by Devri Walls
Then the sword ceased its attack and pulled back, quivering. Rowan still strained to force the blade down. Beads of sweat sprung along his brow and mixed with the blood on his face, sending red streams that dripped down his neck. And yet the blade did not obey him.
What was going on?
Aja also stared at the sword. His mouth was unable to form any spells without his tongue, but the will to save his son must have been strong enough to garner power over the weapon that threatened Tybolt’s life.
With the symbols destroyed, whatever power Aja had left was his to wield now.
The sword hovered between the two men. Tybolt placed his palms on the ground and pushed, sliding out from beneath. He quickly got to his feet.
Rowan saw him and used one hand to wrap him in magic, rendering him unable to move. Tybolt swore profusely, urging the roots beneath his feet to work faster. He wouldn’t survive this game long. He was in the middle of a war between two masters, and he wasn’t even an apprentice.
Rowan was losing control. Even with half his magic, Aja was stronger.
Tybolt pushed back with his own magic, swearing as he did. The grasp loosened, but Rowan doubled his efforts and jerked him across the room, placing him between his father and Rowan.
Aja now had full control of the weapon and had released it toward Rowan a split second before. The sword increased in speed as Rowan assisted Aja, pulling it in a path toward Tybolt, who was immobile and out of time for a countermeasure. It was over.
The blade sailed straight for him.
After everything he’d done, all would be lost. He’d always assumed he’d be angry when faced with death, but instead he was wrapped in a deep well of sorrow. He’d failed them all.
Tybolt closed his eyes and flinched as the blade touched his chest, so sharp. He felt his skin separate beneath it and waited for that moment when it would cut through muscle and bone. But there was nothing more. He opened his eyes. The sword hovered, tip against his chest. Tybolt took shallow, gulping breaths, worried that anything more would push the blade in farther.
Rowan laughed, first low and then louder. “Go ahead, Aja, put that sword through your son’s heart. I can see how much it’s costing you to hold it back.”
Aja’s skin was pale and his eyes sunken. Tybolt wasn’t sure how long he could maintain this without the added benefit of words.
“His death is inevitable. Your son can’t compete with my power.”
Aja got that look on his face that Tybolt was so familiar with. Defiance, determination, and a resolve that grew from somewhere deep inside him. Aja shoved his arms out, hands wide. The sword jerked away from Tybolt’s chest and turned in midair, flying straight towards his father. He thought for a second that Aja would catch it with one hand, but it was turned the wrong way. It flew forward, blade first.
Aja spread his arms even wider, pushing his chest out and closing his eyes in anticipation. The sword cut through him, burying itself hilt deep.
Tybolt stood speechless. Aja’s eyes fluttered open, and he gave Tybolt one look, a gentle look. A look he’d craved his whole life. Then the stare faded into nothing, and Aja fell forward, dead.
Rowan raced to retrieve the book from the ground and started shouting the spell again. Wisps rose from Aja’s body as he shouted the last words. But as he grasped at the blue cloud that lifted from Aja’s dead body, his fingers slid through the magic. The cloud surged forward, passing through Rowan and heading for Tybolt.
“No!” Rowan screamed. “No!”
The mist enveloped Tybolt, and fire burned through his veins. His eyes rolled back in his head. Power, such immense power. His nerve endings buzzed, and he felt like he was rising above the world. Alistair had said he’d inherited half the power, but this new half was so much more than he’d experienced.
He opened his eyes and looked at the fire dripping from his fingertips. It didn’t hurt. He was burning on the inside too, burning with pure, unadulterated rage. Undiluted with his compassion and love, it rolled through him with a vengeance.
Rowan stood frozen, staring at Tybolt.
“What’s the matter?” Tybolt said, taking a step forward. “Afraid? Without the extra power you stole the first time, you don’t stand a chance, do you?” He didn’t know the incantations, but there was something else he knew—instinct.
Rowan flipped frantically through the pages in the ancient book of spells. Tybolt looked at the worn brown leather and muttered commands. The book flew out of Rowan’s hands. A branch flipped out and pulled the book deep inside the mess of limbs. “You’ve starved children, murdered innocents, and bred a society of hate while you sat above it all feeding on your cruelty.”
“I won’t let you do this,” Rowan snarled, backing away.
“You can’t stop me.” Tybolt stalked forward, a trail of fire smoldering in his wake. “You condemned wizards to death and left them in the Hold to feed your own power stores.”
Rowan stepped over the first white chalk line of the circle.
“You stole my birthright, imprisoned my father!” Tybolt’s voice rose.
A few more steps and Rowan’s foot crossed over the second chalk circle.
“You murdered my sister and my mother!” he shouted. “You have sentenced hundreds to death under false charges, and now I sentence you.” He reached out a hand and sent several fireballs. Rowan turned away and covered his head. The fire smashed down in three places around his feet.
Tybolt pulled his head high, waiting.
Rowan straightened and looked down, laughing. “You missed. All the power of Eriroc and you…” He trailed off as the floor popped and snapped. Cracks and fractures danced around him, and then the floor crumbled. Rowan tried to leap out of the way, but it was too late. The stones gave way and the king vanished.
Tybolt walked forward until the tips of his shoes hung over the edge. The hole was so deep he couldn’t see the bottom, but he heard the faint sound of Rowan’s shouts. He was still falling. The roots that lined the edges writhed and moved, digging at the dirt to create the hole Tybolt had requested. He thought that killing Rowan would satisfy the fury. But the fire wasn’t just running over his skin—it flowed through his veins.
He looked over to the body of his father, a man he’d always hated but never known. Once he’d learned that Aja wasn’t the cause of the Fracture, he’d nursed a desire so secret he’d barely acknowledged it.
He wanted to know his father.
After all those years he had family again, but now he was alone once more. It didn’t matter how many times he killed Rowan—it didn’t snuff out his loss, and it didn’t extinguish the hate. He stared back down the hole, his hands clenched so hard at his side that blood dripped through his fingers and splattered at his feet.
“Tybolt!”
He turned to see Auriella standing at the door with Alistair at his side. She stared at him in silence, and he wondered what she saw. A wizard? An enemy? Could she still see him through it all?
Asher started coughing, and for the first time Tybolt realized the room was full of smoke.
“The village!” Asher cried, still pinned beneath the candelabra. “It’s burning to the ground!”
“Asher.” Tybolt ran for him. He crouched and wrapped his fingers around the metal ring. He hefted, but he could barely lift it a few inches. Asher yelled and then grunted, biting down on his fist. Before Tybolt could call for help, Auriella was there, lifting with him. “Push,” Tybolt panted. They both leaned into the candelabra and slid it across the floor until it was clear of Asher, whose leg was clearly broken in at least two places.
Auriella grabbed Tybolt’s arm. “I’ll stay with him. You have to call rain—nothing else can stop this fire.”
Tybolt could feel the color draining from his face. Yes, he had power and some instincts—but when he thought about calling storms, it was nothing but a blank slate. “I don’t know how,” he whispered.
“That’s why I brought Alistair.” She ran to Asher, falling at his kn
ees. She immediately began examining the leg.
Alistair? Tybolt vaguely remembered seeing him next to Auriella, but where was…he looked over his shoulder.
Through the smoke, he saw Alistair kneeling next to his brother. His hands went out several times, almost touching Aja’s face, hair, the sword protruding from his chest. But Alistair pulled back each time, hands shaking. Tybolt wanted to give him time to mourn, but there wasn’t any. He ran over.
“Alistair,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but I need your help.”
“What happened?”
“He killed himself to give me his power…I think.”
Alistair nodded. “That sounds like him.”
“We can talk about Aja for as long as you like after you help me call a storm. Please, before the entire village is lost.”
“I don’t know if I can help you, but I’ll try.” He got to his feet, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
“Try?”
“It’s all I can offer.” He looked deep into Tybolt’s eyes. “There are no incantations for weather magic. Nature responds to its master. The trees already have chosen and bow willingly. The weather must do the same.”
“But…”
“Close your eyes, boy. Think. Feel.”
Tybolt did as he was asked, but inside was a raging torrent of emotions he’d never dared release. It was all he could think of, all he could feel. The fire increased, and he opened his eyes to see flame dripping from his fingertips once more. It was the most horrific, all consuming feeling he’d ever experienced, and he understood for the first time how hate turned men into monsters. A tear dripped down his cheek, evaporating before it reached his nose, and he looked to his uncle. “Help me.”
“You must release it.”
“I don’t know how.” Images and pictures flashed through his mind, and fury roared in response, churning through his stomach.
“You have to want to return to yourself, Tybolt. This is not you. You have to see the hope and beauty you always saw. You have to find your humor. It has saved you before.”
Tybolt took deep breaths through his nose, sorting through his own mind, trying to find something to hang onto. He needed a raft, a savior, something to pull him from the depths of despair—the immensity of which he hadn’t known existed.
His understanding of his fellow Hunters finally came into realization, and he took a calming breath. Through everything he’d experienced, he’d never understood his own kind, no matter how many times they’d explained. But now he felt compassion. They lived with these feelings and yet somehow rose above them. Some even learned to let go. He looked over to Asher and Auriella. Their own goodness had overcome the dark.
Love burst through the flames, and his heartbeat slowed.
“You’ve found it,” Alistair whispered.
Tybolt closed his eyes and called out to the clouds, the wind, the rain. He begged and pleaded with the intent of saving all those he loved. There was a tug in his gut, reminiscent of what he felt when controlling the trees. The tug increased to a rush of energy, and then the thunder rumbled. Tybolt pushed harder, feeding energy and magic as he walked towards the window. The tree retreated and pulled to the side, seeming to know what Tybolt wanted to see.
Banks of purple clouds rolled in. His first instinct was fear, which was laughable as he was now controlling it. This was no longer a curse, but a blessing. No more Fractures, just life-giving rain. He imagined the moisture flowing over the island.
Soon after, the pitter patter of rain dappled the leaves on the tree, and then the downfall came. He called more and more, until it was a sheet of water so thick he could barely see through it. The cries outside turned to excitement and joy.
“That’s enough, boy,” Alistair said from behind him. “Release it. The storm will do what you willed, and then it will move on.”
“Are you sure?” Tybolt asked through deep breaths.
“I’m sure.”
The village had been heavily damaged, and rebuilding had only just begun. It would take months at least, especially now that trade had been cut off from Deasroc. A little physical persuasion of the captain on his next delivery gave Tybolt all the information he needed to know about Rowan and about the arrangement he’d made with the King of Deasroc.
But that wasn’t the important part. The important part was that his people had hope now, something they hadn’t had in a very long time.
Even better was watching villagers, Hunters, and wizards working alongside each other. Frequent spats had to be negotiated, but Tybolt felt confident that they would decrease in time and old prejudices would heal.
Tybolt had insisted that the Royal quarters be moved elsewhere in the castle. He simply would not stay in the same room where Rowan had murdered so many. He still had a balcony and now leaned over the rail, resting his elbow on the metal and holding Auriella’s hand.
Her skin was soft and her presence a balm, a balm he’d never known he was in need of. But after everything he’d been through, she was the only thing he wanted. He cleared his throat. “How’s your father?”
“Recovering.” She smiled softly. “It’s been nice having him so close. His blacksmithing will suffer without his finger but he says he’ll make due.”
“And how’s Asher?” These were easier questions than the one he really wanted to ask her.
“Same as when you saw him yesterday, hobbling around and cursing his leg.” She shook her head, and her dark hair moved across her shoulders. “I keep telling him that a week is not long enough to heal broken bones, but he seems to think that Hunter’s blood should be strong enough to make up the difference.”
Tybolt chuckled lightly, but his mind was elsewhere. “Coronation is tomorrow.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Almost as strange as all the green.” He watched the beginning of new leaf growth wave in the breeze.
“I don’t know. A Hunter turned wizard being crowned as king—that might be stranger.”
He wanted to laugh, but his nerves bubbled up and cut it off.
She nudged his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I…I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
A bang sounded and they both jumped, whirling around to face the intruder. The wine he’d ordered ran across the floor and beneath the feet of a sheepish looking Malachi. “Oops.”
“I thought I moved you to head of the kitchen?” Tybolt sighed. So I didn’t have you carrying things around anymore.
“I know, but this was special. I wanted to make sure that…” He looked at the empty cups. “It was as special as it could be.” His shoulders slumped.
“Special?” Auriella raised an eyebrow. “What’s he talking about?”
Malachi’s head popped back up. “You haven’t asked—”
“Malachi!” Tybolt scrubbed his hands over his face, half laughing. “You can go now.”
Auriella turned to him. “What’s he talking about?”
Tybolt ran his hand under her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek. He leaned over and kissed her. His lips lightly brushed hers, soft at first and then more desperate. She took his bottom lip between her teeth, barely nibbling. He smiled and leaned back, taking a deep breath.
“I can’t do this alone, Auriella. I need…” He knelt and grabbed her hand. “I need a queen by my side. Auriella Doshire, I love you. Will you marry me and be my Queen?”
She stared at him for long enough that he started to squirm. “You do know that I always swore I wouldn’t marry the king?”
“I don’t recall that exact wording,” he stammered.
“I’m fairly certain.”
“Maybe, but—”
She held a finger to his lips and grinned. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”
THE END
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