by Giles Carwyn
“She’s gone,” someone said. “It’s taken her.”
Faedellin nodded resolutely, taking a deep breath. “Forgive me, Ossamyrlani.” He raised his sword.
She hissed at him.
“Stop!”
Faedellin stopped his blade in midswing. Shara staggered up to him and grabbed his forearm to keep from falling. Her long raven hair hung down on either side of her face, and she gasped for breath as if she had just run the wall.
“Shara-lani,” Faedellin insisted, his sword lowered to point at Ossamyr’s chest. “She is infected. It is a mercy.”
“She is my friend.”
“There is nothing you can do. You can barely stand.”
Shara held up an abrupt hand.
He fell silent.
She turned to Ossamyr and gave a thin smile. “You’re looking a little dark, sister.”
Ossamyr hissed. “I’ll rip your heart out, bitch. The boy is mine. He loved me first.”
Shara took a deep breath. “We’ll worry about that later. But not tonight, not tonight.”
Shara closed her eyes and put a hand on Ossamyr’s chest. Her powerful magic rushed in like a wave. Ossamyr fought back, clinging to her power, clinging to her rage.
You’ve done this before, Shara’s voice said in her head. You can do it again. I am here with you. I will not let the darkness have you.
Ossamyr saw her father crying at her wedding. She felt Phandir’s ribs snap beneath her fingers. She saw the look on Brophy’s face as she betrayed him.
You chose love, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind. Always remember that you chose love at the moment when it mattered most.
With a cry of anguish, she let go of her power, her freedom, and Shara’s magic flooded through her.
Ossamyr began to weep.
CHAPTER 4
A gentle touch pushed at Shara’s shoulder. She opened her eyes and drew a long breath. Her back ached from falling asleep in the chair. A thin ray of sunlight slanted across the infirmary through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating the former Sister of Autumn. Baelandra’s legendary red hair was frosted with snow. Crow’s-feet bordered her lively green eyes, but those eyes still bore the same fire they had a quarter century ago.
Baelandra pressed a steaming cup of Saelen tea into Shara’s hands and sat down on the edge of the bed. Shara thanked her with her eyes as she inhaled the tea’s sleepy aroma. Ossamyr was sleeping peacefully on the bed next to them. The nightmares that had plagued the former queen all night seemed to have faded, at least for the moment.
Faedellin walked up behind Shara’s chair, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. Bae and her husband had come a long way from the Nightmare Battle. Faedellin had once been the gracious and gregarious host at the Midnight Jewel, but that restaurant was long gone and so was that man. Baelandra had abdicated her place on the council a few months after the Nightmare Battle and married Faedellin the next day. Less than a year later, Astor was born. At first Shara thought their marriage was a foolish match, hastily made under the shadow of grief. But nearly two decades down the road, the two were still living life side by side.
Shara loved how the two of them were always together, rarely talking because they always knew what the other was thinking. She had always wanted that with someone. Someday she would have the same thing. Someday soon.
“You fell asleep,” Baelandra said.
“Just a quick meditation,” Shara insisted, looking over at Ossamyr. Her chest rose and fell with a slow, steady rhythm. Her skin was once again bronze and healthy, not black. Not bubbling.
“You’ve been up all night with her?” Baelandra asked.
Shara gave a tired smile. “Actually, I was only up half the night helping Ossamyr. The other half I was wrestling a whale.”
Faedellin chuckled, but Baelandra wasn’t amused.
It had been a grim night. Besides Ossamyr, the infirmary in the Palace of Summer held half a dozen people with broken ribs or dislocated shoulders from trying to pin the whale. Shara had done what she could for the wounded, infusing their bodies with the energy they would need to heal themselves.
“How’s Astor doing?” she asked. Baelandra’s son was in a bed on the far side of the room with a major concussion and deep gash over one eye.
“He’ll be fine,” she said, but Shara could see the lines of worry etched in her face.
“That blackie threw him a long way,” Faedellin added, “but luckily, he landed on his head.”
Baelandra frowned again and pushed the cup of tea toward Shara’s mouth, forcing her to take another sip. The Saelen tea warmed her throat and belly.
“Why don’t you go home?” Baelandra asked. “I’ll take over here. You need sleep just like anyone.”
“We both know that’s not true,” Shara said. “I want to wait until Ossamyr wakes up.” She turned toward the blade lying on the small table next to her. The pommel stone of the Sword of Winter swirled with inky tendrils. “And then there are a few things I need to take care of first.”
“You push yourself too hard,” Baelandra insisted.
Shara looked at her again, and Baelandra finally let the matter drop.
“How is Ossamyr?” Baelandra asked.
Shara stood, taking pains to make the movement seem graceful and effortless, as though she’d slept the entire night. She touched two fingers to Ossamyr’s temple. “She’s resting quietly now, but she’ll wake soon.”
“Good,” Baelandra murmured. “Gavin said Ossamyr was nearly lost. She tried to kill you.”
“The black emmeria tried to kill me,” Shara corrected her. Again, she felt a chill at the speed with which the tainted ani was evolving. It was constantly working to unravel the spell she’d cast around Brophy. It wanted to escape, wanted it more than any mortal could want something. Shara wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it.
Last night had shaken her to the core. She had never seen a corrupted creature of that size. The swath of corruption in the Vastness that started when Copi’s music box broke must have already grown beyond the shore. Shara had always been convinced that they could cleanse it someday. Now she had her doubts. The corrupted were becoming more ferocious, more coordinated, with every attack. They needed a permanent solution. Needed it fast.
Baelandra was silent a long moment. She reached out a hand, and Shara gave her the cup of tea. “Get some rest, please. Do it just to shut me up, if need be.”
Shara smiled. “I’d be happy to, if it would work, but it never does.”
Baelandra gave her a sad smile that turned into a little frown as Faedellin led her to Astor’s bed on the far side of the room.
Shara heard a slight mummer and turned back to Ossamyr. Her eyes fluttered open, and she reached out, groping for something. Shara forced a cup of water into her hand and helped her drink.
Ossamyr barely took a sip before pushing it away. “Wine,” she croaked. “I took your wine…”
“No, water,” Shara insisted, giving her another drink.
“No…You need the message…I’m so sorry…”
Shara gave her a little nudge with her magic, and Ossamyr’s eyes fluttered closed. A few moments later her breathing was rhythmic and steady once again.
With a sigh, Shara picked up the Sword of Winter and headed for the Hall of Windows.
Shara took deep breaths as she made the long climb up the staircase that led to the top of the Hall of Windows. Two perpendicular arches of blue-white marble were the only supports for the vast amphitheater. The rest of the dome was a vast latticework of copper and stained glass that shimmered in the morning sun. She walked toward the rising sun that burnished the clouds yellow and orange. The growing light sparkled across the shifting waters of the bay. Clouds darkened the sky to the east, and the air smelled like rain. A storm was coming and, by the looks of it, it was going to be fierce. Shara cast a quick prayer of thanks to the Seasons that Ossamyr was slumbering in her bed. She wouldn’
t be riding this storm into the teeth of the Silver Islanders. Her crusade would have to wait.
The stairs grew less and less steep as she neared the apex, and soon she could see the smoke from the torch burning atop Brophy’s gazebo. The top of the Hall of Windows had been re-created following Brophy’s sacrifice. Loving artisans had expanded the small platform, which once held four torches burning in constant vigil for the four Lost Brothers. Those torches were long gone, faded into history like the four men who had never come home to see them. The pinnacle of the stained-glass dome now held an elegant gazebo for a different kind of Lost Brother.
As Shara drew closer, she could hear two young Zelani singing. Their voices rose together in the wordless melody that held Brophy in his endless slumber. Those same haunting notes had once come from the silver music box that kept the Child of Efften locked in her eternal slumber. Singing for Brophy was part of a Zelani student’s training, and the best and brightest competed for the honor. Every few hours, when their voices grew tired, two more would climb the staircase to take their places. The tune continued unbroken, day bleeding into night, night into day.
Shara felt her fatigue, but also the undercurrent of exhilaration at another battle won. Their vigil over Brophy hadn’t faltered, not yet.
After that horrible night when Shara barely saved Brophy from a corrupted nightcat, a silver gazebo had been built around Brophy’s bier. At first glance the gazebo appeared to be decorative, but it was the also an enchanted cage that kept Brophy safe from the corrupted. Shara and the silversmiths had incorporated the Heartstone into the structure, using her power to keep Brophy safe and repel anyone or anything with the faintest hint of black emmeria.
The gazebo’s poles curved upward at each of its six corners, and the walls between were a filigree of molded brass that twisted like vines, forming pictures. Scythe stood in one, sword raised to ward off the corrupted. Baelandra knelt in another, hands clutching the Heartstone just before she placed it upon Brophy’s chest. The third and the sixth were arched, locked doors. The fourth wall showed Mother Medew, the silent Ohohhim sword matron, cradling the Child of Efften against her chest. The last depicted Shara, long hair twining behind her, Brophy’s head cradled in her lap. She seemed to look out at the viewer and inward at Brophy at the same time.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the fresh sea air that blew in from the west. Despite her assurances to Baelandra, Shara was painfully tired. She didn’t want to linger this time; she would transfer the corruption into Brophy’s dream and head straight back to the school.
As she drew closer, a solid young woman with blond hair and a round face peered down the steps toward her. Shara didn’t know the girl personally, but the blue and gold tunic made it obvious who she was. Just like the two Zelani who sang the song, four Lightning Swords always guarded the platform as a last line of defense against any threat that slipped past the walls. One of the defenders always held the Sword of Autumn. It never left Brophy’s side, just in case.
Shara nodded to Brophy’s guardians as she reached the top of the hall. They nodded respectfully and stepped aside to let her pass. Shara’s heart caught in her throat when she saw Brophy lying on his bier. It always did.
She walked up to the gazebo and placed her hands against the delicate silver bars. Brophy was dressed in a sleeveless coat of red and gold over a milk-white silk shirt. His curly blond hair shimmered in the sun, shifting as the light breeze played with it. His closed eyelids haunted her. She still remembered those green eyes, intense, quick to shine, quick to mirror the laughter in his face. But that light was lost, hidden beneath darting eyelids.
The four Lightning Swords patrolling outside the cage and the two Zelani singing inside it tried not to stare as she hovered just outside the gazebo door. Shara had grown used to never being alone with Brophy outside the dream. Just as she had grown accustomed to the compassionate pity in everyone’s eyes.
How many hours had she lingered by his side, watching him sleep, holding his hand, telling him things he couldn’t hear? Like a moth to a flame, she seemed drawn to the pain of his presence.
Despite the tumble of years since Brophy’s sacrifice, Shara couldn’t help feeling that time had stopped in Ohndarien. The whole world seemed frozen, unable to move forward until Brophy returned to them. It was like a brief and glorious autumn had passed her by, and she was trapped in an endless winter.
Shara chuckled and shook her head, banishing the too-familiar melancholy thoughts. Fortunately, the irony had never been lost on her, and she could still laugh at herself. The teenaged girl who burned to be free of any father, husband, or cruel-eyed Zelani master had ended up searching half her life for the one man who could make her whole. Despite all this time she still loved him, still longed for his touch more than anything she had ever known.
“Shara-lani?”
Shara blinked twice and turned as Galliana ran up the last few steps of the staircase. Shara must have fallen asleep on her feet. She had no idea how long she had been standing there, but she woke when she felt the girl’s presence on the steps behind her.
The young woman’s black-and-silver gown rippled in the breeze, revealing the length of her young legs. Her platinum blond hair blew back away from her face in the light breeze that presaged the coming storm. The girl’s eyes were dark and intense, easy to mistake for black at a distance. In truth, they were a deep, rich blue.
“Yes, Galliana?”
Shara tried not to have favorites among her students, but her niece always filled her with a special pride. The poor girl fled her home in Faradan after her father beat Shara’s sister to death. She made the perilous journey to Ohndarien all on her own. It was a desperate undertaking for a ten-year-old, but Galliana was an extraordinary young woman, easily the best student of her class.
“I am sorry to bother you, but Issefyn sent me with news,” Galliana said.
“What news?” She looked to the Quarry Wall. Another attack? The bells had not rung.
“Captain Ghafta’s ship has returned from the Southwyldes.”
For a moment, Shara didn’t understand what Galliana was saying, then it rushed in like a hurricane wind.
“The crystal?”
“Yes.”
Shara’s chest swelled, and her hands clenched into fists.
“Mistress Issefyn is speaking with the trader captain now,” Galliana said. “She promised to meet us at the base of the Wheel.”
Excitement thrilled through Shara. She looked down at the swirling black emmeria in the sword’s pommel stone. Suddenly, she had another, more important use for it.
She stole a quick glance at Brophy and couldn’t help grinning. Soon, my love, she thought, soon, and began running down the stairs.
Galliana hurried to catch up with her, and the women’s slippered feet padded down the steep marble stairs side by side. A stumble at this height would surely mean death, but joy lent wings to Shara’s feet. She ached to run, but held herself back for Galliana’s sake.
The girl matched her pace down the stairs, and the two of them headed across the Wheel. They rushed through the verdant gardens splashed with the morning light.
They wound their way around the plateau’s torturously long spiral staircase down toward the quiescent Night Market. Along the way, they passed a group of sailors from Kherif wearing shabby sheepskin vests. The reeling sailors must have been kicked out of the taverns at dawn and decided to explore the city.
The two women rushed past them, and Shara couldn’t help noticing how the men’s gazes fixed on Galliana. Shara couldn’t blame them, the girl was radiant, but it still stung a little.
Shara was still an alluring woman. She still turned her fair share of heads, but they didn’t stare like they used to. Every now and then she missed flaunting that thing that Galliana didn’t even know she had.
Shara could have kept herself young, could have stayed that nineteen-year-old woman who first held Brophy in her arms. It was an advanced spe
ll, but well within Shara’s power. But no matter the years that passed, she would never forget the Wet Cells when Brophy had pulled her back from the edge of self-destruction.
That was the first time she’d truly felt the strength of the black emmeria. That voice was always with her now, always beckoning. One easy step, and she could slip down that slope so quickly she would never know it was happening.
It no longer mattered, though. All of her waiting could end tonight. Her mind raced ahead to the enchantment she would craft. Was everything in place? What could possibly cause a delay?
As they reached the bottom of the steps, Shara spotted Issefyn waiting for them. The older woman’s dark hair curled in ringlets to her shoulders. She turned her gentle brown gaze upon Shara. The two of them grasped hands, and Shara went up on tiptoes to kiss her friend on both cheeks. Issefyn was one of the tallest women Shara had ever met, and her stately bearing made her seem more like a queen than a humble teacher.
“Dignity, child,” Issefyn chided her. “A Zelani does not rush in the bedroom…or out of it.”
Shara laughed at the words she had spoken countless times to red-faced children caught running in the halls of the Zelani school.
“Bugger my dignity,” Shara replied, and Galliana raised her eyebrows. “Have you seen it? Will it work?”
Issefyn nodded. “It is the finest stone we have ever seen. It is everything the merchant promised it would be.”
“Where is it?”
“I have asked the Steward of the Long Market to escort the crate to the school. It will arrive there before we do.”
Shara clenched her teeth before nodding. That made sense. Of course it made sense. Issefyn was always so practical about these matters. Shara would never have been able to run the school without her.
Issefyn’s arrival in Ohndarien six years ago had been an unforeseen blessing. She had grown up on a merchant galley, a direct descendant of mages who escaped the destruction of Efften. Issefyn herself was not a great sorceress. Ninety percent of Shara’s students had more raw talent. The woman simply could not hold a powerful concentration of ani within her body, but that did not stop her from being an excellent teacher. Her knowledge and perceptiveness were unparalleled. She arrived in Ohndarien knowing the broad strokes of all ten of the lost arts of Efften. Over the years, she had taught Shara everything she knew about creating and manipulating ani, and now they worked side by side to expand that knowledge. It had been Issefyn who had taught her the term “ani,” the word the mages of Efften used for the essence of emotion and spirit they molded with their ten schools of magic.