by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Thirty
In the still, late afternoon air, Irwa could hear angry voices from the shop before she reached the door. She stopped in amazement; Kjell and Eyo never argued. In fact, if she had not accidentally returned home early one day and interrupted their love-making—a memory that still made her blush so that she was sure her dark skin would catch fire—Irwa would have thought them more like brother and sister than husband and wife. She recognized their voices, though, and Eyo seemed to be doing most of the yelling.
For a moment, Irwa considered turning back. She had remembered a few critical hepisteis during her practice, words that would allow her to shape infinitely more complex illusions, ones that seemed real even to touch and taste, the senses most difficult to fool. She could head back down the valley, find a safe spot, and spend some time conjuring hallucinatory banquets until it was safe to return.
But . . . Neither Eyo nor Kjell had answered her attempts to learn more about Hynnar. Eyo had grown teary-eyed the first time and begged her to leave the question alone, and when pressed, simply gone silent and avoided Irwa for the rest of the day. Kjell, well, Kjell had been different. He had grown angry with Irwa the first time and told her bluntly that it was not her affair. It had taken two days before things had gone back to normal. What if that’s what this is about? Irwa wondered.
The thought was too tempting to pass up. She opened awa and whispered the hepistys that would allow her to approach silently, muffling the sound from her body. She reached the back door without making a noise. She traced awa again, grateful that it released only the faintest strands of rainbow light, and tapped the door with her finger. Irwa spoke another hepistys. The conversation suddenly flooded her ears.
“Call him back, Kjell,” Eyo said, the words muffled. It sounded like she was crying. “Call him back now; this has gone on long enough, and he’s in danger.”
Kjell’s voice was hard and flat. “He put himself in this position, Eyo. You know that better than anyone. He can not come back here; that is law, and you are supposed to enforce it as much as the elders.” Irwa had never heard him speak this way before.
“This is different,” Eyo said. “It was not murder; the boy fell, Kjell. Hynnar told us both, he fell, and he died, and it was not Hynnar’s fault.”
“Did Hynnar say that? That it wasn’t his fault.”
Eyo hesitated. “No.”
“Of course not. Because, for all my brother’s faults, he is still a man, and he accepts responsibility for his actions. He stood before the council, he was judged.” A hard silence fell. “He will not return.” Kjell’s final words were softer.
“Then set him a different task,” Eyo said. “Let him leave Meik and those horrible men; you saw what they did to Irwa, what they did to him. There are other things he can do. He does not need to stay with them.”
“Do you really believe that?” Kjell asked. “Do you think that Hynnar would run from his duty? We need him there, Eyo. I thought we had finished discussing this. Just because one more report comes in, you are suddenly afraid for him. I would think you still—” His voice cut off.
A long silence fell between the two of them. Irwa wanted to writhe with frustration. The words were meaningless, aside from vague implications of danger and guilt. When Eyo spoke again, though, Irwa’s thoughts fell silent. “That is beneath you, to question me like that,” Eyo said. This time the tears were obvious in her voice. “They are going to raid a dar-molk’s estate, not twenty miles from here, and after that Brech will have no choice but to hunt them down and kill them. All of them. If he survives being captured, then Hynnar will hang. He need not come here—tell him to flee, anywhere.”
“He is already dead, Eyo. Let him go. That is Skallid.”
Eyo let out a broken sob, but she did not argue any more. Even if she had, Irwa doubted she would have heard anything. Her own thoughts roared within her. Meik and his men close. Hynnar in danger, and condemned to death. She leaned up against the door, forgetting everything around her. Meik and his men less than twenty miles away. Meik and his men. The thought should have filled her with fear. Instead, it made her blood boil. A dar-molk would have guards, perhaps even be a soldier himself, but caught by surprise by Meik’s gang, he would not have much of a chance. Not with Meik’s practitioner in the mix. The dar-molk would be killed, his guards killed, his family killed. If he has a wife . . . Irwa could not bring herself to finish the thought; she was afraid that if she did, she would go mad. And Hynnar is in danger.
She did not even feel the door open until she was falling. Kjell caught her, his face a mask of surprise. “Irwa,” he said as he helped her stand. “What are you doing back here?”
Flustered, Irwa struggled to think of an answer. “I was eavesdropping,” she finally said.
Kjell’s face darkened and he pushed past her almost roughly.
“Kjell, wait,” Irwa said. She could not think straight, but stumbled after the blond man. “Hold on.”
He stopped, still facing away from her. Irwa walked around him and looked into his eyes. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What’s wrong with Hynnar? Where is he? Why are you two fighting? Let me help you.”
“You’re mistaken,” he said. “There’s nothing to help, Irwa. You do not practice Skallid; there is no reason you would understand. Let me make this clear to you, though, since you insist on naming my brother and, thus, hurting Eyo and me over and over again. For us, Hynnar is dead, and every time you speak his name, it is like a knife wound. Let it go; I understand what he means to you.” He sighed, and for a moment Irwa saw tears glistening in his icy-blue eyes, but then he blinked, and his face was as hard as the mountains around them. “The gods of earth and stone be my witness, Irwa, that I love my brother, and it is not easy to do what we do.”
“But you talked to him when he rescued me,” Irwa said. She realized she was crying—not racked with sobs, not, for the first time in weeks, thinking about herself, but overwhelmed by the pain she had seen in the tall man’s eyes. “You joked with him. You’re his brother.”
“Yes,” Kjell said. “How can I not? You only know a fraction of Hynnar, but even you know what an incredible person he is. How can I not respond to that, how can I not show the love I feel for my brother, even though he is dead to us? But that was a special occasion, to rescue you, and I will obey the laws of Skallid, even if it pains me. Hynnar would do the same; that is why he is where he is.”
The words sounded like nonsense to Irwa. Fury flared up in her, not at Kjell directly, but at whatever cruel religion, this Skallid, made him do. “That’s monstrous,” she said, forgetting her tears. “Whatever this Skallid is, it’s monstrous, and whatever god or gods could ask this of someone are not gods at all, but monsters. How could a god ask you not to love someone? How could a god ask you to turn your back on your own family, no matter what happened? It’s cruel, it’s unnatural. Ishahb would never—” She cut off, choking on her own words. Ishahb would never what? she thought. Ask me to murder a man?
“We laugh when we say priestess,” Kjell said, leaning close to her, his blue eyes holding her in place. “Because in Skallid, everyone is priest and priestess. But that only means that you should know, Priestess, what we all know—every religion demands something that seems cruel when it is not understood. Trust me when I say that, again, you are mistaken. Can you honestly tell me that no one could say that your god has ever asked for something that an outsider would consider cruel?”
Irwa could not answer. She stood there, frozen in place by that cold gaze. Kjell stepped around her and marched off, toward the trail the led out of the valley and through the mountains. Irwa did not know how long she stood there, dazed by the words Kjell had spoken. Was she no different than Kjell for bowing to the demands of Ishahb? A part of her wanted to cry that, yes, she was different. After all, she thought. Ishahb is the true god, the god of the Return, of Pa-shatan. Return to Ishahb is a return to bliss, no matter what sacrifices we are asked to make.
She had built her life on that principle. Sacrifice of self, and now sacrifice of others. And I still believe it, Irwa realized. She could feel, within her, the whisper of the god’s voice, telling her she was doing what was right.
And that’s why she couldn’t hate Kjell. However wrong Skallid may be, he is trying to do what he thinks is right. He is correct, though, that I do not understand. The thought brought some small comfort, and with a start, Irwa realized that the sun was dipping behind the mountain peaks. Irwa struggled to remember when she had arrived home; it must have been hours ago.
She entered the shop through the back door, and then made her way to the front room. Eyo stood behind the counter, rifling through a stack of papers, her eyes distant. Irwa watched the beautiful blonde woman for a moment. With a flash of insight, Irwa realized she still had a chance—a chance for what, though, she was not sure; thoughts of Hynnar mixed with thoughts of vengeance, and even Irwa could not be sure what motivated her to approach Eyo.
“Eyo,” Irwa said. The blonde woman started, dropping the papers. “Sorry,” Irwa continued. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Eyo gave a weak laugh and gathered the papers. “No,” she said. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t be day-dreaming right now. It’s almost time to close up shop anyway and start dinner.” Eyo moved out from behind the counter and hurried to the door, her every gesture showing her nervousness.
“I heard everything,” Irwa said. Eyo froze, one hand hanging inches from the handle of the door. “When you and Kjell were fighting. I’m sorry I eavesdropped, but I thought you were talking about Hynnar.”
Eyo’s hand fell, but she made no response and kept her back to Irwa.
“I needed to know something about him,” Irwa said. “And you wouldn’t tell me anything, and Kjell got angry when I mentioned him, so I thought maybe I could learn something this way.”
Silence answered her.
Ishahb bless me, Irwa thought. This was not going at all as she had imagined. “I won’t let him risk his life again, attacking the dar-molk’s estate, being hunted by Brech Ordin. I want to go help him, tonight, but I need to know where he is. Please, Eyo. Let me help him. Kjell doesn’t have to know.”
Eyo turned. Her face looked like a mask; calm, but rigidly fixed. “Kjell will know,” Eyo said softly. “When he hears what happened, he will know it was you, and he will know that I helped you. If you go, you cannot come back.”
The words left Irwa breathless. “Ever?” She had not even realized, until now, that she had planned on returning to the village after traveling to Fakholme. But this place is . . . home. Even as she thought it, though, Irwa knew it was a lie. Home was the run-down chapel with the leaking roof in Lajil. Home for a priestess of Ishahb was sacrifice.
“Follow the trail through the mountains; the highway is not far, a few hours on foot. Then you must follow it toward Fakholme. The dar-molk’s estate lies at the mouth of a canyon, halfway between here and the city. You need to go now, if you want to have any chance of reaching it before Meik and his men. It might already be too late.”
Irwa nodded. There was really nothing more to be said. She entered the small bedroom where, night after night, she had woken screaming, only to be comforted by Eyo’s calloused hands and gentle voice. She gathered her possessions quickly; there were few enough of them. When she returned to the shop, Eyo handed her a small purse that clinked in Irwa’s hand.
“I can’t take this,” Irwa said. “You’ve given me too much as it is. You gave me my life, Eyo.”
“Hynnar gave you your life,” the tall, beautiful woman said. “Take this from a friend who wishes you well. If what you’ve been doing in the pine glades is any indication, I doubt you’ll face trouble from bandits again, though I still wonder how they caught you in the first place.”
Irwa felt herself flush in surprise and embarrassment. “You saw?”
“Kjell and I took turns watching you, along with some of the children. We were worried you might . . . Well, there is so much darkness in your eyes, even now.”
Worried I might kill myself. It surprised Irwa that she had not even considered it, but she could see how Kjell and Eyo might have expected it. Darkness in me—that’s twisted, considering it comes from a people who are willing to ignore someone they love for some cruel god. Irwa regretted the thought as soon as she had it, but it was too late. Eyo’s comment bothered her, more than she wanted to admit, and it was easier to blame Eyo than listen to her.
Irwa took the purse and slipped it into the rucksack. “Thank you,” she said, and then, still irritated by Eyo’s words, she left the store that had felt like home. Night was almost upon her, the first stars glittering in the deepening blue of the sky above. The evening breeze off the mountains had begun, and Irwa shivered at its touch.
She opened cheiron jal for a more complex illusion, a spell that would hide her passage to both sight and sound. If Kjell were still along the mountain trail venting his anger, she did not want to chance a meeting with him. He would waste precious time trying to convince her to return to the village, and Irwa did not want to think of what would happen then.
Shrouded in the magic, Irwa trotted down the road, away from the village and the unexpected happiness it had offered her. At first, the walk along the rough, dirt road went quickly, even with the burden of the enchantment masking her. Thoughts of seeing Hynnar again, of finally understanding the man, of somehow evening the debt she owed him, occupied her mind at first, but slowly her mind turned to the other men she would find there. Almost without realizing it, Irwa found herself envisioning the punishments she would mete out to the men of Meik’s gang. She had remembered hepisteis that could summon a man’s hidden terrors and set them loose upon him, invisible to the rest of the world, until he were driven mad. She knew hepisteis that could unravel a man’s sense of reality until he wandered, blind and deaf to everyone around him, left only to his memories. Even better, she knew hepisteis that could recall, or better yet, feign, memories that could drive men to suicide. Picturing to herself different combinations of those hepisteis, of trapping the men in illusions and then, with a knife, exacting payment with her own hand, brought a dark warmth to Irwa’s heart, filling the piece of her that had felt missing—making her whole again.
So lost in these thoughts was Irwa that she almost stumbled into Kjell. Irwa jumped out of his way, hitting the wall and the loose scrabble of rocks at its base. The illusion muffled sound and sight, but Kjell still hesitated, red-rimmed eyes sweeping back and forth along the trail. For a moment Irwa wondered if he suspected her, but he continued up the trail with heavy steps.
In surprise, Irwa realized that she was almost halfway to the highway; the bright moonlight illuminated hills below her, and she could see the cut stones of the highway even at this distance. What is he doing this far out here? Irwa wondered. It was too far for a stroll, even if he had been trying to walk off his anger. Kjell was out of sight, though, lost along the curves of the mountain path. Irwa started off again, this time focusing on the narrow road.
Night covered the land when she arrived at the highway. Irwa’s legs and back ached. She pushed on without stopping. Thoughts of Hynnar drove her on. As she descended into the massive valley surrounding Fakholme, the moon came out from behind the mountain peaks, its crescent light providing little to illuminate the road. Irwa tracked the mountains to her left as she walked, looking for the canyon that marked the dar-molk’s estate. She would have missed it, just a shadow against the dark trees that covered the hills, if not for the fire.
Red light showed at even this distance. Irwa began to run. Her arm ached with every step, but she forced herself forward. Legs cramped and threatened to give way as she left the smooth stones of the highway and started down the wide, overgrown dirt road that led toward the canyon. The trees overhead blocked out the weak moonlight, leaving Irwa in complete darkness. She whispered hepisteis, forcing the flickering, rainbow energy of taw into form as she ran, w
rapping herself in a tight protective net. A second, simpler hepistys dispelled the darkness, but to her eyes only, so that she could approach the estate without giving herself away.
The tree line ended abruptly, terminating in a line of rotting stumps and, beyond that, cleared fields with flocks of sheep visible to Irwa’s enhanced gaze. A cluster of buildings sat at the top of the hill, blocking the mouth of the canyon, with a tall stone wall surrounding them. Over the wall, Irwa could see the tallest building in flames. Dark shapes moved along the walls, but the gates stood open, and people ran through the streets, their screams audible to Irwa.
Too late. I’m too late. Hynnar, Ishahb bless you, you had better be ok. Her legs trembled. The magic hung around her like an iron cloak. She hurried as best as she could up the road as it wound back and forth across the steps. Each step was agony. As she got closer, though, and the screams rang in her ears, fury filled her, and her pounding heart erased fatigue. She forced herself into a run.
People parted around her, nudged aside by the shell of magic, as Irwa pushed through the gate. Guards lay in pools of blood near the gate, some still alive and screaming. Most were still. People pushed each other. Most ran with no apparent direction, mindless in their panic. A few, however, had formed a bucket line stretching from a fountain to the large keep in the center of the estate.
Irwa ran forward, all tiredness forgotten. She saw one man from Meik’s band on the ground, his big-toothed smile forever ruined by the axe-blow that had severed his jaw. He still screamed wordlessly, but she could see enough blood to know that he would die soon. Irwa ran on. The big-toothed man, whose name she did not know, was fuel to the fire that raged within her.
Then she reached the keep. The iron-banded double doors stood open, revealing more slaughter within the halls. Men and women, unarmed and many in night-clothes, lay on the ground in their own blood. Irwa thought they were mostly servants, although she saw two men in mail, both hacked almost to pieces. The smell of blood and smoke and human waste filled her nose as she reached the doors, pairing oddly with the smell of beeswax and lye. The doors on the main floor had been kicked in, until they hung from hinges, the fine veneer splintered. Inside each room, Irwa found more bodies—more women and children, all dead. Slaughter, she thought. All dead, for no purpose.
This portion of the keep was still sound; the fires raged on the far side. Irwa worked her way across the ground floor, finding nothing but death and destruction. She returned to the great stairs and made her way to the second floor. The roar of the fire was louder here. A thick layer of smoke hung at the level of her head, making Irwa cough. The hepisteis would muffle the sound, but she crouched down anyway. Over the crackle of flames, Irwa heard shouts and metal clashing. She followed them, as best she could. The doors on this floor were still shut. Maybe I can still do something.
Even through her anger, and the fear that raced beneath it, Irwa felt exhaustion returning. She did not stop to check the rooms. Her steps brought her closer to the sounds of battle, although more than once she found herself following a dead-end hallway. Fire burned at the end of the next hallway she checked. Black smoke curled up from the varnished wood on the walls, swirling in the air of the open window nearby.
Open. Someone was nearby. Irwa ran, her gateway silencing the sound of her steps. She turned the corner.
Two men from Meik’s crew were fighting a single guard. His hair was gray almost to white, but he held the two men back, in spite of a long gash along his side.
As Irwa came to a stop, one of Meik’s men thrust, his sword sliding through the old man’s stomach. The guard slid to his knees, one hand going to cover the wound. He fell forward, gray head hitting the wooden floor.
Too late. Irwa let her power loose, cheira flashing from her hand. Fire was not her specialty, but the two jagged bolts of flame ripped through the highwaymen easily. The flames tore through their bodies and struck the wall behind them, leaving black soot marks on the paneling. The two men hit the ground at the same time.
Irwa ran forward. More men fought ahead of her, a mixture of Meik’s brigands and the remaining estate guards. At the far end, Irwa saw a dark-haired man, a Jaecan, wearing a loose, floral robe and holding a two-handed sword. The confines of the hallway hampered him, but the body of a brigand at his feet showed that he was not too inconvenienced.
One man turned to look, his eyes widening as he saw Irwa. He sees me. Irwa stopped, mouth suddenly dry. She did not remember his face from her captivity. The man was middle-aged, with a long, puckered scar that ran from the center of his forehead down to the tip of his nose. The one they call Split. The practitioner.
The spell she had use would not foil a practitioner, especially not the one whom Meik used to detect divinations and illusions. He stared at her, eyes fixed. For a moment, Irwa considered a more complex enchantment, something that would hide her from this man. That moment almost cost her her life.
A bolt of lightning forked out from the man’s hands. Irwa dove. The wall behind her exploded, sending chips of wood and stone flying. She let out a short scream as she hit the ground, a flash of pain running up her injured arm. Then she was scrabbling to her feet.
Another flash of light passed over her head. Irwa fell to her knees. She could smell singed hair. Behind her, she heard a scream—someone behind her. She did not spare whoever it was a glance. Still on her knees, she slammed open cheiron jal and spoke a hepistys. Thin black smoke filled the hall. To everyone else it would be darkness, like a shutter sliding closed on a lantern. Even the raging flames of the hallway behind her vanished. Everyone was blind except Irwa.
Split frowned, but he did not panic. His lips were already murmuring the hepisteis of another spell, and he shaped cheiron taw—a Khaman cheiron. Irwa did not wait. Cheiron taw opened for her as well, and the hepisteis sent a bolt of flame, white-hot, arcing from her hand in a continuous stream. It struck a barrier a finger’s breadth from Split’s skin and spread out. Ishahb take me, she thought. Of course the bastard has a shield up, and one so small that I never noticed it.
Irwa did not let the flames die. Split’s shield held. She spoke another hepistys and traced jal, the third gateway. Once all five had opened for her easily; now she could only open jal with great effort. The wood-paneled walls cracked in the superheated air of the flaming arc. The men in the hallway shouted as, even in the darkness, they realized their growing danger.
Sweat beaded on Split’s brow. Irwa clawed at cheiron jan, struggling to pry it open. It slipped and she pried at it, reaching deep down inside. Fear fluttered up, and it slipped away again. The flame glowed blue with heat. Split was still murmuring. Irwa ground her teeth in frustration. She could not maintain all her spells; her dress was dripping with sweat, and each breath was a gasp. She loosed her invisibility, trusting to the darkness for the moment. Tiny flames, visible to Irwa through the enchantment, appeared on the walls. Ishahb take me, I’m just making it worse.
Loosing the enchantment had freed up some of her strength and focus though. Irwa spoke a different hepistys, a word of breaking to shape the chaos still pouring through jal. It slipped off of Split’s shield like fingers on ice. The man grimaced. Irwa spoke another, sending the hepisteis out like picks, chipping away at the aura protecting the brigand. Irwa’s knees buckled, her strength fading. She hit the ground, fire still pouring from her hand.
The shield shattered. As the blue flame wrapped around Split, the man spoke a final word. He burst into flames, shrieking, limbs flailing. A disc of white light spread out from him, though, his final spell taking life. It raced across through the hallway, slicing men in half wherever it touched them, cutting through wood and stone and glass until it reached the night air, where it burst into brilliant flame and raced away until out of sight.
She felt strangely numb. Irwa reached up, touching the top of her head gingerly, expecting to find blood and brains. Coarse hair, shorter than ever, met her touch. Breathing a sigh of relief, Irwa stood up.
With a gesture, Irwa dispersed the darkness. Everyone in the hallway was dead, aside from her. The dar-molk’s handsome Jaecan face, lying on the ground next to his feet, was fixed in surprise. The other men in the hallway, guards and brigands alike, lay unmoving. Burns covered the man behind her, caught in the second spell intended for her.
Footsteps sounded from further ahead, past the dead dar-molk and his guards, then the crack of wood. “Watch the damn step,” a familiar voice said. “It gave out under me.” Eline emerged from a hallway. Irwa staggered, her stomach dropping out from under her. He looked the same, of course—it had been barely a fortnight. Same coarse, untrimmed beard. Same dark eyes, somehow managing to squint even as they widened at the slaughter in the hall. “Mund, Trich, hurry up, something’s gone wrong.”
“Meik finished already?” a voice asked.
Eline had not noticed her yet. He stepped into the hallway, walking carelessly over half of a guard, his eyes on the ground. He pulled behind him a woman on the edge of middle age, dressed only in a shift. The woman’s face grew pale when she saw the man in the floral robe. For a moment she wavered on her feet and she bit her lip. Blood trickled down, deep, dark red against her pale skin.
Gone were her thoughts of careful revenge. Gone the dark malice that had kept her warm after nights of screaming emptied her. The broken part of her, the missing piece, intruded on her then, the absence like a sword inside of her. Anger like white flame rushed through her, clouding her vision so that she could barely see. Fear lurked beneath it. The fiery anger fed on that flame, flaring up with each heartbeat.
Irwa traced jan. It crumbled, opening onto a flood of chaos. Streamers of rainbow light flared around her, lighting the hallway. Meik looked up, his face filled with wonder at the multicolored light. She spoke the hepisteis. Eline looked at her. Their eyes met.
The hepisteis flashed out. Simple, direct. A whirling blade of air sliced through flesh and bone. Eline’s head thumped to the ground. Blood fountained from his neck as the heart continued pumping, the erratic bursts slowing as his body fell over, joining the other dismembered corpses.
“He won’t touch you now,” Irwa said. The words felt flat. Eline’s hand still gripped the woman, and she pried at his fingers, leaving deep scratches in her own arm as she panicked.
Irwa’s anger vanished. She felt nothing. No satisfaction. Deadness. Emptiness.
Footsteps. “Ishahb’s beard,” came a voice, and another man pushed past the dark-haired, middle-aged woman. Irwa shaped cheiron jal. The action felt distant. The brigand flew backward to strike the far wall. Blood and brain splattered as bone and dark-stained wood cracked. His body slid to the ground.
The third man entered the hallway with sword drawn. Irwa remembered his face, but the memory of his cruelty felt like it was draped in gauze. Cheiron and hepistys, the most basic elements of power. It was all she could muster. A tapered spear of ice flew across the room, taking the man in the chest. This one screamed. Blood frothed at his mouth as he clawed at the transparent shaft. He gave a final jerk, his body rigid around the transfixed spear. Slushy crystals of frozen blood dripped from his mouth as he fell forward.
Irwa stared at the other woman. The middle-aged woman’s eyes were wide, fixed on the man who had died last. Irwa saw the horror in her eyes. The impact of that look felt so far away that Irwa barely brought herself to notice it. Flames crackled, painfully loud against the sudden silence in the hallway. “You need to leave,” Irwa said. “This building will burn to the ground.” The other woman did not stir. Irwa turned away; she had no further business here. Sacrifice. The fires would leave nothing but ash. Purification.
Hynnar stood behind her. His rough features were expressionless as he looked at the abattoir that the hallway had become. Two deep cuts ran across his chest, visible through his blood-stained wool coat, but the hand that held a massive sword was steady. “Come on,” he said. Irwa could barely hear him over the crackle of the flames. “You need to leave here.” He held out one hand.
Irwa took it. She could barely feel it. She stepped forward, past Hynnar. She would lead him out of this place. This time, she would save him.
Steel flashed.
Faster than she could believe, Irwa was pulled backward. Her arm ached from the strength of Hynnar’s grip. The big man’s sword came down in one blurred stroke. The man, his body covered in burns, fell back to the ground. A dagger as long as Irwa’s forearm lay in his hand.
Irwa trembled. Hynnar knelt and wiped his blade on the man’s shirt. “He wasn’t dead,” Hynnar said. “I guess he was waiting for you to come close enough; these burns are pretty bad.”
“It wasn’t me,” Irwa said. “Split did it. Did—” She stopped. She tried to wet her lips, but she was shaking so badly that she only managed to bite her tongue. Salty blood ran into her mouth, down her chin. “Did you know him?”
Hynnar took her hand again. “We need to leave.” He picked up the catatonic noblewoman, her eyes still fixed on the pink-stained icemelt that ran from the dead man’s chest. His muscles bulged, but Hynnar did not seem to strain at the woman’s weight.
He led Irwa out of the building. Irwa’s legs barely held her. She shook so badly that Hynnar had to come back and carry her down the stairs. It was not fatigue that made her shake. Horror, fear, hate all roiled within her, some for herself, some for the men that had done this to her. Ishahb bless me, that knife should have taken me. At least then it would have ended.
People filled the town square. Hynnar let go of Irwa’s hand for a moment to set down the older woman. Two men, as blond as Hynnar, though not as big, left the bucket line to tend to the woman. Irwa could not hear their words, she could not hear Hynnar’s explanation.
It did not matter. All she could feel was the raw wound inside, the piece of her that was missing. She focused, wrapping herself in magic again, and slipped away through the cloud. She did not look back to see Hynnar’s face again; she did not want to see what was in his eyes.
Some time later—she did not know how much later—Irwa found herself alone, in the cool darkness under the trees at the base of the mountains. Her enchantment was gone, her strength spent. She dropped to the ground and wept.
That night, she dreamed again of white fire that purged land and life, leaving only ashes and a burning red scar.