by Jenna Rhodes
“A winter. And what will this enemy of yours do in the winter?”
“He’ll go to ground. Take over a village near the trade road, loot its stores, bivouac his men. He won’t be looking for us. He’ll be biding his time until spring, if the winter hereabouts is as strong as I have been led to believe it is.”
“Portents and signs of the region have told us this will be a harsh winter. The road will be closed—most of it. There is a pass to the west that snow and ice will block. Your enemy will survive only if he hunkers down to the east.” An unspoken hope threaded through his words, that the winter would kill their enemy for them.
Rivergrace studied Cort’s face. “Our enemy cannot be killed easily. Not by weather or by weapon.”
That wiry eyebrow arched again. “Is that what he tried?” He looked at Sevryn.
“Yes.”
“And failed.”
“Because I wasn’t with him. I have Talents that would have helped.”
“Such as?”
Weariness had crept over Rivergrace, a fatigue that went all the way to her bones and sat there, like ice, through her body. But she put her hand out, palm up, and summoned flame. Cort rocked back in his chair.
“Not like her. Never like her. I share no blood with her, and I certainly don’t share her twisted ambition. But fire is a good weapon.”
Cort got to his feet, putting his chair between them as she closed her hand, snuffing the flame out. “You have water. And . . . fire.”
“You’ve seen it.” She got to her feet and began to attend to Sevryn’s limp form, turning him so that she could change the linens. “I’ve told you our truths, and add this. We need you to get us through the winter, but if you must turn us out, at least wait a week or two, until he’s on his feet. If you can.”
He let out a sigh. “I will let you know.”
“Thank you.” She turned her back on him as she worked and heard him go out the door, dropping the flap into place and then shutting the door behind him.
• • •
All she could do now was wait.
Wait for Quendius to make his next move. Wait for winter to drive Trevilara back to her palace. And wait for Sevryn to mend. She smiled softly to herself, thinking it was a blessing she didn’t have Nutmeg’s impatience.
Even so, she had worn herself to a nub waiting for him to awaken. Three days dragged by, even with her leaving long enough to go out with some of the women to set traplines and retrieve what small game they caught. She sat, tired, her legs stretched out in front of her, warmth returning to her chilled feet in now dry stockings when she caught a change in the rhythm of his breathing.
Grace did not believe it when Sevryn’s eyes opened, and he stared at her face for a long while as though he could not recognize her before wetting his lips to speak. She’d felt him awaken. It was the misrecognition that startled her. Then he caught his sense of her, and his eyes narrowed, soft gray eyes suddenly going hard.
“You are still here.”
She brought a ladle of cold water to his mouth and let him drink before answering, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“You must go. I’m not the one you expect.”
“Sevryn. A fever has you. Just drink for me.”
He flung a hand up as if to protect himself from a blow. “That one is gone.”
“Gone? What are you talking about? You’re here. You’re healing. I came and brought you back from Quendius. I have you.”
“You can’t.” His voice turned into a cold hiss. “There is no coming back. Sevryn is gone. There is no returning.”
“You’re spewing nonsense.” She hugged herself briefly. “I won’t listen to it.”
“You must. For your safety, for the safety of the others. Sevryn is beyond your reach.”
She put the ladle down and reached for a damp cloth instead, bathing his face and neck even as he turned from her.
“You waste your time.”
“Love cannot be wasted. I have it to give away. What you do with it is your decision. But I’m not leaving you, not like this.”
“I’ll heal, one way or the other.”
“You’re not driving me away.”
“I have to!” He lashed out at the cold cloth and batted it out of her hands. “Sevryn is gone, and all that’s left is what was forged from him, the king of assassins. I will live, but only so that I can kill.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No. I can see the clear light of what I’m meant to see, for the first time, as a Vaelinar. I was cast in this, but too foolish to recognize it until now. You’ve come as far as you can with me, and I’m telling you that now you must go. What filled Sevryn is now empty, and the only thing waiting to rush in . . . is anger. Anger and rage.”
She bent over, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look at her face. “I’m not giving up. I’m not afraid to live and you had better be cold-damned afraid of dying on me!”
“I’m not dying. Nor am I living. Do you understand?”
“Sevryn, he didn’t make an Undead of you. I know that.”
He shook his head slowly, a clench of pain stopping him. “He has me, and I’m caught between, in a cold hell where there is no living or dying or even undead. Do you understand? I’m a . . . a shade of what I should be. You can’t be around me. No one should. Put me out on the mountain for the winter to take. That would be the only kindness that will do me any good.”
“You think Quendius has you.”
“As chained to me as I can—” He stopped. Tugged his arm in the air as though physically pulling on the chain he meant. He tilted his head in consideration. “He has me and yet he doesn’t.” Sevryn’s gray eyes caught hers. “You’ve one hope. Chain me as well, and while my soul hangs in the balance, you might find a way to bring me back.”
“You’re here, now.”
“No. I talk to you, but my mind, my thoughts . . . do you know where Quendius is now, with the troops?”
“No. How could I?”
“I know. They’ve gone to ground, all but him. They have dug into old farm land where the dirt is relatively easy to dig, being fallow at the end of the season. They bury themselves against the cold and frost and rain. They’re going dormant.”
She thought about what he said. “Except for him.”
“Yes. He’s deciding whether to go find Trevilara or stay near the troops. He doesn’t fear villagers from nearby. They’ll either accept him or die. I damaged him and he needs healing, but he’ll survive.” Sevryn paused before adding coldly, “I can hear his thoughts even as he thinks them.” He closed his eyes tightly.
She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t listen.”
Sevryn’s eyelids flickered, like a man caught in a nightmare. “He will kill all the Vaelinars he can. End this world. He can feel its throes beginning under Trevilara. He enjoys it.” His eyes opened again. “Then he’ll bring all the death he can muster back across the bridge to Kerith.”
“We knew that.” Or they had guessed it, at the least. Rivergrace rocked back on the stool and turned away from Sevryn’s face. The expression in his eyes, the tone of his voice—as though he was a stranger to her. She didn’t think she could fear death having died once, but this terrified her. To be alone. To be disconnected from memories of life and love. Did Sevryn drift as alone as he sounded? She raised her hand to his face. He flinched but did not push her hand away.
She had marked him. Put a small anchor on him so that he might find her if she became lost again, when they crossed. That briefest of touches, slightest of holds, still lay on him. It must be all that kept him from being swept over into nothingness and belonging to Quendius.
She wove it stronger, that spider silk of a thread. Wove it with all the heart she could, and hope, and brightness. After all they had been through, she could not, would not, lose him n
ow. Not like this. There would be a day when they both would leave the material world again, perhaps together, more likely apart, but they would not be sheared away from their souls and the lightness of their memories when they went. Gods willing.
When she finished, she dropped her hands into her lap, as spent as if she’d run down and back up the mountain, her chest tightening for air.
“Are you finished?”
“For now.”
“When I am healed. When winter thaw hits, you must let me go.”
She had stood up and begun to turn away. Rivergrace stopped in her tracks. “Go where?”
“To him. He’ll accept me. He’ll think he has me. And when the moment is right, I’ll turn on him. I’ll kill him and then myself, and we’ll be done. You’ll be able to go home.”
“Not without you.”
“There is no me. This . . . is a shell. What is left is a thing not to be desired or loved. It has no capacity for that.” He turned his face from her. “You’ll have to turn me out. I’m deadly if you don’t. Everyone here is endangered.”
“I’ll bring you back.”
“And if you can’t?”
“That is a bridge we’ll cross when we have to.” She began to move away, but he caught her by the wrists.
His gray eyes looked like a storm coming, darkening. “And if you can’t, know this. When I recover, Quendius will find it very hard to kill me. That is good news. The bad news is—so will you, if you have to. Rage is all I have left. Think on it. The better decision might have to be made now.” He dropped her hands. His eyes closed, shuttering away the storm that approached. She could feel an energy leave the small hut as he dropped into sleep.
Grace stood, rubbing her wrist where the cold reached all the way to her bones, setting in an ache she did not know if she could chafe away. He’d warned her. She moved to tuck a stray lock of his hair from a bloodied bandage over one eye. He slapped her fingers away.
She couldn’t abandon him. She had woven him a lifeline and she didn’t intend to let go.
“Aderro,” she murmured softly. He muttered a soundless answer as he turned on his side, already nearly asleep.
But he’d answered her endearment. Not snarled or slapped away. Answered.
She would take whatever hope was being offered.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
TREVILARA ENTERED HER ROOMS and shed her gown, dropping its silken folds to the floor as soon as the flames went out, and kicked it aside. The blanket of warmth and protection snuffed out, leaving her in her underclothes. Her bare skin immediately felt the chill of the room and the cold draft flowing through it. She thought of summoning her fire again, but fatigue pulled at her, yanked at every fiber of her body. Power. She needed more power. Each day it became more difficult for her to summon what she needed. Her people weakened. She needed a new people: tougher, more resilient, with more magic in their core to offer her. She ran her fingertips over her torso and down the inside of her arms. As always, her skin quivered slightly under her touch, so very sensitive because of the constant flames despite the moisture barrier she kept up, but she prided herself on her mastery of two elements. She was, without a doubt, the most exemplary manipulator her world had ever seen, and she would only increase. She leaned down and stroked her legs, from the inside of her ankles up to the top of her thighs, where her silken drawers stopped her touch. The sensations buzzing over her heightened sense was much like that of having had the sun reddening the skin too much, reminding her of how dangerous fire could be. As she herself could be.
She straightened and realized the cold draft into her rooms came from more than not having a fire set at the hearth yet. Trevilara took a few steps forward to her weapons stand, wrapping her hand about the hilt of the crossbow leaning up against it. Her favorite sword rattled a bit within the stand as she did so. The crossbow came up, already wound and ready, two lethal bolts in place.
A deep voice, speaking her native language but with an accent it took her a moment to unravel, came to her. “Surely there is a consort within this vast palace who could stroke your skin and bring much more satisfaction.” A drape rustled and moved aside. Silvery against the corner’s shadow, the trespasser stood with one shoulder to the frame of the window he’d left open to the wintry night, the corner of his mouth tilted in an amused smile.
“I would ask how you got into my rooms, but an answer would beg the obvious. Instead of how, I ask why.”
“But we haven’t explored all of the how yet. How is it I do not sleep with my men, as your spies reported to you? How is it I know it was you who accosted me on the road? How is it you have come to be allied with my enemies from my past?”
Her mouth stretched into a tight line before she answered slowly. “As for the hibernation of your troops, it is not unreasonable to think I have spies posted who would observe and report to me. As to your enemies, I’ve not met with anyone save yourself since my Tide Caller disappeared. And to the third point, I’ve no idea.”
“You wore the skin of a dead woman, and betrayed yourself. You know little of me, but you should know in your very bones that I recognize and welcome Death. You might call me the Death Bringer. Your attempt at a disguise demeaned you and belittled me. I can forgive the spying—it’s something I myself have been doing, and expect of a ruler. Presenting yourself as the spy tells me only that you cannot always rely on those you think you can. As to the last . . . either you lie or you do not. We all have enemies, do we not?” He looked upon her, his dark eyes as harsh as coal, and spread his open hands. “That crossbow won’t kill me. I don’t believe I can be killed, at least not in the conventional way.”
Trevilara looked him up and down. “You’ve recently healed scars. That tells me you can be injured. Some of them look . . . grievous.”
“I do. But the man who came at me had the skills of an assassin and could not bring me down.” He rubbed a forearm ruefully. “Not for lack of trying, however. I learned a lesson from that encounter.”
“So it was not in vain.”
“Not for me. For him, perhaps. He’s now tied to me, his soul is on my chain, and I will be winding it in soon.” He pantomimed jerking a line to his chest and stood for a moment, fist curled to his rib cage.
Her eyebrow rose. “What do you mean?”
“His lifeline is anchored to me. He cannot live or die without my pulling him to it. If you can, look at me . . . I am weighed with many such lines.”
Her other eyebrow arched, matching the height of the first. Did this arrogant being not truly understand who she was and what she could command? Did he think he could stand and insult her, and live? Why did he not fall to his knees at the mention of the Tide Caller, the man who strode across two worlds and more? Because despite his confidence, he reeked of ignorance. Ignorance and the peat fires of the village where he’d been holed up against the winter.
Trevilara licked lips gone suddenly dry. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for her action. She should fire her bolts despite his argument against their ineffectiveness, and take him down for his insolence. To whom did he think he spoke? Yet she hesitated, for the color of his skin.
The color of his skin spoke of a long line of sorcerer-kings, that rare charcoal hue that indicated great strength of mind and will. Did he know what blood he had in his veins, or had the exiles become such mongrels they had no clue?
“Perhaps,” he said, “I am mistaken. Perhaps these are not the rooms of the incomparable Queen Trevilara, and I’ve accosted the wrong woman. A well-favored servant, perhaps. My time is valuable. I should spend its coin elsewhere,” and he began to turn away.
She spat. “You speak of much and understand little.”
He paused. “Am I worth educating, then, to you? You look but don’t see me.” He turned slowly about, like a slave on display, his mocking smile growing broader, his muscles rippling, a prim
itive, hulking, fine figure of a man. Her lips grew even drier and she licked them again.
With a slight inhalation, she brought her Sight up to see what he claimed, many dark but fine threads bound to him. They seemed almost insubstantial and not of this realm or plane, but she could sense they were very real. Chains, if she looked closer, anchored from deep within his chest and stretching out to finally disappear in the air, extended until they could no longer be seen with any vision. They were not unlike the bindings she had upon her own people, tapping the power they gave her to rule. Her bonds were not chains, however. Trevilara preferred to think of them as stepping stones, stones that would pave the way to Godhood. She anchored to magic, not souls, although there were those philosophers and dissidents who claimed they were one and the same. If she could get near enough to touch those the trespasser wore, she might be able to discern how he’d spun them. His seemed more efficient and less of a burden.
Trevilara pursed her mouth in thought. She carefully lowered the crossbow to the floor, near the corner of her bed. His smile opened wider as he watched her.
“You have a definite Talent for imprisoning the dead,” she told him.
“Oh, they’re not dead. Not quite. And they don’t want to be, so they hold far tighter to these chains than I do. They know a cold hell awaits them when they let go.”
“So they follow you.” She closed another few steps between them, seemingly unaware of drawing closer.
“They’re fighting men. They have little else to do in this or any world except follow the wars.”
“And you.”
“And me.” He inclined his head.
She edged another step and then paused, her nostrils flaring. “You stink.”
“My men carry a certain stench with them, and I am close to that. It doesn’t stink to me, however. To me it smells like loyalty and power.” He countered with a move forward of his own. “They will do anything I ask of them and they are extremely difficult to be taken down.”