by Jenna Rhodes
The stag pawed a foot as if growing restless while Sevryn jumped lightly to the ground beside her. Sevryn cleared his throat, caught by the hunger the Undead felt, even though he was a shade, a being caught in between with all the haunts and none of the advantages of either the living or the Undead. He’d been eating meals daily, so he was not starved by hibernation as they’d been, yet that hunger had burrowed through him, and his skin paled with it. He looked fit. He looked like both the man she loved and the beleaguered being she hobbled with her love. He hadn’t recovered, although she’d given him a lifeline to seize and follow, so why hadn’t he? He stood, King of the Assassins, and she realized now that he was coin to be spent, a weapon to be thrown at a target, and she no longer had the choices she thought she might. She would probably lose him. Rivergrace turned her gaze away as her eyes began to fill with tears she didn’t have time to shed.
She grasped at threads of action. “I’m going to incapacitate Quendius. Whether it will be enough to stop him, I can’t tell you. I don’t think we’ll have another chance to go after him without bringing down his anger on innocents.” The thought of what his retaliation on others would be gave her a shiver. They already had a taste of what the Undead had done upon awakening.
He limbered his hands. “And the army?”
“Fire should do it, confuse and perhaps even drive them off. They’re like dry tinder, and so they should run, leaving him vulnerable.”
“Any advantage you can give me.” He quirked an eyebrow. “And you?”
“I,” she stated firmly, “have Trevilara.”
“She nearly killed you before.”
“And he nearly destroyed you. But we are wiser and stronger now, I think, and we have come to this, as we knew we would. I’m not afraid to die.” To live? To live as herself with or without Sevryn? Possibly. She wanted her home, the Farbranches, Lariel and Bistane, the sweet Andredia and the Silverwing Rivers, the taste of a Tolby-grown apple, all of it. She loved Kerith. She wanted it safe. The thought of Trevilara invading it, pouring her corruption over the borders into the lands of her home, steeled her. No. By all the ice in cold hell, no. Not her family and friends and people. She leaned down, dusting off the green-and-russet leathers that fit her well, and held weapons within pockets and sheaths, just as his own clothing did, setting herself just as he had. She knew what weapons she had: flame and water, bow, blades, and will, and her tie to the netherworld between living and death. She mastered storm and shadow. Far behind, beyond the curving of the road, she could see a dust cloud forming. Trevilara’s troops were not far behind their queen and whatever she and Sevryn could do, they had to do it now. She reached inside herself and pulled up dark cloud and fire within it, and all the rain she could muster up. Storm and lightning wrenched their power from what she had locked away deep inside, and it hurt as they tore loose, bringing her to her knees until she put her hands to the ground and filled the well inside of her, dew dappling her from head to toe. The horizon danced with the fury she unleashed, yet so distant was it she could not hear the roll of thunder nor taste the sizzle of the lightning. Grace forced her thoughts to center again. She looked up to find him watching her. He put his hand down to haul her to her feet.
“What happens to me?”
“When I cut you loose?”
“Yes.”
“You find your way back or not. I can’t help you more than that except to tell you.” She leaned down again, fussing with a boot lace. “I love you.”
“You’ve power. Bring me back if you have a care for me. Before I go after Quendius.”
She shook her head slightly, not thinking it possible, that it would empty her of all she had and still not be enough. She had enough love for both of them, but he needed to open up that part of him, to search for himself in the void where he drifted because even though she could keep him from being lost forever, she could not bring him home. He had to want that. He had to find his way back. All she could do was show him the light awaiting him.
She tugged on the essence of herself, water and flame, and considered its threads in the air and whether she could weave him a lifeline and realized, to her sorrow, she could not. She’d already woven one for him, and he’d ignored it. It still floated in the netherworld somewhere, if only he were not so blind that he could not sense it.
Rivergrace touched his cheek. He flinched as if she’d struck him. She tried to tell him. “Think of all night, the night that covers all those who are lost and all those who are gone. There is a window onto that night, with the glow of an everlasting and burning lantern hung in it. Search for that light, Sevryn. If there are shadows, there is a light. There is an anchor and a rope to grasp.”
“I’m blinded to it!” He spat.
“I’ll keep that lantern lit, but you must find it, however you will. By sight or feeling the heat of it or even by the smell of what fuels it or the sound of it in the dark. There exists a way to find it. If I could, I would put it in your palms.” She half-turned away. She wanted, with all her heart, to reach out and take hold of him, until the old light came back in his eyes and the word aderro, beloved, truly meant something in his soul. She couldn’t feel it for him, and they both knew it.
“I’m afraid I’ll drag you down with me.”
“Don’t fear. Hope. I have my own anchors. A silver river glows through my night, and a sister’s smile, and the memory of you, burning brightly. I know what awaits me.”
Sevryn shrugged uneasily. “I shrink from what awaits me.”
“Then we’ve already lost everything, you and I, but they haven’t. Not Nutmeg or Lara or Tolby and Lily and all the others. Not yet. Not until we fail here, and I don’t intend to fail. You do what you’ve been trained to do and put what heart you’ve left to that. Can you do that for me?” He put his fingers under her chin and brought her gaze back to meet his.
“Free me, and we’ll deal with whatever may come.” He looked steadily into her eyes.
Grace nodded. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could offer.
A shout upon the road brought their attention about sharply, and she looked to see Quendius had reached Trevilara and swept her up in his arms. The portal hanging in the sky shook as though a great wind struck it. She felt it, the burning queen, and twisted in his embrace to point at the gate. Quendius roared as though he’d been blind himself and she now let him see. It had followed him, but he’d had no mastery of it. It gave her heart to know that but, at the same time, Trevilara showed the power she held over it. Daravan’s cursed legacy, this bridge, this culmination of all elven Ways.
“Forgive me,” she called to Sevryn and burst into a run, carrying her to the road. Sevryn shouted hoarsely behind her, to stop her, and his cry turned Quendius and Trevilara about.
Her heart and breath thundered through her and her soul caught on fire as she touched the demon she’d used to bind hapless souls to herself as well as to Quendius. She pulled on Cerat through her strings, buried deeper within her; the demon splinter of darkness and unquiet and unending ambition and hatred rose up in answer as she promised him freedom and a hero to conquer, his triumph of power dropping her to her knees yet again.
She did not fight to get up this time. Quendius shouted at her, but her ears filled with Cerat’s growling triumph, deafening her to all else. She surrounded him with the shining silver of her inner self, that river of life biting at him, keeping him at bay, sending him out of her skin and into the chains writhing about her. Gold and silver and ebony, sparking with snaps of wildfire and magic, the cage surrounded her. She raised her arms up in supplication, in hope, and snapped the cage that bound her even as she unbound them, and the God sparks leaped free. Power arced through the air. Cerat surged within them, his visage with jaws open to devour what was rightfully his, that which had been pledged from the very beginning: the half-lives of the Undead. She could see them swarm Quendius, enveloping him.
> Quendius staggered back, his charcoal gray skin paling as the force hit him, all his army, all their pieces of Cerat, never diminished no matter how many times the demon had been divided to make new Undead. Cerat filled him, rushing in with a victorious shout. The other’s body twisted about in raw agony and the sounds of his sinews and bones stretching, cracking and popping, could be heard across the span. Then he straightened with effort—and grew. And grew.
Chapter
Fifty-Nine
THE VISION OF QUENDIUS, grown to colossal, burned itself into his eyes just before the blow hit him. Sevryn felt himself snap in two when she released her hold on him. The moment of whirling away into nothing took all his senses away and then back into him, hitting as hard as a bolt, knocking the breath out of him. He fought to breathe. Then he fought to see and feel as his eyes bolted open and he saw Quendius gain the flank of his horse where he retrieved that great sword. The weaponmaster towered over the horse as he hefted the sword in the air, both diminished next to his bulk. The being turned about and grinned in his direction, and crooked his finger, beckoning. “Come to me!”
His heart leaped into his throat at that, hot blood coursing through him to replace the moment of cold fear. His bowels twisted and he wanted to run—needed to run—but could not. The compulsion to obey jumped in him as well and he shoved it down, pushing aside the will to join Quendius, either as part of the army or to meet him in combat. The urge to battle shoved aside his fear. He desired to launch across the road after Quendius, to tackle and bring him down to size. He had to, but his training compelled equally. Sevryn ducked into the bracken and thickets, loosed his Voice and asked to be taken in and hidden, to have the darkness. The world butted against him and he took a moment to answer its challenge, seconds moving in desperation, and then it opened to him. Sevryn laced his way through the dark, his target in sight. Quendius bellowed in frustration as he lost sight of Sevryn.
“Come out, you bit of shit on my boot heel! Come and face me like the man I know you are not!” The sword cut the air about him in a great arc, singing its need for violence. His army, roused, began to shuffle into position near him.
Even as he went to one knee, Sevryn realized he’d left Rivergrace behind. He looked back over his shoulder to see if she’d gone to ground as well, but there was no sign of her. He would send up a prayer if he knew one he could trust, but not with these Gods and not with his own lack of heart. What prayer could he make that would be heard? He shoved that worry aside along with the others and gave himself up to the hunt and the prey and the fight awaiting him.
The sword swung again, and he swore it sang just overhead, so close and loud and sinister its sound. He answered with a call of his own as if he were also made of sharp and tempered metal.
Quendius turned, peering into the underbrush. “So you are near. Come out then and meet me, or are you afraid of the shackles of your slavery once again? My blade tells me it wishes to taste sweet meat.”
Eagerness made him shudder, reminding him of a war dog waiting to be unleashed, but Sevryn held still another moment. Just another moment longer. He edged closer into position.
Fire shot up with a crackle and roar of heat, and the Undead fell back with cries and moans in their throats, arms flung up to shield their faces. Embers shot outward, falling about them, bits of uniforms going up with a fizz before smoldering out as they smacked themselves and each other, and every one of them fell back from their leader with a shuffling wariness. Flames reflected orange and blue on their gray faces, dancing with an eerie light over their dead, impassive surfaces. Their panic showed in their movement, quickening and furtive, leaving Sevryn a shot at getting close to Quendius but giving him no clue how he could avoid the man’s now gigantic reach.
Two hand daggers against that reach and that sword meant any close combat would be suicidal. Even with a sword . . . Sevryn crouched on one knee, weighing his options. He might muscle a weapon off one of the Undead, that he could manage, and get through the flames with little or no injury, but staying outside the striking ability of Quendius would also put him outside doing his foe any damage. And he wanted to bring Quendius down. Needed to, if only to protect Rivergrace and Kerith. Rivergrace who had taken his heart from the first moment he’d sighted her, that dark auburn hair that tumbled down her shoulders and back, those eyes of river-water blue and storm-cloud gray and deep blue as at the sun’s first and last appearance in the sky. The mouth that quirked when he made a joke, the lips that touched his with both passion and tenderness, the hands that gave him strength and took away his pain. How could he have forgotten her and all that she meant to him? He’d lost his life before and not abandoned her. Quendius must have ripped it away from him. Never again. He would never lose her like that again!
That wish, that need, dove deep inside him, burning its way into depths that had gone cold and numb, torching his soul. Sevryn gasped at the pain of it, of feeling again, of reaching for life again. He ducked as he heard the sword hiss by, and felt the slice glance off his upper arm, a flesh wound if that, little more than a scratch, but it brought him back, whole and wary. Even as he watched the weaponmaster, he saw flesh melt from the other’s face, and a skeletal vision force its way through, a demonic visage with little mortality left in its structure. Blazing eyes searched him out, and with Cerat doing the looking, he knew he would be found. The demon had senses beyond those of this earth and plane. The shrubbery rattled next to him. He looked under his elbow and saw the muzzle of the crown horn, nostrils flared as the beast snorted at him.
In a blur the creature disappeared and in its place fell a spear and a small wrist shield, the spear of seasoned wood and its three-pronged point of antler, its accompanying shield looking to be carved and shaped from hoof. Sevryn put his hand on the spear, not much different from the weapon he’d mastered until the tutelage of the Kobrir assassins. If it were tough enough, and being God-made, he hoped it would be, it should serve his needs well. “My thanks,” Sevryn said gratefully. The God had promised help, and delivered. As to the rest of the God’s brethren, they’d seen no sign. He curled his hand about the spear’s shaft and reached his free hand to the shield, strong leather straps at its back. The moment he hefted the items, Quendius swung about, attention snapped to the shadows that wrapped about Sevryn.
Quendius purred. “Therrrrre you are.” He turned away from his army and the barricade of fire that held them back, his steps crossing the road in two massive strides.
Sevryn leaped aside, pulse roaring in his ears, ready to meet him.
It was Trevilara who screamed, “No!”
• • •
Rivergrace felt Sevryn fade away from her side and her senses, hearing the faint thrum of his Voice as he asked for concealment from the surroundings. A tremor passed through her, a loss of faith and confidence. Had she done the right thing? Had she abandoned him? And yet, in the sense that bothered her, hadn’t she already lost him? She shouldn’t have freed him the way she did, sent him spiraling adrift. Grace clenched a fist. She had to. She would not be like the woman she was stepping out to face. She wouldn’t ride on the back of his soul and power as Trevilara did to the people she enslaved. If anything, all those she’d just released had leeched from her until she felt as transparent and insubstantial, her soul unlike that of the demon Cerat greatly weakened with each division and now that she had herself back, she felt leaden.
The portal hanging over the army of Undead flexed in the sky, opening from a mere slit to a doorway. Not yet big enough to admit the army through, but big enough that a person could slip by, and threatening to grow ever larger. She’d miscalculated, greatly. The wall of flames she’d set served now to herd the Undead toward that portal. If they sensed it. Trevilara saw it, her face carved in a triumphant smile, her hands beginning to sketch a sigil of magic and power toward it. Rivergrace could feel its strength as it began to build. This was the magic of the Vaelinar who built Ways.
Behind it, though . . . behind on the road stretching back to her capital, Grace saw the power that fed her.
Hundreds of Undead, making their way slowly from the coastline of Trevalka, in answer to the summons of their Queen. A hundred hundred. A force that must have been on the move days before this thaw, days before anyone could know that Quendius and his men would be on the road to meet her. Trevilara had not only hidden the slaughter of this massive force, but she’d moved it in secret, not a sound or smell giving it away, but as she channeled her powers now toward the portal, the revelation hit.
Quendius had taught her his Way of death. While she and Sevryn had been in hiding, buried in winter, these two had met and begun the undoing of Kerith. She had not anchored these, so she couldn’t free the sparks of Cerat buried in them. Trevilara held those leashes but no longer contained the need to hunt and feed.
Her heart froze in her throat at the sight and knowledge.
She moved with only one thought, to stop them at any cost.
Rivergrace flung her right hand out, throwing more heat into the wall of flames licking at the things which followed Quendius. She could hear their hoarse bellows in response. She caught a glimpse of them scattering, arms waving to beat off embers flying in the air, and diving off the road into a ditch on the far side, with sprays of water pluming up as they hit. That caught her a bit off guard, realizing that her targets could react well enough to avoid the fire and possibly come up on Sevryn’s flank, but she had no time to do more as Trevilara stepped out to face her. Grace took a deep breath to steady herself and reached down into the land, to touch its hidden waters, to strengthen herself. The flow she tapped was the very font she’d sweetened last autumn, and it rose to greet her eagerly as if its elemental self could express gratitude. She gathered in its welcoming and held it close, turned her flank to the burning queen, and raised her own hand to meet whatever Trevilara might cast.