“We need you,” I called. “The Burnt need peace. Please!” But there was no power in the words.
The Beast struck again and again at Bryndine; her shield was a ragged mess of holes and claw marks. Sylla fought beside her now, holding back two men in Army browns who sought to reach her Captain. Deanyn limped on her ruined leg, but still managed to cleave through the skull of a boar as it lunged towards Bryndine.
The women closed in around me, surrounded on all sides by beasts and the dead. Ducking low, Leste avoided a wild stroke of Debra’s axe, then jabbed her saber up through the open mouth of the wildcat that leapt at her out of the fog. Selvi caught Ivyla’s sword on hers, and Elene stabbed their former comrade in the chest. Ivyla did not fall. She was already dead. It would take a worse wound than that to stop her.
Back to back and shoulder to shoulder, vision clouded by the mist, what was left of Bryndine’s company fought desperately for survival. If I did not reach the Eldest soon, it would be too late.
A shining city of arches and spires and gardens, but beyond the walls, war rages. A man with a crown atop his golden hair begs us for the power to defend his kingdom. We cannot refuse. We love these humans as our brothers and sisters. We tell the King of secrets we have hidden from humanity for thousands of years.
Fire and pain pulled me back to reality. It was not just my body burning; I could feel the flames eating at my mind. This was what the Wyddin had warned me of—I could not pull away, and soon my spirit would be consumed.
But I had seen what the Eldest dreamed of: Elovia. If the Plainstongue could not reach them, perhaps Old Elovian would. “Evea!” I cried. “Ael!” Wake! Please! It did no good; the words felt dead on my tongue.
Bryndine caught the Beast’s claws on her shield once more, then leaned away from a second blow and swung her sword. The huge blade cleaved into the Beast’s shoulder and caught there. Bryndine tried to pull it free, but the Beast jerked back and reared up to its full height. The violent motion sent the blade flying free of both the Beast’s body and Bryndine’s hand, and it fell to the ground several feet away.
A kingdom burning. Ash fills the Sky; molten rock spews from the Earth. The arches and spires and gardens are gone, burned away by a power we should have kept hidden. Bodies fill the streets, charred and black. Our brothers and sisters are dead. And it is because of us.
The vision faded, but the guilt remained, deep and eternal. The Eldest could not forgive themselves, and all those who might have given them forgiveness were dead and gone. In that moment, I knew exactly what they needed—the same thing I did. I opened my mouth to speak the word that would wake the Eldest.
But the word did not come.
Fire ate at my mind, reducing everything I had ever known to ash. My vision burned down until all I could see was Bryndine and the Beast, surrounded in flames. I heard a cry somewhere beyond sight, but I could not place the woman’s voice, and then a man’s scream that I faintly recognized as my own. I felt all that I was burning away, and could do nothing to stop it.
I watched helplessly as the Beast lashed out at Bryndine with both paws. She raised her shield, and claws like scythe blades lodged in the metal. With a violent heave, the Beast wrested the battered metal disc from her arm and threw it from her reach.
“Bryn!” Sylla threw herself in front of Bryndine, and her blade lashed out. The Beast knocked her aside with a single blow.
And still Bryndine stood. She had nothing left, no way to defend herself, but she stood between me and the Beast, and she did not flinch as it came for her.
“Vengeance,” the Burnt screamed, and with devastating strength, the Beast rammed five foot-long claws into Bryndine’s chest. Five claws pierced her armor and the flesh beneath. Five claws, red and dripping, erupted from her back.
“No!” Through the fire and pain that consumed me, some last spark of consciousness fought for control. I can still save her! Desperately, I shouted every Elovian word my fire-blackened mind had left. None of them were right. None of them were the word I wanted, the one that would echo through the Wyd to reach the ears of the Eldest.
The Beast’s claws ripped upwards through flesh and bone, lifting Bryndine from her feet. She struggled, gripped the monster’s foreleg, tried to pull herself free. The Beast obliged. With a savage jerk, it tore its claws from her chest. Thick ribbons of crimson colored the mist as she fell. She crumpled to the ground in front of me, still as death.
And now it was too late. There was no one left who could stop the Beast. It loomed over me, so close that I could smell the rank odor of its hide, see the tiny insects crawling in its fur. Its claws descended towards me, streaked with Bryndine’s blood.
And then something impossible happened.
Somehow, Bryndine pushed herself to her knees, and with one hand, she caught the Beast’s foreleg inches above my head. The Beast struck with its free claw, tearing deep furrows in her side; she grappled the limb under her arm, and held it there.
“No,” she said. “You will not have him.”
Somehow, bleeding and broken, she stood. With all her might, the might I had seen move boulders, she surged forward. The Beast towered over her by half her height again, and must have outweighed her by thousands of pounds, but when Bryndine pushed, it stumbled back.
Somehow, she found the strength to move. She took a staggering step, and another, leaving a crimson trail in the grass as she lurched towards her sword. The Beast fell forward onto four legs, found its footing once more, and lunged. A maw full of jagged yellow teeth gnashed towards my head.
Somehow, with her life’s blood flowing from a dozen wounds, Bryndine Errynson lifted her giant blade with both hands, and she brought it down on the Beast’s neck.
It was the last thing I saw. My sight dissolved into fire and blackness. My mind was nearly gone. But Bryndine had defied death itself to give me this last attempt; I could not waste it. As my spirit burned into nothingness, a single word rose in the dark, and I knew that it was right. I felt its power on my tongue as I threw back my head and shouted it into the Wyd for the Eldest to hear.
“Caravei!”
I forgive.
In my last moments of awareness, I heard a voice, full of power and wisdom and sorrow.
“Revea,” it commanded. Sleep.
And I did.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Though most shunned Bryndine Errynson when she sought their aid to fight the Burnt, there were those who answered the call. Master Illias Bront helped her to find Prince Fyrril’s journals. Korus Creven and Lieutenant Ralsten Torrylson preserved the capital under the leadership of Bryndine's father, Lord Elarryd Errynson, who would later be crowned King. And the women of Bryndine’s company followed their Captain to the very end, though many of them died along the way. Without any one of these people, the realm might have been lost.
But it was Bryndine Errynson who sought the truth when no one else would. It was she who refused to surrender the fight when the Army, and the Scribers, and the people themselves deserted her. It was she who led her women to the First Forest when all other options failed.
In the end, it was Bryndine Errynson who saved the Kingsland.
— From Dennon Lark’s Life of Bryndine Errynson
“Dennon?”
Deanyn’s voice ushered me back into the world, aching and disoriented. But alive.
I was lying with my back against the First Tree, and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was green. The boughs of the First Tree were laden with foliage, so thick that the entire clearing was cast into shade. Where there had once been little more than a hundred leaves, now there were hundreds of thousands. The spirits of the Burnt.
There were no voices in my head. The Wyd was silent. It was over.
The second thing I saw was Deanyn’s face, leaning over me. “Thank the Mother and the Father,” she breathed, and pressed her lips hard against mine. For a moment, I let my muddled mind stop working and lost myself in the feel of her, pul
ling her close, twining my fingers in her hair. Finally, she drew back, and laid her hand against my chest, as though to check that my heart was still beating. “I… thought I’d lost you. Are you hurt?”
Confusion came rushing back. “I don’t know.” I remembered the voice of the Eldest, and then nothing. I blinked to clear my eyes, and looked around.
Though it felt like I had slept for years, I could not have been unconscious for more than a moment. The clearing was still littered with bodies; none had been moved from where they had fallen. Men of the King’s Army sprawled beside the creatures of the forest. Debra and Ivyla had fallen beside one another, their weapons still in hand. Elene held her sister’s still form in her arms, sobbing. I was shocked to see Orya getting shakily to her feet—I had believed her dead.
And just beyond me, mere feet away, lay the great heap of fur and scars that had been the Beast. Its head had been severed from its neck in a single clean stroke.
I could not see Bryndine.
“Where is she?”
Deanyn knew what I meant instantly. “Dennon, she… I don’t know if…” She glanced over her shoulder, and I saw the pain on her face.
“No.” I forced myself to my feet. My legs trembled beneath me.
There, beyond Deanyn, I saw her. She lay on her back in the grass, her head cradled in Sylla’s lap. Leste stood beside them, a helpless look on her face.
“No.” I stumbled towards her and fell to my knees in the grass at her side. The others gathered around us—all save Elene, who would not leave Selvi’s body.
She was still alive. Her skin was pale, nearly white; her breathing was shallow and ragged. Her chest was soaked with blood. There was something innately wrong about the sight of her so prone and still; it was like seeing the First Tree itself toppled to the ground. Though I had seen what the Beast had done to her, I had believed, somehow, that she would endure. That she was as invincible as she had always seemed to be.
Sylla’s eyes were wet, but she fought to control her voice. “Help her, Scriber.”
But Bryndine’s wounds were too great. The Beast’s claws had shredded skin and bone and organs. That she still lived at all was a miracle. She had given me so much, saved me so many times, and now, when she needed me, I was useless.
“There is nothing he can do.” Bryndine’s voice was a hoarse whisper, but there was still steel in her eyes; even in the face of death, she was braver than she had any right to be.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Bryndine, I’m so sorry.”
“Do not be, Scriber Dennon. You did as you promised. You did not fail.” Her fingers flexed, and she tilted her head to search the grass beside her. I knew immediately what she was looking for—she wanted her sword in her hand, at the end. It lay just out of her reach, and I dragged it closer and pressed the hilt into her palm. Her fingers closed around it. She smiled weakly.
“Don’t,” I begged, as though she could stay through sheer strength of will. “Please don’t.”
“Tell them… that I kept my oath.” And then Bryndine Errynson closed her eyes, and breathed her last.
I could not even cry. I was too empty. It was too much.
Tell them that I kept my oath. In her last moments, despite all of her strength, after all she had done, she had still been the girl in the ill-fitting dress, out of her element at her aunt’s table, looking for approval from the people who had denied it to her all her life. They had never deserved her. And right then, if I could have, I would have traded all of their lives to bring her back.
But I could not. “I will tell them,” I said softly, clasping her hand.
“Take your hands off her.” Sylla’s voice was flat, but when I looked up, her face was twisted with barely contained fury.
“Sylla, I…”
“Do not touch her.” Sylla’s hand darted out, and grasped the hilt of Bryndine’s sword. She was on her feet in an instant, holding the point of the blade against my neck. The sword was too big for her; it took both of her hands to hold it steady, and the tip shook dangerously, a quarter-inch from my skin. “I told you what would happen, Scriber. I told you what would happen if you let her die.”
“Sylla!” Deanyn put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, but Sylla jerked away. “Don’t do this. This isn’t what Bryndine would want.”
“What she would want? She is dead, she doesn’t want anything!” She glared down at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Why should you live if she doesn’t, Scriber?”
Strangely, I was not afraid. Not because I didn’t think Sylla would harm me, but because at that moment, it didn’t seem to matter much if she did. “I don’t know,” I said. “It isn’t fair.” A world where I was dead and Bryndine lived would be a far better world than this.
Elene still cradled Selvi in her arms, but she looked up from her sister’s face, and in a quavering voice, she asked, “Haven’t enough people died already, Sylla?”
“They died because of him!” Sylla shouted. She was not wrong. How many would still live if I had found the Wyd sooner?
“You’re forgettin’ that the rest of us lived because of him,” Orya said. Her sword was in her hand. “We ain’t just going to let you kill him.”
The last thing I wanted was more bloodshed. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t hurt her. She’s right. I… should have been better. Faster.”
“And you should die because of that?” Deanyn shook her head. “No. You did as much as anyone could have asked.” She stepped towards Sylla again. “Please, give me the sword. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“No further!” Sylla warned, her hands trembling. The tip of the sword touched my neck, and I felt a sharp pain as it drew blood. Deanyn held up her hands and backed away.
“This is not the way, Sylla,” said Leste. “Tenille waits in Three Rivers. There is a place for you still. But if you are doing this, you cannot go back.”
“Do you think I am just looking for someone else to follow? Bryndine was more than just… She saved me, when she had no reason to. She trusted me when no one else would.” Tears fell down Sylla’s cheeks, tracing lines through the blood and dirt there. “I loved her.”
And hearing her say that, I realized something so simple I couldn’t believe I had not known it until now. Looking up at Sylla along the length of that massive blade, I said, “So did I.”
For a moment, Sylla stared back at me, her eyes dark pools of despair. And then, with a wordless scream of anguish, she swung Bryndine’s sword.
But not at me.
With all of her rage and all of her sorrow, Sylla drove the huge blade into the First Tree, and it sank into the ancient trunk as though cleaving through air.
She had expected that no more than I had; she had done it, I think, only because she needed to strike something. She stared in disbelief as the wood parted to accept the sword and knit together again as it passed. No wound was left behind. Only a foot of blade still jutted from the tree, and a plain steel hilt, too long in Sylla’s hands. As big as it was, the sword should have looked tiny buried in that vast trunk, but somehow it did not. It looked like something from a story—a hero’s weapon, waiting to be pulled free.
A sudden wind stirred the boughs of the First Tree, and a voice that only I could hear, calm and strong and sad, whispered, “We will not forget her.” The sun reached a single golden finger through the parted leaves, and for a moment, Bryndine Errynson was bathed in light.
And then I understood. It was a memorial. The Wyddin were honoring her sacrifice.
And though she could not hear the voices, I think Sylla understood as well. She stood in silence for a long time, her hand lingering on the hilt of the sword, and then she sank to her knees, and wept.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I didn’t know how much Bryndine meant to me until she was gone. I will remember her for the rest of my life.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
We commended Bryndine Errynson to the Father that night, before
the First Tree, with the women who had died beside her. And as the pyre burned, we stood vigil, just as Bryndine had done so many times before for so many others.
Standing with the few survivors of Bryndine’s company, I watched as the flames consumed the bodies. Deanyn leaned against me to keep the weight off her injured leg, and I held her hand tightly in my own. Elene and Leste and Orya clustered beside us. Sylla stood alone a short distance away, solemn and quiet.
Bryndine had always given a short farewell to her fallen women, but we stood in silence. No one wanted to take her place. But she deserved some words—they all did. Some words that might honor what they had done. After a long while, I swallowed nervously, and I said, “People will know their story. They… won’t be forgotten.”
Sylla laughed bitterly. “Do you really believe that, Scriber? No one will remember them. No one will remember her. Look where we are. No one saw what she did, no one but us. Do you think they will listen when you tell them what happened here?”
“Her father will be King. He…”
“The King doesn’t write history. People remember what they want to remember, and they have never loved Bryndine. They will say Lord Elarryd saved them, or Ralsten, or Korus, someone who was there, in the capital. Even Tenille, if they must.” She looked at me, and her mouth rose into a cynical smirk that couldn’t quite mask the anguish in her eyes. “Or perhaps they will hear your story, and call you their hero, Scriber. They have done it before, after Waymark. But whoever it is, it will not be her.”
Silence fell again. I could not find the words to counter Sylla’s argument; she was very likely right. The people of the Kingsland had always been blind when it came to Bryndine. I could see the outline of her body in the flames, and I gazed at her, and wondered. Would it be like Waymark again, citizens insisting they owed their lives to anyone but her? Was that Bryndine’s legacy, to be remembered only by the spirits of the forest, reviled and then forgotten by her own people? It would have been all too easy to accept. So much of the Kingsland’s past was already lies, why not this? It would have been easy to blame myself for her death, and retreat into the guilt, and let Bryndine fade from history.
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