by J. V. Jones
Tessa took the shells from Emith. Seeing him now, she found it hard to believe he had killed the creature only two hours earlier. The blood on his cheeks and beneath his fingernails had gone. The tears in his tunic had either been pinned, patched, or pasted, and the rock dust had been combed from his hair. Yet even though he looked neat and composed, his hands still trembled as he passed Tessa the shells.
The skin on her own hands was taut, burned. Her stomach felt heavy and jagged, like a split stone. Crouching before the pattern, she groped for the image of the Barbed Coil. It came to her immediately, blinding like a glance into the sun. The paintbrush felt awkward in her hand, but despite the burns and the fear and the heaviness, she didn’t lose her grip.
The first dot of pigment on the page set the cavern floor rumbling. A band of cool air unsettled the dust. Light from the candles brightened. The crashing of the sea grew louder, more insistent. It sounded like a beating heart.
Drawing power from many sources, eyes darting constantly to Ilfaylen’s copy for guidance, Tessa painted. There was ancient power in the number five, she could feel it massing in the bones behind her wrist.
Marcel of Vailing always slept well and deeply. When the city of Bay’Zell shook, causing his town house to tremble and his bed to rock, it only sent him further to sleep. He dreamed he was lying inside a giant purse swinging from a rich man’s belt. He did not wake. Upstairs, one of his glass-topped lanterns—still burning due to an oversight by his ravishing but absentminded maid—fell to the ground and smashed. Still he did not wake. Nor did he wake when oil-hot flames spilled over his desk, setting his latest set of figures—a little chart designed to show his most valued clients that enemy occupation needn’t necessarily have an adverse affect on their investments—ablaze. Similarly, when flames spread to the curtains and walls, and the entire top floor filled with smoke, Marcel continued to sleep like a baby. The rich man’s purse was so very, very cozy.
It was only when smoke started pouring beneath his bedchamber door, and flames from the floor above began to tear through the ceiling, that Marcel finally stirred. And by that time it was too late.
Black clouds rolled across the sky, turning the thin light of dawn into night. The earth rumbled, causing partially constructed tents and corrals to collapse. Izgard heard camp workmen calling to each other, shouting warnings and curses, speculating over the cause. All agreed it was a bad omen.
The air stank of sulfur. The darkness itself seemed to be tinged with a yellow cast. Izgard didn’t like it. He moved farther from the camp, the Barbed Coil pressed close to his chest. Men and lords approached him, but he sent them all away. He couldn’t bear to look at them. To meet their eyes for even half a moment meant shifting his gaze from the Coil.
The barbs drew less and less blood as he walked. The pain they inflicted became duller and less substantial. And then there was no pain at all.
Izgard fell to his knees, clutching at his crown. The Barbed Coil felt as light as a shadow. Its gold edges dimmed as he watched. Its long, gleaming coils stopped reflecting the outside world and began reflecting something inside instead. Something dark and unavoidable, like death.
Thunder crashed down from the sky. The earth Izgard knelt on buckled and thrashed. Grasshoppers and grassflies took flight. A sound, like the howl of a wild animal trapped belowground in a tunnel or a well, broke through the darkening air.
The Barbed Coil winked once, then slipped away.
“No!” screamed Izgard, tearing at the emptiness it left behind. “NO!”
Angeline took the pins from her hair and shook out her golden locks. She undid the ties on her cloak and let it fall to the ground as she walked. Soldiers stared at her. Workmen called to her. One lord offered to accompany her back to her tent. She shook them all off. Perhaps they thought she had been beaten witless by her husband or gripped by sudden madness. She didn’t care.
It wasn’t hard to walk, not really. One arm and perhaps a rib or two were broken. Other pains in her head and jaw and back bothered her, but she knew Father would have considered it cowardly if his daughter had given in to pain. So she didn’t. She hadn’t even changed her dress from earlier, but she had cleaned away as much of the blood as she could reach. The water she bathed in turned red rather quickly, and she had avoided looking at it after a while.
The flask she held kept her hands warm as she walked. The lid was on extra tight to keep in the heat of the drink. Angeline wondered why she felt so cold, as the air surrounding her was stuffy and humid, like before a summer storm. She shrugged. Perhaps it was the steel in her Halmac bones.
She walked through the long grass out of the camp. She didn’t think of anything as she hiked over banks of crumbling white stone and fields of yellow grain. Thinking only made her weak.
After a while she spotted him, lying facedown in the shade of a beech tree. The Barbed Coil had left him—she knew that even before she got close enough to see. His shoulders were shaking, and odd sounds—not quite words—escaped from his throat. He was covered by many different types of blood, and his fingernails were caked in dirt.
He looked up as she approached. “Angeline?” His voice was soft, distracted. She had brought the sun with her, and he squinted as he looked into her face. “It’s gone.”
Angeline nodded. “I know.”
“Ederius?”
“He is dead.”
Izgard closed his eyes. “God forgive me.”
Angeline knelt at his side. His eyes were clear now, and it hurt her to look into them.
Raising a hand to her cheek, he said, “My beautiful Angeline. My angel. What have I done?”
His touch was gentle. Angeline felt her body respond to it against her will. She fought herself. “I have brought you something, my lord,” she said, indicating the flask. “Some of my special honey and almond-milk tea. I always made it for Father when he was unwell.” As she spoke, she took the stopper from the flask, allowing the aroma of honey and almonds to fill the space between them. “I’ve even brought a cup.”
Izgard stroked her cheek, then her hair, as she poured the drink. Tears glistened in his eyes. “Ederius,” he said softly. And then: “Did he feel much pain?”
Angeline did not answer. She tried to stop her throat from aching but couldn’t. She offered him the filled cup. “My lord,” she said.
He looked into her eyes. “Will you not join me in this?”
Everything that was inside Angeline wavered. Breath caught in her throat. Sweat formed like dew on the palm of her outstretched hand. She couldn’t think of Snowy and Ederius—the pain was too new, it hurt too much—so she thought of her baby instead. Her free hand came to rest on her belly, and from somewhere she found the strength to meet his eye. “Perhaps I will take a sip later, my lord. Your need is greater than mine.”
Izgard hesitated.
“Do you not trust your own wife, my lord?” Angeline asked, holding the cup steady. “I prepared it myself.”
After what seemed a very long time, Izgard held out his hand. Their fingers touched for a moment, and then he brought the cup to his lips. He never took his eyes from her as he drank. Angeline held his gaze all the way. Inside her heart was pounding, and a terrible sickness churned away in her stomach, but outwardly she remained calm. For Snowy. For Ederius. For the baby.
When he had finished drinking, Izgard settled himself back in the grass. He yawned.
“Rest now,” Angeline said. “I will watch over you while you sleep.”
Izgard nodded. He closed his eyes and within minutes he was asleep.
After listening to the rhythm of his breaths for a while, Angeline struggled to her feet. It was time to go. She didn’t know how long Ederius’ white arsenic pigment would take to work, and she couldn’t bear the thought of hearing Izgard cry out in pain. Picking the flask from the grass, careful to get none of the milky fluid on her skin, she replaced the stopper, tucked the flask under her belt, and then turned and walked away.
Thr
ough grass fields and into the beech forest, through the forest and onto the salt marshes, through expanding bands of sunlight and warming air, she walked until she could go no farther, until the edges of her broken bones pierced her skin, until the bruise on her jaw swelled up so much that she could no longer open her mouth to breathe, and until the memory of holding Snowy’s lifeless body in her arms finally went away. Collapsing amid ghost crabs, tiger moths, and sandwort, on a stretch of salt white soil, Angeline drew her aching body into a ball and settled down to rest. She couldn’t go any farther, couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t decide if what she had done was wrong or right.
Closing her eyes, drifting off into the welcoming darkness, she imagined herself back at Castle Halmac with Father and Snowy, sitting close around the fire, safe and sound. She wished with all her heart she were back there. Gerta was right. No good had ever come to a lady while she was outside.
T H I R T Y - S E V E N
R avis made his way down through the keep. Bodies littered every step and passageway, and he passed none by without checking for signs of life. Pax helped him carry the few who were still breathing. Together they moved the injured men into the kitchen, placing them close to the fire and wrapping them in blankets, seeing that each man got water or brandy, or both. Quickly Ravis showed Pax how to stanch wounds. He wanted to go and find Tessa, check that she and Emith were unharmed, yet somehow there was always one more task to do. Wounds had to be cleaned and wouldn’t wait; embedded claws and teeth needed to be picked out by hand; alcohol had to be splashed onto raw tissue, blood vessels cauterized, and skin stitched. Pain had to be eased. These were his men, his troop. They had fought long and hard against all odds, and he couldn’t turn his back and leave them.
His own pain was nothing. His tongue and gums had been split, a portion of his cheek had been sliced away, and knife and claw wounds crossed his shoulders and arms. Strange, but the only thing he felt was the scar on his lip. It throbbed against his jaw like a toothache. Thinking perhaps the old wound had been reopened, Ravis brought his hand to his mouth. The knotted scar tissue was dry and unbroken.
“Ravis. Go to Tessa. I’ll take care of the men now.” It was Camron, appearing in the kitchen doorway. Ravis had left him on the battlements after they’d finished off the last of the creatures. Camron had asked for time alone, so Ravis had gone on ahead.
“Sit, Camron. Let me see to that cut above your eye.”
Camron shook his head. “It’s nothing.” He smiled. “Far better to spend the time on yourself. You look awful.”
Ravis smiled back. “That makes two of us, then.”
Against Ravis’ will, memories of the last fight flashed through his mind. Claws slashing, jaws clicking as they opened wide to tear flesh, and then the sickening crunch of compacted bone as ax heads severed spines. Ravis shuddered. He could hardly believe that he and Camron had made it through.
“Ravis. Go. Find Tessa.”
Looking up into Camron’s face, Ravis felt a muscle knot in his chest. He wanted to say something to Camron, to hold him there, by the door, and stop time moving forward past this point. They would never be this close again.
After a long moment Ravis conceded to time, nodded once, and left. Camron would take good care of the men. He would not have done once, but now he would.
It was easy to follow Tessa and Emith’s trail down through the cellar and into the caverns below. Neither of them had given any thought to concealing their tracks. This struck Ravis as endearing at first, then he spied spots of dark blood upon the rock beneath his feet. Increasing his pace, he raced along the pathway, calling Tessa’s name. Sweat was pouring into the gash on his cheek when he finally came upon one of the creatures lying flat on plain of rock, dead. Its legs and lower torso were burned black from walking through the fire set at the gate. Broken arrow shafts jutted from its back and side, sword wounds bit deep into its neck. Still, that wasn’t what had killed it. Not quite. Hundreds of small knife cuts over its chest, neck, arms, and flank were what had finally finished it off.
Ravis crouched by the body for a closer look. Some small part of the thing’s features had reverted back to what they once were, and he could see the man lying beneath the misshapen bone and swollen gums. His eyes were open, and they were no longer cast with gold. They were brown.
“Ravis.”
Ravis looked up to see Tessa emerging from an opening in the rock wall. A clean bandage concealed a wound on her right hand, and the underside of her chin appeared to be burned. She was shaking slightly, leaning against the rock for support. A moment later Emith appeared behind her, and straight away Ravis knew that he had been the one to kill the creature, not Tessa. Something in his eyes had changed.
Quickly Ravis tore away what remained of his sleeve and placed it over the creature’s face. He didn’t want Emith seeing it as a man. Better to let him believe he had killed a monster instead.
“You are both all right? Tessa? Emith?” Ravis looked from one to the other as he rose. Each nodded in turn. “And the Barbed Coil?”
“Gone.”
Ravis closed his eyes. When he opened them again Tessa was beside him, touching his cheek. He opened up his arms and let her come to him, stroking her hair, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He held her only for a moment, conscious of Emith’s presence and not wanting to embarrass him or shut him out.
“Come,” Ravis said, touching Tessa one last time as he let her go. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“I’ll just get my paints together.” Emith began to move away.
“Leave them, Emith. I’ll come down and get them for you later.”
“But the brushes need to be—”
Tessa put her hand on Emith’s arm. “Let’s go upstairs for now. We’ll worry about cleaning everything later.”
Emith made a small gesture with his hand. “Yes, miss.”
Ravis stood in front of the creature’s body as Emith and Tessa walked past. Exhaustion was beginning to set in, and he felt his feet dragging as he followed the path up toward the cellar. By the time they climbed the last of the cellar steps and emerged once more into the main body of the keep, pain had begun to cloud his vision. The gash on his cheek stung fiercely. His sword arm ached, and the scar on his lip continued to burn away at the nerve beneath.
Camron sat in the kitchen, close to the fire. Wounded men lay asleep or resting in a loose circle around the hearth. Dead men lay on the opposite side of the room, near the door. Pax was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s gone to take a look at Izgard’s camp,” Camron offered, unasked. “I told him not to draw too close.”
Ravis nodded. He pulled out chairs for Tessa and Emith, while Camron brought over a pewter flask filled with brandy. No one, not even Emith, bothered with cups, and all drank from the flask. Seeing Tessa wince as her wounded hand closed around the metal, Ravis fought the desire to go to her and hold her tight. There would be time for that later. For now . . . Ravis’ finger trailed along his scar. For now he needed time to think.
He left Tessa and Emith in the kitchen, telling them he was going back to collect Emith’s things. Truth was, he didn’t know where he was going. Taking a path at random, he found himself in the great gallery. The place smelled of death. Spills of dark blood had run into the mortar cracks between stone flags, into worn depressions on steps, and down along the slanting stonework surrounding the great hearth, where it had collected in a pool around an island of firewood.
Ravis shifted his gaze away from the blood, only to find himself looking at bodies instead. Half a dozen creatures lay scattered around the room, some lying at the foot of the staircase, others close to the tumbled barricade of doors and chairs. Broken bones pierced their skin, arrows jutted from their shoulders and chests. Some had terrible burns on their hands and faces, and others had great chunks of flesh hacked clean away by greatswords. All had slit throats.
Seeing the deep gashes stretching from one side of their jaws to the other, Ravis r
ealized that Camron had done something he had not thought to do himself. He had given these men peace. While he himself had run down to the cellar in search of Tessa and Emith, Camron had moved among the creatures, ensuring that all were dead. From the fresh blood spilled from some arteries, Ravis could tell that one or two had still been alive when Camron came upon them.
Sobered, Ravis took a deep breath and lowered his aching body to the ground. Camron had thought to put an end to the creatures’ suffering.
To him they were his countrymen.
After a long, long while, Ravis stood. As he had promised, he went back to collect Emith’s scribing equipment. Forcing his body through a slim fissure in the rock wall, Ravis found himself in a small cavern scattered with inks, pens, pigments, and sheets of vellum. Ilfaylen’s illumination lay atop a wooden support board in the center of a cleared space. The vellum had been torn in parts, and what might have been a beautiful pattern was ruined by streaks of blood and thumbprints. Without looking at it closely, Ravis picked it up, held it over the lit candle he had brought with him to light the way, and set it alight. It released the smell of sulfur as it burned. Within seconds it was gone, leaving behind nothing but a band of yellowish smoke and a handful of ashes.
Tired and hurting all over, Ravis gathered Emith’s belongings into a sack. As he packed away the last items, his hand came to rest upon a single sheet of unmarked vellum. Glancing to his side, he saw a quill pen cast amid the debris of pigment shells, pigment-stained rags, and broken brushes. He picked it up, turned it in his hand. A minute passed, and then he bit down upon his scar and reached back inside of Emith’s pack, looking for a container of ink.
Settling down into the space that hours earlier Tessa had occupied, Ravis wrote a letter. To his brother. It wasn’t easy; sometimes he couldn’t find the right words, and other times the cut on his cheek stung so much, he couldn’t think. Yet he wrote it, and by the time he was finished the burn had left his lip.
I ask for nothing from you, it read, except that you remember the past. All of it, the good as well as the bad, and the love that was there before the hate. . . .