by Jamie Foley
Vylia clutched the neck of her tunic, glancing from Tekkyn’ashi to Sa’alu and back again. Which threads were true in the tapestry of lies?
“Corruption at the highest level. You are just covering for him because he’s your progen—”
Sa’alu abruptly cut himself off, but no one had interrupted him. Vylia watched his face twist from rage to confusion.
Then he looked directly at her.
Her heart hiccupped as Sousuke moved to block Sa’alu’s view of her. Ryon maneuvered between them as well.
“It seems your mind is ill, Lieutenant,” Oda’e said smoothly. “I will forgive your insubordination this once. Do not try me again.”
Silence stretched thin. Vylia wished she could see what was happening but didn’t move from behind Sousuke’s back.
Finally, Oda’e spoke again. “For what urgent reason did you burst in here?”
Sa’alu’s voice sounded shaken, unsteady. “Queen Illiana of the Emberhawk has arrived, sir. She requests an audience with you immediately.”
“To the Alliance!”
Brooke raised her glass and smiled as Coriander’s men cheered and drank. She hoped she’d made the right decision to commit her best Phoera-skilled soldiers to Coriander’s cause. They’d take the throne at Quin’Zamar with stealth, striking and succeeding before Illiana knew what hit her, and removing and replacing the young queen overnight with the rightful royal family. By the time the Emberhawk army awoke the next day, they’d have a new leader, and they’d probably be happier for it.
Minimum loss of life. Minimum Katrosi involvement. Minimum risk.
Heron’s stare burned Brooke from across the table. She didn’t meet it.
Yes, it could be considered an act of war if any of Brooke’s men were discovered. Yes, the cost of failure was high. Yes, it gambled with another conflict from the west at a time when the Malaano could strike from the east at any moment.
But somehow, it felt right. From the elder’s prophecy to the sincerity of Coriander’s claim to the vigor of his men. It seemed like a danger worth courting, when the reward was so great. Nothing good came to those too afraid to take risks—only entropy. Her father had taught her that.
Brooke stared into her bowl of tuber soup and randomly wondered how she’d have died if she hadn’t left Jadenvive that night and the elder’s prophecy had come true.
“If only the people back home loved you as much as these guys do.”
Nariellyn’s voice startled Brooke from her musing. “Hmm?”
“That smile got stuck on your face. Super creepy.”
Brooke took a sip of the cocoa-infused brew, then thought better of taking a full drink. She tried not to grimace through the bitter taste as she set the mug down next to her plate of grilled vegetables, chopped spicy meat, and flatbread beside the soup. “Sorry.”
From her peripheral vision, Brooke could tell that Nariellyn was examining her. “Something wrong?” the healer whispered. “You know I didn’t mean it.”
Brooke tried to shake the uneasy feeling, but it clung to her like a faceless shadow. “I, uh . . .” She dared a glance at Heron, who’d returned to his meal, and Lysander, who awkwardly attempted to play with his niece and nephew at Iraleth’s side. I need your help, she thought-spoke to Nariellyn.
Her friend now looked even more concerned. Anything.
Brooke slowly spooned some meat into her flatbread. I . . . think I like Lysander.
Nariellyn whooped, but no one seemed to notice amid the noisy celebration.
Stop it! Brooke could feel her face heating and suddenly wished they’d had more time to apply her warpaint in addition to her headdress. Maybe the chalk and charcoal could have helped to hide her embarrassment.
How do I stop it? I’m engaged to another man.
Nariellyn’s joy turned to bubbly laughter. You’re asking the wrong person.
I know, but . . . Brooke slapped a spoonful of peppers on top of her meat. You’re the only other female on my team right now.
Nariellyn didn’t stop giggling. Sorry, but I don’t know how to undo my flawless matchmaking.
This is serious, Nari! Brooke returned the smile of a drunk soldier across the table, folded her bread, and took a bite. If you don’t want me to be miserable for the rest of my life—that’s what you said, right?—then help me. The last time I tried to stop liking him, it didn’t work out.
No kidding!
She was still laughing, curse her. Brooke elbowed her in the side.
Okay, okay! Nariellyn took a long drink. Really though, I don’t think it’s possible to stop loving someone. At least, I’ve never heard of it. Only time can break the spell. Except in your case, apparently.
Bleed it all. Brooke let the spice sear her tongue and down her throat, but it didn’t dull the trepidation in her heart. I’m a thought-speaker; shouldn’t I be able to control my own emotions?
Did you ever pay attention to the elder in aether training? Nariellyn thought. A thought-speaker isn’t the same as a courage-singer. Thoughts and emotions are different, and your gifting is with thoughts.
Regardless, I’m cheating on my fiancé with these stupid feelings, and I have to stop. Brooke sighed and took another bite. Why in the green forests are you so happy, anyway? Didn’t you admit that Lysander was toxic? Why do you want me to be with him?
Nariellyn took a huge bite of her pita. How toxic is he now, would you say, on a scale of one to Heron?
Nari, please. I just want to do the right thing, and I don’t know what to do. Please stop laughing and help me for once.
Oh, I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s spicy. Nariellyn clanked her dinner knife on a stoneware bowl that held the hottest, brilliant orange peppers. And I’ve already helped in more ways than you know.
Brooke grunted in frustration as she tugged at the pins that fastened her headdress to her hair. The elaborate assortment of horns, fangs, tail-spikes, and feathers was impossible to put on without Nariellyn’s help, but Brooke had assumed she could manage to take it off by herself. How wrong she was.
Still, Brooke was glad that her friend was staying late for more drinks after dinner and likely flirting with every other soldier. They hadn’t had much to feast about recently. And knowing Nariellyn, she’d probably shrivel up if too much time passed between parties.
Meanwhile, Brooke was looking forward to that coveted rest and time alone. If she had to do that with her headdress on, so be it.
Her mind repeated the fresh memories of the dinner celebration. How good it felt to have something go right for once. And how oddly easy it seemed! She felt grateful to find such like-minded people in a foreign land—people who only wanted righteousness and integrity from their leadership.
Brooke sighed as she gave up on removing her headdress without removing half of her hair with it. Could she ever be happy like Nariellyn again? Could she ever have an adorable young family like Coriander’s?
Heron didn’t fit in that mental image, no matter how she tried. Maybe he could change with time. Be a good father.
The thought soured her tongue.
Or . . . what if she could find a way out of her engagement? And somehow avoid political repercussions . . .
Maybe she could use aether-fabricated emotions and thoughts to make Heron disgusted with her. Make him back out of the marriage.
She hated manipulation.
But could it be worth it? Would the Darkwood join the Alliance if the Emberhawk did, even without the marriage alliance?
The tent flap swished open behind her with a soft sound of leather on fur.
“You’re back earl—” Brooke stopped herself as she turned and saw Heron standing there instead of Nariellyn. Staring at her. Up and down.
His head drooped forward until his gaze became a lazy glare. His forehead beaded with sweat. Fists clenched. “Why do you pretend that I’m not here?”
Brooke took a step back, grateful that she hadn’t changed into her night clothes yet. “Yo
u just barged into a woman’s room without—”
“Oh, you’re a woman now? I thought you were a leader.”
Brooke watched him as if he were a rabid bear. She was used to such insults. Better to respond with something that calmed him rather than start a fight—the fight he apparently wanted.
“Sometimes it is a struggle to be both,” she said.
Heron took a step toward her. “That’s why I’m trying to help you.” His speech slurred. “I was born and raised to be a leader. Why don’t you listen to my advice?”
“I listen,” Brooke said, holding her ground as the smell of ale on his breath wafted toward her. “I grew up watching my father lead, just as you did.”
“You weren’t trained from birth like I was. You were just the chief’s daughter to be married off to that deaf snake.” He took a step toward her and bumped into one of the small tables, wobbling a miniature horse atop it.
Brooke couldn’t tell if he’d said “dead snake” or “deaf snake,” but she assumed he was referring to Lysander. Her mind grasped for a response, but he continued.
“I can help you avoid stupid decisions like . . .” Heron whirled his arms to encompass the air in general. “This. Why won’t you listen to me, your life-mate? You treat me like a child.”
Brooke steeled herself. He was clearly drunk. She wouldn’t stand for this.
“We’re not married yet,” she said. “I think you should leave. We can talk in the morning.”
Heron stared at her with glassy eyes for a long moment as his frown fell into a scowl. “I don’t take orders from you. And I’ve already made plans to fix everything.” He smiled wickedly. “You’re welcome.”
He lunged at her.
Brooke stepped back, but there was little space to dodge. She ducked for Nariellyn’s hammock as Heron’s hand clamped like a vise around her bicep. He threw her to the floor.
Feathers in her headdress snapped, protecting Brooke’s head from slamming onto the wood platform. She wrenched away from Heron as he came down on top of her. Training from ground-sparring leaped into the forefront of her mind, but Heron wasn’t sparring. He grabbed one of her wrists and wrenched it hard enough to strain her joint.
Brooke kneed him in the gut, but the only response was a grunt. She kicked at his groin, but he blocked her with his knee.
She reached for her knife sheath with her spare hand. Heron’s eyes flicked at the movement, and he jerked her arm up, forcing her hand out of weapon’s reach.
Brooke twisted, trying to throw his balance sideways and gain the advantage.
She couldn’t. Her training failed her.
He was too heavy. Too strong.
“You are mine.” Heron’s breath felt hot on her neck. “I’m going to put you in your place, and you’ll learn to like it.”
Something didn’t feel right.
The way Heron had come to Lysander and Dimbae’s tipi and pretended to act friendly. How he’d said a lot of words that meant nothing.
Lysander had only heard Heron’s drunken thoughts, which were somehow more boisterous yet harder to comprehend at the same time. All Lysander knew was that Heron was up to no good. But what else was new?
He took another long drink of tea, then watched the steam dance upward from his cup. He just couldn’t figure it out. What was Heron’s aim? Why try to be civil now—after days of making it abundantly clear that they loathed each other?
Heron was probably just a friendly drunk. Nothing else made sense.
Lysander!
He nearly spilled his tea. That was Brooke’s voice, louder in his head than he’d ever heard it. But so terrified and desperate that he hardly recognized her.
Help me!
Lysander shot to his feet, and the world spun. Darkness claimed the edges of his vision, creeping inward for more. His knees weakened, threatening to send him back down to the earth.
He gasped as hot tea sloshed over his fingers. What . . . ?
He knew this feeling. Sudden, inexplicable exhaustion. The feebleness of his muscles even as adrenaline surged. The dry, tacky sensation on his tongue he hadn’t noticed before.
Lysander’s pulse drummed through his skull as he looked down at the tea. He didn’t need to inspect it to know it had been spiked with dreamthistle.
Heron had poisoned him.
Lysander’s hand shot for the vial of antidote on his bandoleer.
Empty. He’d given it all to Brooke.
And the new concoction he’d made for her that afternoon wasn’t strong enough. He downed it anyway, coughing as he swallowed the herbs dry. It would have to let him stay alive long enough to help Brooke. Then he’d have to make it to Granny Zelle’s pyramid for the missing reagent. Without dying first. Somehow.
He had built up a resistance to dreamthistle as he’d worked with planting and harvesting its toxic roots, but all that would gift him was a little more time. It would have to be enough.
Lysander stumbled through the tent flap and found Brooke and Nariellyn’s tipi, squinting at the sunset beyond the jungle trees. Brooke’s thought-voice had come from that direction, and her aether presence shone like a beacon of horror.
His breath came in gasps, and his heart spread more poison with every beat. He reached out for the Phoera element to mask the noise he must be making as he ran. It responded like fire in his blood, roaring with his own fear and urgency and rage.
Lysander blinked away the darkness and steadied his swaying as he slipped inside the tipi.
Heron had Brooke pinned on the floor, crushing her with his weight as he yanked at her tunic. She clawed for his eyes but he captured her wrists in a single hand. A tear slipped from Brooke’s wide eyes as they flicked to Lysander, pleading for help.
Lysander drew his dagger, took two long strides, and stabbed Heron in the back.
Heron’s body clenched, frozen in the pain of death as Lysander’s blade struck true. A silent strike for a swift assassination.
Lysander removed his dagger and kicked Heron off of Brooke. Heron rolled under the hammock, his eyes and mouth twitching in his final moments.
Brooke scrambled to her feet and pushed her back into the tipi’s wall as if it could protect her. She looked down at herself, seemingly to take account of her body. Her headdress was mangled and a bruise was already appearing on her arm, but otherwise, Lysander couldn’t see any injuries.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Brooke’s limbs shook as she stared at Heron’s body. Her lips moved, but Lysander couldn’t determine what she said through the trembling.
“It’s all right.” Lysander stepped forward, trying to block the dying prince from her view. “He can’t hurt you any more.”
She shrank back from him. Her gaze slowly turned from shock to relief to gratitude to realization to anger. She screamed something loud enough for him to hear a faint, distant cry.
Lysander leaned back to give her space as she yelled at him. He couldn’t tell what. He cleaned his blade and sheathed it until she remembered that he was deaf.
You killed him!
“Yes.”
What have you done?
The darkness returned to Lysander’s vision, and dizziness overpowered him. “He . . . I couldn’t let him hurt you.”
He wasn’t even supposed to be here! No one was supposed to know we’re here. Tears streamed from Brooke’s face. The Darkwood will declare war over this!
Lysander tried to control his breathing, but it didn’t help the sickeningly sweet feeling that tempted him with sleep. “He poisoned me,” he said, but Brooke was screaming something about him being a killer at the same time, so he doubted she heard him.
It didn’t matter. He was fading fast. His job here was done, and now there was only one hope for survival.
He turned on his heel and left the tipi, nearly falling as he went.
The wooden platform presented a challenge. He tumbled from it and landed on his knees as his vision retreated.
I’m not
going to make it, he thought. There was no way he could make it home to his grandmother’s pyramid and take the antidote before sleep claimed him.
With his last remaining strength, Lysander put his fingers to his mouth and whistled for Sorrel, so loud that his ears picked up some of the shrill sound.
Don’t fall asleep, he told himself. Don’t fall over. Don’t lie down.
He lost track of time. Brooke appeared beside him, looking dark and desaturated as he battled the shadows.
Did you say he poisoned you? Brooke’s voice rang through his mind, breaking through the haze and giving him something to focus on.
“Dreamthistle,” he managed.
Can’t you drink the tea you gave me earlier?
“Not . . . enough.”
He felt Sorrel’s warm fur as she nuzzled him. Leaned into her. Collapsed to the earth.
What do I do? Brooke asked.
“Granny Zelle . . . antidote.” Lysander didn’t have the strength to mount Sorrel, though his vision returned enough to glimpse the gryphon’s concerned golden face for a moment.
Brooke lent him her shoulder, and Sorrel lowered her thick neck until Lysander was lying on her back.
You can’t ride like this. You’ll fall—
“Tie me on.” It was impossible not to snuggle into the gryphon’s fur. Just like when he was a boy. Napping in the sun . . . So soft . . .
Brooke shoved him hard in the shoulder. Don’t fall asleep!
Consciousness toyed with Lysander like a cat with yarn. He thought Brooke might be tying his wrists together around Sorrel’s neck, but he couldn’t tell. Something pulled tight around his back, but he didn’t know what it was.
He tried to tell Sorrel to fly home, but he couldn’t hear himself speak.
Stay with me! Brooke grabbed his face between her hands. There’s been enough death today. You will make it there and you will live!
She was beautiful. Such an optimist, even if she took the path of strategy rather than bubbling positivity. Her face was the best last thing he could see, even if she was tear-streaked and bruised. She would survive.
He didn’t want to die, but he had to at some point, anyway. He’d been able to avenge himself. To do something good with his final days. And Zamara was dead. What more could he ask for?