to me. He talks to me, Talia. Has he ever spoken to you?”
Talia shook her head and motioned to the chest behind Saara. “Take him, then.”
Saara froze, not daring to glance back at Sayvil, to turn her back on Talia even for a second. It had to be a trap.
“Really,” Talia said. “Take him.”
Saara tightened the grip on her dagger. “Why would you let me do that?”
“Because if you’re the bearer of Nerendal, he’s rightfully yours,” Talia said. “If you aren’t, you’ll burn to death right here in this room, and my mother’s decree will be carried out. You’ll be dead.” Talia stepped back toward the chamber pot, crossing her arms. “I won’t stop you.”
Talia certainly sounded sincere. Saara took a step toward the chest, still facing Talia. She’d fallen for one ruse already today, and she didn’t want to stumble into a second. But the tug in her gut pulled her toward the chest.
Take me, the god said.
Saara backed up until her heels touched the base of the chest, and she glanced down, still not turning her back on her cousin. Sayvil eyed Talia warily.
But Saara looked down at the lock. It was Hirsetti make—a locking charm requiring the matching key charm to unlock. The chest was made of ironwood—cured to be hard enough to resist breaking, even if one went at it with an ax.
“If you’re so willing to give it to me,” Saara said, “I don’t suppose you’ll unlock it.”
“I don’t have the key,” Talia said. “My mother keeps it on her. But if you’re really the god’s chosen, don’t you have ways?”
Saara lowered her dagger and indicated to Sayvil. “Give my cousin one of the masks.” Sayvil pulled one from her belt pouch and did so, as Saara resheathed her weapon and hauled the chest away from the wall—less than a foot, because of the weight of the ironwood. Then she pressed her own gauze to her face.
Talia hesitated, but did so as well. And when all three of them were protected, Saara lit a flame in her right hand.
The room was about to reek with a second kind of smoke.
Jaeme stood against the wall of the throne room, bleeding beneath his fingernails where he’d reached out toward Daniella, then sheltered his face against the pulse of energy that had driven him back.
He couldn’t tear his eyes from the bodies, lying in pools of their own blood, all of them coated in red. Perchaya and Daniella knelt in the gore, Daniella sobbing and Perchaya, miraculously unharmed, holding her. They were both of them blood-soaked, Perchaya’s hair dyed as red as Daniella’s. The air was full—no longer of blood, but of a metallic tang. And Jaeme, who had been in battle before, tasted not only blood on his tongue, but bile.
Daniella. He wished he’d gotten here sooner, but if he had, he would have been closer to her, caught in the blast. He stepped over the body of a guard, the whites of her eyes turned entirely red, her body speckled by the colored lights from the ceiling above. Jaeme swallowed back vomit.
If he’d gotten here even a moment earlier, that would have been him. This was blood magic. It must be. Though not the grotesque tricks Lukos had used against them, and much more than simple mind control.
Daniella was something else. Something new, or something very old.
A weapon.
Jaeme shivered, but still he stepped closer, through the blood which ran toward low ground near the antechamber door, over the bodies that lay emptied of their souls.
He put a hand on Perchaya’s shoulder. Gently, he pulled Perchaya back, ignoring Kenton, who stared on in horror, but didn’t speak. Perchaya released Daniella, who fell on her hands and then lifted them, staring at the blood in horror.
“Stay away from me!” she screamed, her eyes wide and wild. “I’m a monster. I’m a monster, just like they said. I’ll destroy you! I’ll kill you all!”
But instead of backing off, Jaeme drew her into his arms. Her skin was slick, her hair tangled and sticky, and as he held her, blood soaked into his clothes. But he shut his eyes, closing it all out.
All of it but her.
“You would never hurt me,” Jaeme said in her ear. “You would never hurt any of us. This was a thing that was done to you. And by the gods, Dani, you just saved all of our lives.”
Perchaya knelt and rubbed Daniella’s shoulders, then lay a hand on Jaeme’s as well.
And Jaeme knew this changed nothing. His realization was still true. He loved Daniella, wholly and utterly loved her—not the weapon, but the girl.
No matter what it took, Jaeme was going to protect her as long as he could.
Saara pressed her flaming palm against the part of the chest with the hinges. The cured wood resisted burning, but under the intensity of the flame, it slowly began to char.
The room filled with smoke, burning Saara’s eyes again, but Talia was good on her word. She kept the mask pressed to her face, standing inside the bath chamber, and made no motion to stop Saara, or even to move closer.
Saara kept half an eye on her, just in case.
It took long minutes for the wood to catch, and longer for it to burn away around the hinges sufficiently for Saara to pry them off. But once she did, she swung the chest open from the back, leaving the lid dangling by the still-intact locking charm.
Bright fire lit up the wall behind the chest, matching the flame in Saara’s hand. The two flames danced in tandem, as if the stone itself was a mirror.
Take me, the stone said.
And with one final glance back at Talia, Saara reached out her hand.
Kenton wiped the trickle of blood from his nose, looking around at the bodies. Blood coated the floor, the walls, the remaining shards of glass. His ears rang and his head pounded, as if he were recovering from a blow to the skull.
They were dead; all the guards were dead. Their bodies lay shriveled, completely exsanguinated.
He looked up at the blood-soaked Perchaya, who still stood by the quivering Daniella as she shook in Jaeme’s arms.
At least she’d stopped screaming. Her last words, I’ll kill you all, still rang in Kenton’s ears. It wasn’t a threat, Kenton knew, nor a promise. It was a fear, from the darkest parts of Daniella’s mind.
One she and Kenton shared.
Daniella might not have full knowledge of what she was, and she might not have any desire to hurt them. None of this was her fault, but she was still a weapon. She didn’t mean them harm, but she was dangerous all the same. It was only through sheer luck Perchaya wasn’t dead. As many times as he’d cursed that damn ring for the trouble it had caused them, at that moment he thanked the gods for it. All of them, each by name. He’d almost lost her too many times, but this was by far the closest of all. Kenton hated himself for being unable to protect her.
Although, he supposed, it was his fault she’d been wearing the ring.
“Kenton,” Perchaya said, looking over at him. “Where’s the queen?”
Kenton searched through the bodies. The queen had fallen on the dais; she should have been inside the radius of the magic.
But her body wasn’t among the dead, from what he could tell. Had some of the guards dragged her away during the fight? There were poisons that would cause tremors like that but not de
ath, and the guard had seemed to have been shooting for her and not him.
“We need to move,” Kenton said, walking back into the throne room. “We have to get out of here before the guards can rally.”
Jaeme lifted Daniella into his arms, and she whimpered against his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” Jaeme said. “We’re going to get you out.”
“It’s not okay,” Daniella mumbled, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “It’s not okay.”
Kenton couldn’t help but agree with her. The throbbing in his upper arm reminded him of his wound there, a wound still seeping blood, along with the cut across his chest. He’d need to staunch them both, and soon, but getting them all out of this room was the first priority. He moved past them to the door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Kenton opened the door, looking out into the hall. More bodies had fallen outside; dozens of them. Their blood pooled in the center of the floor, collecting in divots in the stone. The walls dripped with it. He didn’t, however, see the queen among them. If the guards had taken her out, they’d gotten her past the radius of Daniella’s power in time.
Behind him, Daniella began sobbing. He didn’t dare drag her out into the open hallways for fear her cries would bring what remained of the guard down on them.
Not to mention what might happen if any one threatened her again.
Kenton turned to Jaeme. “Take her in the staging room. Barricade the doors. If you get caught, you can both escape through the sewer. I’ll try to find Saara and our way out and come back for you. If you have to, leave me here.”
A look of something Kenton couldn’t identify crossed Jaeme’s face, and he was startled to realize it might be respect. Jaeme carried Daniella away from the blood and the bodies, into the room with the sewer grate.
Kenton turned to Perchaya. “You should stay with them.”
Perchaya picked up a sword that had once belonged to a fallen guard. “Not a chance,” she said.
And while Kenton knew he ought to insist, that it would be so much harder to protect her in the halls, he’d never been more grateful to have her at his side.
Kenton stepped out and looked down the long hallway. For a moment all was still.
Then, far at the end of the corridor, Kenton saw a scaly fish-man race by, his webbed hands flailing at his sides. Behind him charged a contingent of four guards, all unharmed, swords drawn and at the ready.
Hells. Kenton stared, his head still pounding, and wondered for half a second if the blast of magic or perhaps the blood loss was causing him to hallucinate. What was Nikaenor even doing here? Had it been him who spurred the ringing of the gong, or Saara?
Gods. Where was Saara? Where was the godstone?
“Let’s go,” he said, and Perchaya nodded resolutely.
They might have gotten out of the throne room alive, but they weren’t done yet.
Fifty-four
When Saara’s palm touched the stone, it felt as cool as her flame did against her own hands. Instead of burning her, it sent a shock of energy through her body, a burst of adrenaline.
Finally, the god said.
For once, he and Saara were in perfect agreement.
“By Nerendal’s flame,” Talia said. “You really are his bearer.”
Saara wheeled around, expecting her cousin to be having second thoughts, but Talia still stood in the bath chamber, staring transfixed at the jewel in Saara’s hand.
The Sunstone. Heart of Tirostaar. Hers at last.
Saara smiled.
And then, all around them, the stone walls of the bedchamber burst into flames.
Kenton ran down the corridor, Perchaya by his side. Ahead, he could see the guards still chasing Nikaenor, who turned abruptly and ran down a side hall.
Kenton had to give this to the kid: he was fast. Kenton tipped over a metal pitcher that rested on a table outside one of the rooms. The thing clattered to the floor, and two of the guards turned, then shouted to the others.
Good. He had their attention. And what a sight they must all be, charging down the hallway toward them, drenched in blood.
“Fall back,” Kenton said to Perchaya, and her steps slowed.
Then the entire palace caught fire. Ahead of them, the guards wheeled about in panic. Though the guards were clearly distracted, he heard Nikaenor scream.
Kenton turned to find Perchaya huddling in the middle of the corridor, trying to stay away from the flames. The fire continued to shoot from the floor, blanketing the walls, burning even though the stone couldn’t have been providing them any fuel. What was more, there was no smoke, and—Kenton extended his palm toward the flame—no heat. He stepped toward the fire and touched it with his fingers.
The flame didn’t burn.
Gods. Did Saara finally have the jewel?
Perchaya looked at him, her expression shifting from fear to hope. “She did it?”
Kenton nodded. He didn’t know how else to explain it. Perhaps the gods were still capable of some miracles, after all.
The guards ahead were still stunned, looking from Nikaenor the fish man to the walls covered in fire to Perchaya drenched in blood.
“There!” a hoarse voice shouted from farther up the corridor. “There they are!”
Ahead a new group of guards appeared, one of them already holding Nikaenor, who was beginning to fade from his fish form as his body dried, his flesh returning to its natural color, if still a bit scaly.
The guards who had been chasing him turned on Kenton and his group, recovering somewhat from the shock of the flames and the blood. They were joined by other guards from the new group, and farther away, behind Nikaenor, Kenton saw a figure standing among them.
Queen Aiyen. Her eyes were deeply bloodshot and sunken beneath dark, circled bruises.
But, as Kenton had feared, she was very much alive. Beside him, Perchaya held her sword at the ready, and Kenton drew his daggers. There were too many of them. He couldn’t take them all, and while he appreciated Perchaya’s courage, she’d be no match for the highly trained Tirostaari guard.
Kenton didn’t know what else to do.
So he stepped in front of Perchaya and he spoke.
“Aiyen!” he shouted. “Don’t you see the flames? You know what this means, don’t you?”
The guards hesitated, looking back at their queen for orders, which Kenton supposed he would have as well, given the bloody sight before them.
“Saara has Nerendal, Aiyen,” he said. “She’s queen now. Step down, and no one else needs to die.”
The guards stared at Aiyen, and for a moment, the queen hesitated. If any of them knew about the Chronicle, if any of them were loyal to Saara, they might just have a chance.
“Kill them,” Aiyen said. The guards ran toward Kenton and Perchaya to carry out her orders.
Kenton brought his daggers up into a battle stance, keeping Perchaya behind him. And for the second time in the space of mere minutes, Kenton prepared to die.
When the walls began to burn, Daniella was sure she had died in the throne room and gone to the farthest of all hells. That all the death around her, all the death she’d caused, was just the beginning of otherworldly torments from which she’d never be free.
Except that Jaeme was here, holding her. Murmuring to her.
He shouldn’t be here; he didn’t belong in any hell.
He wasn’t a monster like her.
“Dani,” he said. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.”
She felt herself set down on top of a wooden chest, though his arms remained around her. She thought maybe his arms were the only thing keeping her body from shaking so hard it shattered apart.
She blinked, trying to focus on his words. Trying to push past the screams echoing in her head, the drip drip drip of blood down faces and walls—
“Dani,” he said again, and his face was right in front of hers, so close their foreheads touched.
She flinched back, seeing smeared blood on his cheek. “Don’t touch me, I’ll hurt you, I don’t want to—”
“You won’t hurt me.” But he pulled back, studying her. His eyes were so deep and brown, though now they flickered with the reflection of the fire all around them.
Fire? If she wasn’t in the most terrible of hells—which she couldn’t be, not if Jaeme was here—then what was causing this fire that didn’t spread beyond the walls or give off any heat?
“Saara?” she ventured.
“Looks like she got what we came for.” Jaeme gave a small smile, but all she could really see on his face was the blood. His blood? Or from any of the dozens of people she’d killed?
She dropped her gaze and saw her arms, clothes, everything. Soaked in blood, her hands leaving bloody prints on the lid of the chest. She began shaking again, her breathing coming in short gasps.
Jaeme’s brow furrowed, and he looked around the room before returning his gaze to her and squeezing her shoulders. “I’m going to get something.”
She bit back a desperate plea for him not to leave her, even though leaving her would be the best possible thing he could do for himself. But Jaeme only stepped over to a washbasin and soaked a nearby cloth.
“Here,” he said, kneeling in front of her. He picked up one of her hands and began wiping the blood from it. The water was tepid, but the gentle motion of the cloth against her skin—first one hand, and then the next—helped calm the shaking.
As long as she didn’t pay attention to how red the cloth was becoming.
He brought it to her face, slowly wiping her cheeks, her forehead, the bridge of her nose. She closed her eyes, wishing she could just forget. Or disappear entirely.
Anything to take away what she’d done.
Anything to make it never happen again.
Hot tears joined the water from the cloth on her cheeks, and Jaeme paused. Then she felt, not the cloth, but his hand along her jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the tears.