Skykeeper (The Drowning Empire Book 1)

by S. M. Gaither

  It wasn’t my fault.

  I want to shout it at him, but his hand is around my throat now, and suddenly I am too light-headed to remember how to speak.

  I cough and sputter for breath, and he eases his grip swiftly enough that it unbalances me. I fall back against the wall. The room threatens to spin again, but I don’t dare shut my eyes to try to make it stop.

  Varick moves a few steps back, magic lifting from the skin of both his arms and winding around them, rising and gathering into a point just above his head. It stretches into a solid, javelin-like shape that hovers in the air, poised and waiting for him to throw it. His calm demeanor has completely returned now.

  The whole room seems strangely calm.

  Through the silence, I can hear my heart beating. The tiny, raspy breaths of Atlas, still curled out of sight in the corner. The whispers of people outside growing even louder.

  “Don’t do this,” I stammer.

  I don’t know why.

  Because so many people are already gone, and my heart aches, and really I just want this to be over with, to be set free and allowed to drift to whatever world we enter after this one.

  I pull my arm partway out from the sleeve of my cloak, enough that I can see the dirty ribbon of cloth tied around it.

  “We could have been so good together.” I look away from the cloth and up at Varick, whose voice seems much farther away than he actually is. “If I happen to see your sisters as I am flooding your city,” he says, “I will be sure to tell them goodbye for you.”

  No. The word is a sharp stabbing in my brain.

  Because I promised my sisters I would come back. I promised them everything would be all right in the end, the same way my brother always promised me. I promised them that now I would be the one to make it all right.

  This is not the way it was supposed to end.

  But now that end begins with a quick flick of Varick’s wrist. A whispered goodbye from his lips, and simple as that, the concentrated magic he summoned hurtles straight at my chest.

  Chapter 27

  His magic collides with my own—with a solid wall I didn’t even have to think about summoning—in a flash of light that blinds both of us and sends him stumbling backward.

  I am not dizzy. There is no pain. No blood that I can feel on my skin. There is only that wall hovering in front of me, like an extension of myself, separating me from Varick. His own magic is scattered, vapors of pale blue bouncing aimlessly around.

  For a long time, he just stares at me through my shield. It is so solid that it is nearly opaque, but the green seems to draw out his eyes, and I can clearly see the mixture of disbelief and rage in them.

  He takes a step toward me.

  I hear it more clearly than I see it.

  My body reacts automatically. My arm swings forward, throwing that shield toward him. A few bits of the magic peel away as it flies through the air. The peeling leaves it more translucent than opaque, but when it hits him and wraps around his body, knocking him back against the door, it’s still solid enough to hold him there. At least for a moment. At least until he shakes off his surprise at my strength, and then manages to focus and summon more of his own magic—sapphire streaks that sharpen to dagger points before he launches them at me.

  They drive through that wall I summoned. I feel a sharp pain, a burning in my veins as the two sides of our power converge and spark off each other.

  I push through it and draw more magic to reinforce what he managed to stab through. The pain ebbs away for the moment, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold it at bay. I keep expecting the others to intervene. Expecting the door to open and for me to suddenly be facing six times as much magic trying to break me.

  I could at least hurry and stop Varick, I think. Drop this wall I’ve built without warning and finish him with a knife to the throat before he had time to react. I should finish him, for what he’s done. It would likely leave me vulnerable enough for the others to finish me quickly—but maybe so quickly that I might not even feel pain, and I could at least die knowing that my brother’s murder had been avenged.

  But what about everyone else?

  My sisters, and my home?

  My eyes fall on a thin beam of light on the floor. It’s shining through the window, even through the dirty part of the glass, and even down through the sky that’s grown dark and unsettled because the keepers of this world have been learning how to destroy it.

  I grab that pewter cup from the table, turn, and throw it at the window. The glass shatters from the cup’s impact, and now I can hear the nearby river flowing. I’ve never been more grateful for the sound of running water.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Varick’s voice startles me. I thought the barrier I created had been blocking out anything he might have been saying. But he has only been quiet, it seems. Not calling for help from the others. Not issuing any more threats or ultimatums. And he is only watching me now, as though he doesn’t much care whether I answer him or not. As if I am only something intensely interesting—an experiment of some sort that he is observing and taking mental notes on.

  I back quickly toward the window, broken bits of it crunching under my boots, and I stick my head through the opening and give a sharp whistle, praying that Finn is close enough to hear. Then I take the hand not held steady in front of me, the one not focused on the magic that is holding Varick captive, and I punch away the ridges of broken glass along the bottom half of the window.

  Even then, it’s not a very big opening.

  “You won’t make it back to Garda alive,” Varick says. “You will not even make it out of here alive. And what difference do you think it would make, anyhow? Do you not realize how many I have following me now? How many are marching from Alturas, and back from the islands…and how many I’ve collected just since leaving Garda?”

  “The ones wearing my ribbon are not your followers.”

  “They are following a symbol—one I introduced to many of them, no less. And I can wear it too. So why would they choose to follow you, when I am more powerful than you could ever hope to be?”

  “Because you’re a liar. And you are not invincible—the people of this empire will realize the truth.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I dart to the corner and gather up Atlas’s tiny crumpled body, stuff as much of him as I can fit into the inside pocket of my cloak. He’s awake enough to dig his claws into the cloth and hold on, at least. With him secure, I step toward Varick one last time. I draw magic from the veins along my wrists, and I weave it together into one last fortification—one that I hope will keep his prison secure long enough to allow me to escape, even if I’m not here to hold it in place.

  I know Finn can outrun them all.

  And I believe Varick is wrong. I believe there are others who will listen to me, and who will join me and fight, or at least help slow him and his army down.

  All I need is a head start.

  I bring my eyes level with his.

  “Stay away from my city.” The warning is quiet, clear. The final words I plan to say to him. I wait for his reply for much longer than I should, holding my breath and unable, for some reason, to immediately pull my gaze from his. Then his mouth finally curves upward—the last thing I see before my magic strengthens, solidifies completely and closes him off from me.

  “Oh, Aven,” he says from the other side. “You’ve only just sealed its fate.”

  Part V

  Chapter 28

  I feel it all the way home: War. Whispers of it rising in the wind. Pressing on my heels. Stealing the air from my lungs.

  And so on my way back, I begin to call my true army.

  I send word to Taryn first. I ask her—everyone she has fighting with her—to help spread the truth about Varick and his floodmakers. And everywhere I pass through, every time I can bear to risk it, I find more of my ribbon wearers, and I ask the same thing of them.

  That, and to buy me the time I need.r />
  Slow him down, I beg them. Do what you can to slow him and his followers down.

  I’ve sent warnings to my city, too, hoping they might reach the emperor and his council, that they might start preparing for what is coming. It may be days, weeks before Varick finishes collecting and mobilizing his army enough to march south once more—but I know it is coming.

  They will not take Garda’s throne. They will not take its power.

  Not as long as I am there.

  Not as long as I am alive.

  Over and over I promise myself this, but by the time I reach my beautiful city—the only home I have ever known—the outer ring of it is already almost completely underwater.

  So it seems they’ve already started to take it.

  But who are they?

  How many of Garda’s own did Varick manage to turn to his cause before he left? That must have been his mission in my kingdom all along, of course—to wreck our defenses from the inside out. To give us less hope of fighting him off when the true siege of the city begins.

  My skin burns. My blood pounds through my veins with a terrible fierceness. An unnecessary warning, this time. I can see the threat of things breaking now, as clearly as I ever felt it.

  There is a distinct scent of mildew and mud in the air. A heavy mist falling from a sky that is like a patchwork quilt, the pieces of it trying to rain down through the multitude of seals covering it with varying levels of success, resulting in a mottled, uneven spread of pulsing blacks and purples and blues.

  It is an awful, stomach-turning sight.

  All this time I spent looking up, worried about that Sea-Above and about demanding answers from gods, wishing I could blame them—but the truth is, the evil is down here in the below, infinite and alive, in beating, breathing hearts like mine.

  Too much like mine.

  It wasn’t supposed to be someone like me who did this.

  Makeshift waterfalls pour over the edges of nearly every structure still standing. Debris is everywhere around us: pieces of wood and parts of roofs, broken windows and bedposts, twisted scraps of clothing and shards of decorative pottery. All of it is floating, reduced to a single mass that is churning along in the foamy, dirty water. As we wade our way through, I try not to look too closely at anything. I’m afraid of what—or who—I might recognize. Afraid I may see bodies rolling along among the wreckage.

  But I can’t ignore everything.

  I have to look somewhere. And in my attempts not to see the dead, I have to see the living, and in a lot of ways this is worse. People stare back at me from their destroyed lives as I pass by, peering through the spaces where windows used to be, timidly pushing their way through the water to get a better look. Most of them probably still recognize me, even after what the past weeks have done to my body and face. They’re probably wondering why I’ve bothered to come back now.

  I try not to, but before long, I am wondering the same thing myself.

  Because with every step we manage, with every bit of debris we have to shove from our path, it’s hard not to think that it’s too late to save or protect anything.

  Nobody approaches me as I pass. Nobody says a word. There is only the sound of water, of homes creaking and shifting and swaying on their foundations. Even Finn is silent in a knowing, reverent sort of way, pushing dutifully through the water with his head low. And Atlas—who healed quickly enough from the encounter in the stable, and up until this point had been his normal loud and mischievous self—seems to be following his lead. The quiet invites my gaze to wander, and my thoughts to go with it to equally devastating places. By the time we reach the city’s center, I’ve fought off the urge to cry more than once.

  In the center, the Temple of Sirona still stands, along with the statue of her in front of it. The seals across the violet sky here seem better constructed. The water is not quite knee-deep, not high enough even to reach past her statue’s marble pedestal and lap at her stone feet. Her face is upturned, her gently frozen smile trained on the hill in the distance, where Fane’s palace sits. It is immaculate as always, gold and silver accents shining even in the sky’s hazy light, the flooding waters stretching toward it but not quite reaching.

  I take one last look at the devastation around me, at every surface wet and gleaming like glass.

  Then I narrow my eyes at the palace, and I start toward it.

  I want to storm the gates, but in the end I decide it’s smarter to slip in through the gardens, to avoid causing commotion unless I have to.

  Part of me is hoping, too, that I might run into my sisters here, since this is where we spent so much of our time. I want to see them before I have to deal with anything else. The thought of being face-to-face with them after so long is what keeps me moving so steadily through the halls, pushing through the reservation and dread still clinging to my thoughts. I know the two of them are going to be angry with me. I knew it when I left, when I struggled to write that letter, to try and fit everything I needed to say into just a few pieces of parchment.

  But I don’t care. I still desperately, so desperately want to see them.

  I have no luck; there is no one in the gardens, and as I head inside I’m intercepted only by a pair of Fane’s golden wolves. They scuffle around my feet, sniffing at my ankles, tugging playfully at the hem of my cloak and barking at Atlas, who hisses back and dives and flicks his tail at their heads. The three of them are making such an awful racket that it comes as no surprise when one of the palace guards eventually rounds the corner ahead of us, looking alarmed.

  I slow to a stop, snatch Atlas out of the air and try to shove him underneath my arm and hold him still. The guard starts immediately toward me, but then he takes a closer look, and he stops. I wonder what he is seeing. How different I must really look. I thought I managed to clean most of the dirt and blood from myself on my way here, but the expression on his face says otherwise.

  And I am hyperaware, suddenly, of how out of place I must look amongst these beautiful halls.

  My ragged clothing and snarled and tangled hair doesn’t exactly accent the oil paintings lining the walls, I’m guessing.

  Still, the guard manages a tiny, courteous incline of his head. “Lady Aven,” he begins uncertainly. “Lord Fane…he will want to speak with you.” An obvious statement, but I nod anyway.

  “Yes,” I say in my most proper voice, thinking I should at least attempt to make up for my appearance with my tone. “But first, have you seen my sisters?” Now that I’m inside, the need to see them is quickly becoming unbearable. I can almost hear their laughter echoing, bouncing about the corridor. I can see ghosts of them flitting through it.

  Or I want to hear, to see these things.

  But what if something has happened to them?

  What if I’ve lost them too?

  I force myself to look into the guard’s eyes, to focus on him instead. He has just begun to shake his head when the wolf at my feet gives a sharp bark and bounds forward. The other follows, and I watch the two of them tumbling over each other, snapping and yelping their way down the hall before stopping and sitting obediently at the feet of the person standing there.

  Brynn.

  I know I’ve opened my mouth, formed her name on my lips, but I’m not sure any sound has actually come out.

  “I was wondering what all of that noise was about,” she says.

  I run. She walks. I throw my arms around her, but she doesn’t embrace me back. The wolves and the dragon are in a frenzy around us, excited by my sudden movement. The guard is trying to exert some sort of control over them, grabbing the wolves by their jeweled collars and dragging them away.

  Brynn remains completely, painfully still. Just staring at me. Her eyes aren’t as wide as I remembered. Her skin is paler. She looks older, like an impersonator who hasn’t learned precisely how to capture my little sister’s beautiful movements.

  “I didn’t think you were ever coming back,” she whispers. She hugs her arms to her chest, and
I see a ribbon tied around one of them.

  My eyes rest on it, and I almost smile at this connection we’ve managed to keep, even while I was half a world away. But then I remember that this is the symbol of a rebellion, and now of a complicated war that I don’t want anywhere near her. So in the end, all I manage, in a tired voice, is to nod at it and ask: “You too?”

  “I think I was one of the first,” she says, voice still unusually quiet, and maybe a little bitter when she adds: “I had to keep some piece of you and Eamon alive, didn’t I?”

  My shoulders slump, and I lift my scarred palms helplessly to her. “I’m sorry, Brynn.” I don’t know what else to say. “Please. Forgive me?”

  She studies me for a long, terrible moment. “The sky hasn’t been very forgiving lately,” she finally says. “Or maybe you noticed that on your way in?”

  “Yes.” I glance up at her from underneath lowered lashes. “But you’re not so heartless as that sky, are you?”

  Her features soften the tiniest bit. Just enough to allow me to catch a glimpse of the old Brynn. But then she’s gone again, quick as that. “A lot has changed since you left,” she says in a small voice. And before I can say anything else, she turns on her heel and hurries away from me, her blue-and-silver skirts rustling behind her.

  I am still staring after her when the guard steps back to my side.

  “Go and tell the emperor I’ve arrived,” I say, fists clenching. “And that we need to speak, immediately.”

  Chapter 29

  The memory of my sister’s cold stare lingers as I pace the halls of the palace.

  I am trying to hold on to the rapidly fading belief that, somehow, I will be ready to stop Varick and his full, terrifying army whenever they arrive. That an opposing army might somehow still rise from this flooded city and stand by my side to do it.