The Queen of Storm and Shadow

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Quendius has to know. It’s—it’s like pulling Kerith behind him. He has to feel its weight, its presence.”

  She shook her head. “He cares nothing for life, never has. I think the only thing he can truly sense is death and dying. So Kerith doesn’t exist for him in the way that the here and now does.”

  “That is a blessing in its way, then.” Sevryn laid his hand over hers. “We can end him here and find our way across.”

  “We’re not ready.”

  “We’ll never be ready, because the answers we need to some of our questions can’t be found until we confront him. Until I confront him.” Her hand grew chilled under his. “You can’t cross Trevilara, Grace.”

  “I know you don’t want me to, but it may be inevitable.”

  “But not yet.”

  She slipped her hand away from his. “That remains to be seen.” She bolstered herself on both elbows, aware that the ground under them had frozen and despite the blanket they’d thrown down, it remained uncomfortable. Below her, Quendius and his troop remained on course toward Trevilara’s Throne City. She could feel faint tugs on her soul strings, urging her to follow after. Her mouth tightened. Her father’s enigmatic remarks to her remained no clearer than they were on the day that he died and left her alone with the burden of stopping Quendius. She backed onto her knees. She felt weary. She slept at night but it never seemed enough anymore. Did the winter weigh on her, with its dark and dreary days and bone-cracking cold? Or was it from within rather than without? Did she pine for home and family, or did something inside her chip away at the self she’d always known? Was it the soul strings? Made with her own will and a pinch of Cerat . . . was it enough for the demon to eat her, inside out?

  She lifted her chin. “How wearing is it on you to Compel?”

  “It’s part of my Talent, it’s natural.”

  “I know that, that’s not what I mean.”

  He rolled over on his back to eye her. “Then what do you mean?”

  “Does it sap you? Can you do it on the run while you’re attacking?”

  “Not usually, and yes . . . usually.” His eyebrow went up. “What are you thinking?”

  “We should go after him. Now.”

  “We’re not prepared.”

  “You, perhaps. I’m as prepared as I will ever be. We know we can’t let the two of them ally, but that is what he is marching to, Throne City. By the time he reaches it, he will have passed every test she could have set for him. He will be worthy. We can’t let that happen! They cannot partner. Once they do, our task will be nearly insurmountable.”

  “It will be that much more difficult, I agree, but what do you find so daunting?”

  “It’s what you already said, that should we bring down Trevilara but not Quendius—he will simply raise her up as one of his Undead.”

  “Gods and cold hells.” He looked down at the road as the marchers began to come into clear view. “So we are in accord that he has to be dealt with first. But that does not mean that I agree with you that now is the moment.”

  “We don’t have our own army. We won’t ever get one.”

  “But we do have friends.”

  “People who have no idea of who we really are, or what we have planned. We can’t drag them into this, Sevryn. Every day is an exercise in survival, nothing more noble or long-termed than that. If we drag them into our struggle, we take even survival away from them.”

  He sucked air through his teeth. “With Trevilara gone, their lives will be better.”

  “There will be a power struggle in her absence. I think there’s a good chance the greater population will still be striving.”

  “Yes, but their goals will be their own, the reward not shared, the punishment for failure lessened. Is that not better?”

  He shrank back a little so he could kiss her forehead, just above her eyebrow. “One can hope.”

  “Exactly. We can give them hope, and that’s no small thing, is it?”

  “Never.”

  Thick brambles edged the trade road, but they bent before him, giving him a way to ease through. Vaelinar magic. She wondered if this world had ever seen magic like the two of them held. He put his mouth to the curve of her ear.

  “Can we do this?”

  She gave a jerky nod.

  • • •

  Sevryn claimed the shadows as he advanced on Quendius. He could catch the slight noise of slow moving water, a brook or river trying to resist the edges of ice that had formed on its banks overnight and now melted slowly. Rivergrace followed in his wake, not quite as adept as he, but quiet enough that she did not ruin his efforts. When her touch grazed him, her cage of souls bit, like a sharp snap of energy, buzzing in his ears. The slightest touch transferred the pull to him. He put his hand back to slow her.

  “Don’t follow me any closer.”

  “You’ll need me.”

  He might. He knew that he might, and so did she. “When I do, then,” he conceded. He pulled aside a bit of bracken and saw Quendius on the riverbank, watching his troop, some mounted but most on foot, ford the river. The river would give him something of a boundary but not enough once he attacked. He said over his shoulder, “Can you make a wall out of that river?”

  “Possibly. It wouldn’t hold long. The best I could do would be to bring it up, floodtide. Without a good downstream flood, it would subside to its normal level soon.”

  “All I need are a few moments.” He pressed her hand tightly. “If anything goes wrong, get out of here. Any way you can.”

  “I won’t leave you behind.”

  “It won’t be me anymore if he gets a hold on me. You know that.”

  Silence answered him. She did know it, all too well.

  He got on one knee, waiting until the last trooper crossed the ford and Quendius stirred in his saddle, shifting his weight to lean forward and rein his horse after. There was a moment when he knew he’d seen something he hadn’t quite identified, something important that escaped him, and it nagged at him even as he pulled a throwing star. He heard Rivergrace murmur a soft word or two, and then the river rose, surging about its banks in a flurry of white water and foam.

  Quendius’ horse backed up nervously, fighting the bridle, eyes going white with fear. He let out a shout, of anger and command, and it rang out over the roar of the river. Sevryn launched to his feet, stars flying. The first thunked deep into the shoulder and the second grazed the neck. Quendius bailed from his saddle, landing on his feet, and tore the star loose. The horse wheeled away where it ran into a tree stump and halted, jerking its head up and whinnying in dismay.

  The shadows bled away from Sevryn. Quendius stopped casting about for his attacker and straightened to face him.

  “So. I called for one to follow me from Kerith, but you’re not that one.” He tossed the crimson-stained weapon from one hand to another, avoiding the many sharp edges. “I don’t place the clothing, but I do know the weapon.” He turned it in his fingers and then set his eyes on Sevryn again, frowning a bit. “My forge boy,” he finished, in recognition.

  “Never yours.”

  “I remember differently.” Quendius examined the star again. “I didn’t create this, but it’s good work.” He tossed it into the dirt behind him. “Just not good enough to put me down.” And he began to close the ground between them.

  The frothing water border that Rivergrace called up continued to hold, but Sevryn could see the troops milling on the other side. It was then that he realized what had been nagging at him. It drove a cold lance through him.

  The colors of Trevalkan troops blended in and amongst the dirty rags of the older Undead.

  They were too late. Quendius had already met up with Trevilara, and although he could have taken the men in a skirmish, the possibility of an alliance existed.

  He pulled his sword and dagger
. “Run, Grace. Now.”

  Without a look back, he closed with Quendius, confident she would do as they’d discussed, and the sound of blades clashing sang through the air. It should be quick and dirty.

  • • •

  She gathered herself, preparing to bolt back through the shadows Sevryn had draped over their passage and which lingered still, as though the winter sun weren’t strong enough to dissipate them. She could hear the grunts and gasps and sounds of those bodies circling, attacking, falling back, circling again, testing one another’s strength and speed and agility. Sooner or later, one of those blows would cleave flesh.

  She could feel her control on the river begin to slide away from her, water running through her fingers. Grace clenched her hands and plunged back the way they’d come, brambles pricking and tearing at her as if angry she’d left Sevryn behind. She shrugged and pushed her way through, punching if she had to, knowing the roar of the river would cover her for a few more moments and then she would have to drop to her stomach and find whatever concealment she could use to get back to the hillocks beyond.

  Without Sevryn. Her mouth dried, and her pulse beat tightly in her throat. She could live through much without him. Torturous days behind Narskap and the Undead had taught her that. Those days had also taught her that she did not wish to. He completed her. He was the person to whom she would turn when she was troubled or when she was happy.

  A recalcitrant bramble blocked her way and she fought with it for a moment, finally bending it out of the way, twisting its branch back upon itself, with much tearing of fingertips. She cast a look back and saw no pursuit, the small river still in flood but its surge wall gone. Overhead, a singular silver thread arched through the air, as tenuous as a spider’s single silk, catching a bit of sunlight and shining brightly. She could not reach it even if she tried, and as she looked upon it, she realized that she looked at another soul anchor, not black or gold as those she wore, but a living string, arcing across a spiritual plane, where she could not touch it. Not by reaching up with her hands.

  She did reach out, spinning out a bit of her own soul, as if she might tap into it herself and as her exploration crossed it, energy sizzled at her, a bolt of stinging bite. Yet she knew it, and knew it well: Sevryn’s anger and spirit zapped at her. She recoiled, curling her hand back against her chest. But it wasn’t Sevryn’s soul spinning across this line. She tasted Quendius, with the blood-and-sulfur accent of Cerat underneath. Foulness filled her throat, and she spat to one side. She fought not to retch again. No time for weakness.

  He had indeed met with Trevilara and, with or without her knowing, he’d spun a link between them. He pulled on strength and power sunk deep on the other end of that strand, and she knew there was no way Sevryn could defeat him, not with this well of power feeding him. She had to sever that conduit, no matter what she’d promised, no matter what it took. She tasted the line again, foul and corrupt as it was, with sparks of Sevryn dancing along it and she feared that Quendius had spun a hook into him as well. She should have stayed.

  Rivergrace caught her breath a moment. Then she pinched off a bit of herself, to forge her own chain, her own line, and tossed it across the silvery cord above her, one bit of ethereal power across another. It caught. She felt it surge deep inside her, throttling her ability to breathe as it set her heart to drumming loudly in her ears. It tried to set its hooks into her, to take her up into its network, and her whole body seemed to waver about her. Her vision grew dim. She could feel her blood cool in her body. The brambles that had been setting her skin on fire faded away to nothing. She felt herself start to drift away, her life braided into the very line she needed to destroy.

  Grace raised her hand, skin so translucent she thought she could see the vessels carrying her blood clearly, the sinews and bones of her fingers and down into her wrist. The emptiness of not being tore her remains away, layer by layer. She gritted her teeth and reached down deep inside, where Quendius did not have his hooks set yet, and then poured the energy she found coiled there out of her. Out and into that bright strand, brilliant sparks hitting where one met the other and then—SNAP! The chain shattered. Energy rained back into her, all around her, bouncing like tiny bits of hail. Bits here and there felt tainted, and she rolled away from the corruption as her sight cleared.

  She could smell fire then and knew she hid not far from the fiery being of Queen Trevilara. She hitched up on her elbows and crawled closer, the thicket fighting back now that Sevryn’s influence dissipated. The heat told her when she’d drawn near. Rivergrace lifted her head and saw the woman standing by the side of the road, all but naked except for a few shreds of clothing and the orange-and-blue flames that licked as high as her creamy white shoulders. A skin, not unlike that which might have been shed by some great snake, lay about her ankles and feet. For a long heartbeat, that’s exactly what she thought it was until she saw it had a face, crumpled and boneless, in its ruins.

  The woman stood with her hands out and took a great, leaping breath of air as though she, too, felt the instant relief of the bond being cut off. She cast about, eyes wide and luminous, Vaelinar eyes of gold and brown and green, her nostrils flared slightly as if she might scent something as well, every portion of her body on alert. She knew somebody was nearby, even if she did not quite know who or where.

  Rivergrace had gotten close, very close, to the edge of the road where Trevilara waited or had been abandoned or ruled, so close that she could see the colors in those eyes very clearly. So close that the circle of flames ringing Trevilara sent its heat over Grace. She thought of roasting and narrowed her eyes against the searing air being cast off and then saw that the queen shed water like tears, a faint but dewy cloak of them, to keep herself from being annihilated.

  They shared Talents, the two of them, dominion over fire and water. Rivergrace got to her knees, thinking on what she knew of herself, her strengths and her weaknesses, and understood why Sevryn feared her meeting this woman. She was as nothing compared to Trevilara. She did not have the power it took to keep the elements balanced against each other and yet at work near constantly.

  She also realized why no one had ever been able to take down the tyrant. Like fine hairs that dapple the skin naturally, a thousand thousand bits of soul waved about her. Infinitesimal Talents and lives woven into Trevilara’s essence maintained her. Grace doubted that anyone had ever been able to approach her without the queen’s express permission.

  However, she had that one, singular chink in her armor. Trevilara knew that someone had just been leeching off her. Did she know who?

  Rivergrace shoved herself to her feet.

  Trevilara came fully about to meet her, flames rolling and cresting over each other before settling like ocean waves breaking upon a shore. “Who are you and where have you come from?”

  “I’m no one, but I crossed the bridge you made.” Grace leaned forward, putting steel into her voice, wishing that she had a smidgen of Sevryn’s Talent.

  “Did you?” Trevilara tried not to show interest, but she looked Grace over, carefully. “You’re Vaelinar, so if you’re telling the truth, you’re a traitorous exile like the rest of them. You’re the reason this world is poisoned.”

  “I’m not ignorant like those you keep your heel upon. Your gatekeeper isn’t coming back to you. Daravan is dead. And we are different on my world. We have power.” And she gave a flick of her hand, bringing a wash of rain out of the air, to douse Trevilara’s flames. Smoke and ash hissed into the air. Before the queen could react, she pulled her blade and stepped inward. “I weakened you. I cut you off from your souls—” She ran the palm of her hand down Trevilara’s arm. “And I will end you here in your tracks.”

  “The best assassins are silent,” Trevilara responded. She turned on one bare foot, bringing up a blade of flame, swinging in one quick motion that Rivergrace could not quite block. The weapon jolted against hers, spilling heated a
ir and fire over her, while Trevilara kicked out with her foot, hooked her behind the leg, and brought her down, all in one smooth movement that made Rivergrace realize that the queen did not rely solely on her Talents to keep herself alive.

  She twisted as she fell, to keep from landing on her own long dagger. Trevilara knocked it aside as Grace tried to turn it and thrust it upward, with half a thought because the other half was bringing up her own shroud of dew so that the fire could not burn. She curled a lip as she looked up, defiant, wondering at the back of her mind what she could try next to kill the queen. Because if she did not—here and now—Trevilara would trace her steps back to the river and find Quendius and whatever might be left of Sevryn, and their mission here would be lost. Kerith would be lost.

  “I’m not afraid to die to bring you down.” And she wasn’t. She could expend everything she had, and it might be enough. Might.

  “And you think that’s a strength, do you?” Trevilara looked down at her. “Anyone can die, and while it’s true that fearlessness can make one bolder, it’s not enough. You need the will to live, at all costs, the need to survive to beat me. And you haven’t got it. Because you’ve tasted death once, you’re not afraid of it—and you should be. You should be afraid to lose every chance you have to eat and drink of what life has to offer down to the very last crumb and drop. You need to honor the life that you hold.” She pushed her booted toe into Rivergrace’s rib cage. More than a nudge, less than a kick.

  It should have been a kick. One that would have knocked the breath and sense out of her, but because it wasn’t, Grace lashed out, slammed her arm into the back of Trevilara’s knee. As they touched, she summoned the last of her strength, shaped it into an icy lance from the waters raining down her skin and knifed it deep into flesh, sinew, and bone. Trevilara screamed. The sound itself became a weapon, slashing at Rivergrace’s eardrums and skull so that she rolled free, grasping at her face to muffle it, even as Trevilara fell to one knee on the ground. She fisted one hand and brought up her wall of flames, fire that hissed and spat against Grace’s skin but did little to harm her, unable to even turn her tears to steam. She rolled away and rose to her feet, as the ring of fire licked upward and danced a closed circle about the queen. The heat seared off her face and Grace retreated five quick skip steps backward, before throwing her hand up, palm out, and bringing up her own cooling mist thicker and icier.