Dream of Darkness and Dominion

by Hilary Thompson

  Thrashing against them, Resh could only pray they weren’t poisoned.

  The rope yanked him to his knees, ripping another agonized yell from his lips as the thorns tore past his armor and his tunic, shoving straight into his skin.

  Somewhere behind him, a witch cackled with glee, and Resh went numb with fear.

  Not of death.

  He’d never feared death. Or pain.

  He feared being wrong. He wasn’t capable of fighting witches after all. Not without magic to counter theirs.

  Desperation bubbled in his chest as he realized how much he feared never seeing Coren again, never feeling the touch of her delicate fingers or the brush of her incredible feathers. He feared never running the plains of Weshen Isle with her, tumbling her in the tall grass, and kissing the pride from her smile. He feared never showing her just how he could follow, and how he could help her lead.

  As his blood ran freely, Resh stumbled back to his feet, swearing a prayer of pleas. If he made it through this, he would listen to Coren. He would let her battle in Rurok while he stayed here. Pride was worth nothing in the face of death.

  Thoughts and memories flashed and swirled through his shadow-edged mind as another vine dropped his body back on the forest floor, the crackling of the burning tree leaves loud in his ears as he stared up at them. He closed his eyes against the shadow siphoning his life away, expecting the slice of a witch’s blade at any second.

  But it was no witch who knelt beside him.

  Or, rather, it was no Brujok.

  “I’m here, but Resh, you have to live through this,” Coren whispered, her voice pleading. The rich gray and white swath of her feathers cupped the air around them, forming a shadowed wall. Her voice was a glittering braid of anger and guilt and worry and hope, and it lashed at him. “Swallow your pride and let me protect you because if something happens to you, I will never make it. I’d tear myself apart with blame. So, let me lead.”

  The last words were fiercer than Resh thought she meant them to be, but his heart jumped in his chest at the look in her eyes.

  “I always lead,” he managed to joke, but the blood bubbling into his throat made him a liar. He wasn’t leading now unless it was the number of wounds. Really, the only thing he’d ever managed to lead well were the summer girls into his bed.

  Coren had never been one of those, and no matter what form she took, he knew that was one of the biggest reasons he loved her.

  Yes, by the Magi. He stared into her gold-flecked eyes and realized the magnitude of his emotion for this woman.

  Her shifter magic dissipated the vines with ease, their thorns dissolving to nothing more than dust coating his bloodied skin. Even the deeper punctures began to knit together with a touch of her power.

  She wiped his lips carefully with a ripped portion of her tunic, and his bloodied hand clutched the skin of her throat, sliding down the sweat-slick column to rest at her collarbone. A gold glint sparked as she looked down at him, and for a split second, he saw the Vespa peeking from behind her human skin. Its vertical pupils shimmered behind her round ones, and its cold gaze chilled his fervor to be needed.

  “Let me protect you,” she murmured again, her eyes drifting closed as his fingers stroked back up and pulled her face down to his. Their foreheads touched, sweat and blood and sweet breath mingling in the drowsy world she’d created inside her wings.

  “Coren!” Sy’s shouted plea raised them from their reverie, and Resh realized how close he’d come to slipping into unconsciousness.

  Coren cocked her ear to the noise outside, and before Resh could move a muscle in protest, she’d scooped her arms beneath him and hugged him tight. Then her great wings parted with a thud, knocking a sneaking Brujok sideways into a thick trunk. Coren planted her feet on either side of Resh, and his stomach sank as he saw the twist of a smile at the corner of her lips.

  “Coren, no! No-”

  His voice was lost in the rush of air as she shoved them both off the ground and into the air above the battle. Resh’s stomach lurched and somersaulted as her wings beat them higher in the sky than humans were meant to go.

  He was going to be sick. All over her beautiful blue armor and her Magi-cursed wings.

  “You can do this,” she whispered in his ear, her lips tickling his neck and edging away his fear the tiniest bit. Her wings ate up the ground beneath them, and within seconds, they were far from the fray, whooshing toward the solid stone towers of StarsHelm and the safety of the palace walls.

  Dropping gently to the ground just inside the keep, Coren propped Resh against the wall. She called to a nearby medic who rushed toward them, bag in hand.

  “Wait for me here, and I’ll give you the rest later,” she said, a spark of mischief in her eyes. Before he could quite figure out her meaning, she leaned in to press a kiss to his slack mouth. Resh took the kiss greedily, using the last of his strength to tell her the things words were useless for.

  She broke away reluctantly and rose, spreading her wings.

  “As long as the rest isn’t more flying,” Resh cried out hoarsely as she shot into the air once more. She was gone in an instant, a single iridescent feather drifting down like a silent kiss landing on him.

  Chapter 23

  A STORM HAD BEEN THREATENING Weshen Isle all day, and now thunder crackled and boomed, shaking the very cliffs surrounding the women’s village. Lightning snaked across the navy sky, nearly horizontal.

  Nik stood before the window of Lorenya’s home, peering through a narrow crack, so the rain wouldn’t blow inside. He was thankful not to be out alone in such a mess. As they often did, his thoughts turned to Sy, Coren, Resh, even the family Coren tried so hard to keep safe. Had they all made it out of Sulit alive?

  Nik wanted to believe he would feel it in his soul if something had happened to Sy, but all he felt was the dull ache of worry.

  He never had heard anything back from his friend in Sulit, and he feared she was surely one of the casualties of the Sulit witch wars.

  Rain lashed against the window and walls, beating a staccato tap on the roof above. In the bedroom beyond, one of the children woke and began to cry. Nik turned, but he heard Lorenya’s soft murmuring voice, soothing the little girl back into sleep.

  Nik knew he needed to sleep, too. The wind was so fierce he feared there may be damage in the morning from the storm. He wanted to earn his keep in more ways than just teaching magic. Since returning to the island, more of the women had been accepting of him, more of them grateful for his help in learning their magic.

  There were always those few who resisted, or who wanted more than he could give. He couldn’t bring back the pride and confidence they’d lost to the King, and he couldn’t find magic where magic had never been.

  Nik rubbed at his eyes and fastened the window closed, kneeling and curling onto the pallet in the corner of the kitchen. Lorenya had offered to place a real bed in their sleeping room many times, but it seemed like such an intrusion.

  And he worried he would wake them with his nightmares. They still came every night, and likely they always would.

  Nik curled his fingers around the palm-sized stone house he’d made as a sort of talisman to keep him connected to his future. A tiny house like the one he hoped to build and live in someday when Sy returned and the world was whole again. Like most nights, Nik fell asleep using his trick of imagining each piece of the house, source by source and board by board.

  Sometime in the night, though, his dreams shifted into nightmares, and the house turned into a body. Instead of the body being built, some dark magic was taking it apart, ripping away piece by agonizing piece.

  The body burned dark in his mind, seething in the curling clutches of magic that was too strong to resist.

  The body was small. Too small for all the screams.

  Nik cried out, wanting to stop the destruction, but still the magic moved.

  “Nik! Nikesh!”

  The voice jolted him from sleep, and he blinke
d into the fire-bright chaos of Lorenya’s kitchen. Too many little bodies crowded his pallet and too many large ones. Too much noise.

  Too much fear and confusion.

  Someone shook his shoulders as he moved to sit, and his panicked eyes were drawn to a tiny person in the kitchen, hovering in the air before him, just at his eye level.

  Her skin was as transparent as lace, and her shrieks were as sharp as the invisible knife cutting the pieces away.

  Her blood was outside her body. So much of it, too much of it, hanging suspended in the air in droplets and arcs that somehow looked poetic, like a painting made with obsessive love.

  The girl. As Nik recognized Lorenya’s baby, sleep sloughed from his mind like the tearing away of a scab. He scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking as he realized this dark magic was his.

  His dream had become reality, but this reality was more nightmarish than he’d ever dreamed. Above the baby’s chest bloomed a flower of blood-red petals. It was a gruesome, twisted version of the flowers he had made for her dozens of times before.

  Nik squeezed his eyes shut and wrenched the magic back inside himself with a shout. He rushed to fill her veins and smooth her skin, so careful to make her whole and beautiful again.

  And the whole time, he never stopped praying to the Mirror Magi that he could reverse this betrayal and she would live.

  Please let her live.

  These women and children had taken him into their care, like sheep tending a wounded wolf. He’d shown his true teeth today, and now a child may die for it.

  Nik clamped down on that thought and worked harder. He could save her. She wasn’t dead yet.

  The baby’s screams echoed in Nik’s mind longer than they did in the narrow room. Lorenya sat huddled on the floor, rocking the girl close to her chest, shushing her shuddering breaths. The older children edged behind her, casting fearful glances to Nik as the firelight danced on the walls, teasing him with thoughts of Shadow come to collect its payment.

  Surely, Nik owed the creature something, else why would it keep coming and coming?

  Nik knew those screams would always echo in the hollow spaces of his heart. Fingers gripped his shoulders and shook him. Like they wanted to shake the life from him, and he would let it happen. He deserved it. He had nearly killed a child with his wild magic.

  He could no longer control the darkness - it was controlling him.

  He needed to leave this place.

  The cries around him seemed louder, more insistent, and the shaking turned violent.

  Nik welcomed it. He slumped farther in his attacker’s grip.

  “Nik. Nikesh, she’s okay.”

  The words filtered into his brain, but their syllables sat there like meaningless sounds from another language.

  “Nik.”

  The sting of a flat palm against his cheek pushed his eyelids open, and he saw Lorenya’s face close to his.

  He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to the mother of the child he may have just killed. But what could he possibly say? He shouldn’t be here. The child should be, and he shouldn’t.

  “Nik,” she said, her voice growing softer, her hands gentler. “The baby’s okay. She’s alive. She’s not hurt.”

  The words made enough sense that he finally slid his eyes to where the girl’s body rested in the arms of the oldest child. The others huddled around her, stroking her face, squeezing her chubby hands, kissing her temple.

  Her eyes opened and met his.

  Tears glistened on her fat cheeks, but she breathed without trouble. There was no more red blood in the air, or the floor, or hovering above her chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” Nik whispered, his lips cracking as they formed the words.

  “She’s okay,” Lorenya repeated. But Nik knew the child would never be okay again. None of them would. Who could see such a thing happen, or live through so much pain and terror, and actually be okay?

  Obviously, he couldn’t.

  “Are you okay?” Lorenya asked, helping him sit on his pallet. He leaned back against the wall, sagging against the weight in his chest.

  She kept staring at him, so he nodded, hoping she bought the lie.

  A plan was already forming - one that would take his dangerous magic far away from those he cared for.

  He’d taught the women enough that they could explore the rest of their powers themselves. He would write notes, leaving them for Lorenya. He would take some food, a boat, and what clothes he had.

  He would leave the women and children of Weshen Isle, and he would do it tonight.

  This sort of thing could never happen again. Next time, it could be worse. And there would be a next time. Nik was certain of it.

  He blinked around the room, taking in its familiar warmth and comfort. If a place of kindness couldn’t heal him, perhaps he needed a harsher environment. He definitely needed to be alone, where he couldn’t hurt anyone but himself.

  Maybe by the time Sy returned, Nik would be able to return as well.

  He pushed his fingers into his pocket, feeling for the worn paper holding a promise he feared he’d never see come true.

  “I’m okay,” he lied, his voice stronger.

  EVEN TWO DAYS AFTER the battle, Resh’s movements were still stiff, and he hated each step of weakness. He knew Coren or Sy could have shifted the rest of his muscle and skin together again after the damage from the thorns, but he’d felt too disgraced to wait. Instead, the medics had stitched and stitched, until Resh looked more like a child’s rag doll than himself.

  He would bear some of the scars forever, he knew. It was fitting, as his pride was now just as scarred. Weshen Paladins were supposed to be the best, and he hadn’t been good enough. Coren had been right, without magic he was more of a liability than an aid.

  So, he’d agreed to stay in StarsHelm when the armies left. He made plans to watch Cusslen and spy on Gernant and search the library for information on Sy’s incurable curse. And as soon as he had been able, he’d filled Gernant’s requests for blood.

  The task was easy with Sy, who bled almost nightly from the torture of the King’s curse.

  Jyesh, he simply drugged using Dain’s special wine, opening the boy’s vein when he slumped in his throne, the crown sliding to the side of his head. The useless Weshen had again evaded the witches’ attack, claiming he was better needed in the medic tent, closing wounds.

  Resh doubted he’d even done much of that. By the time Jyesh had arrived next to his own bed, Resh already resembled a patchwork quilt.

  But none of that mattered now because he was here at Gernant’s office, and it was time to grasp his future with both hands. Resh greeted the man with a smile, and he was rewarded with something probably as close as the alchemist could manage.

  He withdrew the two vials of bright red blood from his pocket, and Gernant’s lips stretched farther. He snatched the payment from Resh.

  “Close your eyes. I will bind them shut until we are in my workroom,” Gernant instructed. “I don’t trust you,” he added.

  “Fair enough,” Resh said, closing his eyes. He didn’t trust Gernant, either, but he’d reached the point where desperation trumped trust. He needed this magic - for himself, and to protect Coren. He would deal with the repercussions as they came.

  The Sulit spell slipped over his lashes, reminding him how Mara had sealed his lips in Rurok. Creaks and movement sounded, echoing around the office, and Gernant finally grasped his arm.

  “This way.”

  Resh walked carefully, making sure each foot was well-placed before he put his weight on it. He noted how many steps he took, and in what direction, creating a mental map of Gernant’s secrets. He knew the Lord was using him, and he intended to return the favor.

  “Down the stairs,” Gernant warned, resting Resh’s arm on a railing.

  They descended a full flight. Resh heard the metallic click of a key in a lock, and he noted the change in temperature and a hint of must, like moss grown over
stone in a vault.

  “My laboratory has always been hidden from certain people,” Gernant said, taking Resh’s arm again. “Even Graeme only knew parts of my research. The other Lords and Ladies have never been allowed where you are and only a select few Generals over the years. Not Watersend,” he added, chuckling.

  Resh didn’t respond, assuming Watersend had never been wholly loyal to Mara. He was playing with the other side here, and he was fine with that. Just like Resh had always assumed witches were liars, he would do the same for Gernant and anyone else who professed a commitment to Mara and Zorander.

  This didn’t mean he couldn’t learn their ways or use them to his advantage.

  He did wonder why Gernant was so eager to share with him, but he assumed this would play out in due time. For now, Resh would assume the blood payment and the ability to show off was enough motive.

  The spell faded from his eyes, and he opened them slowly, adjusting to the unusual brightness of the underground room.

  “I hope you’re ready for a lesson and not simply a weapon,” Gernant warned.

  Resh nodded. “If all I wanted was a weapon, I would have stolen some from the armory. I’ve already been into the green room and seen the talismans and enhanced armor.”

  Gernant chuckled. “Sly one, you are. And how much of this have you told your lovely Queen?”

  “She likes surprises,” Resh hedged.

  “She fears alchemy.”

  “She fears the loss of our people,” Resh corrected. Though perhaps Coren did fear alchemy. He had feared shifter magic for so long, even Sulit spells, because he understood none of it.

  “I don’t need to kill a person to harvest their magic, but I admit some of my experiments have certainly resulted in the death of the volunteer.”

  Resh snorted at the word. He didn’t believe for a moment Gernant had found willing participants. But none of this was pertinent to his goals today. “What lessons do you have for me?”

  Gernant pulled a chair from behind a low desk and settled himself in it. He waved toward a bench, and Resh obliged, edging around the table in the center of the room. It was waist high and outfitted with straps to hold a person’s wrists and ankles and a band that could go around a head. He hoped Gernant would take his time getting to those.