by Jenna Rhodes
As her fire touched Grace’s ice, Grace could feel the chains binding Trevilara to the massive army looming down the road, a thousand more sparks of Cerat, eager and able to do whatever their queen asked of them, more dead than alive, but this army still lived. Mortally wounded from the soul outward, each man retained his flesh and agility, his intelligence and ability, his soul burning with Cerat’s terrible needs. If she’d feared to set the Undead loose on Kerith, the thought of these men being targeted on her home nearly drove all reason from Rivergrace. Living, they would fight not only because the woman commanded them, but because of the rewards they intended to reap: their freedom, treasure, rape, pillage, victory. Twice as driven as any that Quendius held in thrall and twice as dangerous because they could think and plan on their own. Fire would not blindly goad them any more than blood lust alone. They would seek their own dark desires and fulfill them.
Yet as their Talents touched for a brief, blinding moment, Rivergrace felt a fear in Trevilara, a fear of her, as the queen rocked back on one heel and cried, “Nooooo!”
In that split-second, she knew that she held something that terrified Trevilara, that showed her defeat could be near, that shook her to the bottom of her being. But what?
Rivergrace broke away.
She turned and ran back a few steps, retreating to the side of the road where the grass rose up to tangle about her booted ankles, life rising to meet her. She raised her hand again, shivers of ice before her, preparing to meet Trevilara’s onslaught. She could hear Trevilara’s army now, boots marching in quick step, a muted thundering on the road, dust rising behind them, the colors of their uniforms a blur upon the horizon, marked by silvery flashes of the sun upon their unsheathed weapons. They would have swords. Pole arms. Perhaps even bows and arrows for the archers.
She would stand out, a bold and unmistakable target unless she could finish Trevilara and shatter the chains held upon their hearts. She had stepped onto the road knowing that she would have to meet whatever Trevilara threw at her with equal or greater force, this match one that would be, if the other wished it, to the death. She gripped that resolve tightly inside her. It was not enough for Grace to be willing to die; she had to be willing to do whatever she must to live, and if that meant Trevilara must die in her stead, so be it. It lay inside her uneasily, but she grasped it, hard. She would do whatever she must to keep Trevilara from sending her army through that Way, that gate from here to home. She would not let that army fall on the throats of her people, her friends, and her family. Never.
They locked gazes. Rivergrace could see the silver flash in Trevilara’s gem-green eyes, the infamous Vaelinar multicolors signaling the magic they held within. Her flawless skin of porcelain with the faintest of copper glows stood revealed by the dipping neckline and off-the-shoulder gown draped about her figure. She looked as if she had just stepped off a dance floor to duel Rivergrace, save for the fire that hemmed the ivory-and-gold gown. The flames licked higher as Trevilara took her measure and then deliberately looked away. She flung a hand out to the portal trembling in the sky above Quendius and sketched a sigil, leaving a brand of cobalt blue burning in the air before her. Trevilara called out three words in a language that tolled harsh and clanging upon her hearing, and the doorway began to open.
Rivergrace abandoned her assault, put her head down, and ran as a bridge arched over the road.
• • •
Sevryn held tight to the spear, keeping his back to the barrier as he moved into position with Quendius. He did not have the advantage on reach, but he no longer had a disadvantage. In fact, the overgrown Quendius had to bend to strike at him, and jump aside faster, something his new bulk hampered. As long as he could keep his shield up, he might be able to worry at Quendius/Cerat long enough to blood him, and let that blood loss weaken his opponent. The Kobrir had taught him to move in quickly, deal as mortal a blow as he could, and move out. That tactic would not work here, not entirely, as it would put him too far within reach of that sword. He wished he had his ithrel with him, that cunning blade that acted as a pole arm and then could be doubled upon itself as a blade, sharp and lethal. The spear warmed a bit in his hands, the wood solid and familiar, centering him. The moments he’d felt wildly adrift, like a feather seed aloft in a high wind, blew to shreds around him. This, he knew. This fight, this war, this mortality. And he knew down to the marrow in his bones, he did it for her. Would do anything that she asked of him, and would keep any harm from her, that it was within his power to do. He’d thought himself alone. He was not. His mind and his heart filled with thoughts and memories and moments of her, crowding in, filling him. Others followed: Tolby, Rufus, Nutmeg, Jeredon, Gilgarran who’d fostered him, Lariel of the capricious nature, and more. His people. Her people. Like wicks in candles, they lit and burned brightly, illuminating his soul. It wasn’t innocent. It wasn’t pure. But it was loyal and fairly honest and it was hers.
He narrowed his eyes as Quendius struck at him, Cerat chortling as the sword swung so close he could feel its icy breeze alongside his jaw. He ducked but not to the side or down as anyone else would have done, he ducked forward, carrying him inside the arc of the swing, stabbed into the calf with a vicious twist and leaped onward then, out of range. Quendius let out a mad howl of pain, Cerat’s skull sizzling through his face again, like bubbles under the surface that kept bobbing up as he boiled.
Sevryn bounded back on guard. Hot blood trickled down from the wound he’d earlier deemed a scratch. It seemed more than that now, pulsing with the beat of his heart, dampening his shirt and pattering to the ground. That slice would be more dangerous to him now than he could afford, blooding and weakening him. He needed to tie it off and put pressure on it, an impossible task. He wove with Quendius, back and forth, always presenting him with his flank, as small a target as possible and felt his heartbeat count off the moments he could keep up the fight. A muffled growl behind him caught his attention, and he turned slightly only to find himself facing one of the Undead who’d braved the curtain of fire and charged him, ragged clothes blazing, hands brandishing a two-handed sword.
Sevryn threw himself to the ground, letting the impetus of the other’s movement carry him over and then lifted up, throwing the Undead at Quendius/Cerat. He picked up the sword long enough to bury it in Quendius’s side as the Undead muddled all efforts of Quendius to leap aside.
Sevryn had no time to give the sword a good twist as Quendius/Cerat bellowed and tore the blade out with his own hand. Sevryn got his shield arm up in time to block a tremendous blow that drove him back to the ground, on his knees, and quickly rolled away. He groped to regain the spear he’d dropped and felt it slide back into his grip, caught on his back and looking up at Quendius as Cerat’s madness gleamed back at him.
It was Rivergrace who saved him then.
She sprinted past, her dark green-and-russet leathers a blur in his vision, as the landscape rippled up and up, bridging the distance between the road and the Way dancing in the sky.
He rolled to his feet and bolted after her, if for no other reason than to put his body between hers and Quendius, to take whatever might be aimed at her. The archway shivered and shook under their pelting steps, lifting them over the Undead and their strangling cries below, punctuated by Quendius in full voice shouting: “Stop them!”
Nothing reached them on the bridge. Sevryn gained her side, saying, “I’m here. I’m here.”
She looked into his face and smiled widely in understanding. “Aderro.”
Her next words came more matter of fact.
Chapter
Sixty
“CAN YOU HOLD THEM?”
“It all depends on what is happening behind us.”
Grace spared a quick look. “I think they are either trying to close the Way or destroy it.”
“Either works to our advantage unless we wish to go home.”
She shook her head. “There’s
no going back for us, not alone. We have to hold here.”
“Then we will.”
Grace shot a bolt of flame that took out an arc of arrows, turning them to cinder whose ashes fell harmlessly short of them, but the hand she aimed shook before she dropped it down and tucked it in her vest. If she thought he would not notice, she found herself greatly mistaken.
One-handedly, he managed to rip off a piece of his shirt and tie it about his arm, and she laid three fingers over the bandage. A flush of warmth went through him as she sent what healing she could, but the damage had been done. His heart pumped wildly and he could feel the weakness in his limbs from the fight and the blood loss. “We can’t hold it much longer.”
She pushed at her temple with the back of her free hand. “I can’t kill Trevilara. It will unleash that army into Cerat, fueling him anew. We’d have but a heartbeat or two before he destroys us, if he gains that much power.”
Enough time for him to shove Grace through the Way they guarded. Enough time for him to get her through and gone, hopefully to safety. He did not know if his Voice and his blood could bond to the Way and make it do his bidding, but he was willing to make a try of it once she was free and clear. Living things responded to his Voice. The Way appeared alive enough to him. She stated the obvious.
“We have to take Quendius/Cerat down.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“I know that.” A shiver shook her, far more than a simple shiver should, nearly knocking her off her feet, and Sevryn threw an arm about her shoulder to steady her. “I’m going to take Trevilara as far down as I can, and then throw everything I have to you. We’ll go for Cerat then.”
She leaned against him, her voice softer. “You came back.”
“I could not help but come back to you. I doubted that and shouldn’t have.”
“But that wasn’t you.”
“Not much of me, but enough. I won’t let myself get so far away from you again.” His lips brushed her forehead lightly and then he shoved her away abruptly. “Heads up!”
Quendius/Cerat had gathered Trevilara up in one arm, like an auntie carrying a child, and came back at them, sword in hand, their moment of respite finished. Heedless of the flames that licked up her dress and body, he growled at the two of them. He gained the bottom of the bridge which shuddered under his weight.
Rivergrace stepped away from Sevryn, giving him space to fight and then stood her ground, one hand in the air in front of her, cupped. Water began to trickle through her slender fingers. She could feel Trevilara’s essence, faint but compelling, in every drop, and through her, sense the many souls linked to her. She could feel the soldiers as they quick-marched to join her, their drumming on the road, the pulse of eagerness running through their limbs, the breath gusting in their lungs, the excitement thrumming in their nerves, the hope to do worthy battle on her behalf and gain the rewards she’d dangled before them, before she’d taken most of their souls. They’d come through storm and shadow to answer Trevilara’s call and even as she died, they did not falter.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking water from Trevilara. She uses it as a shield against her fire. I can only take so much, can only afford to weaken her a little, unless . . .” She turned and considered Sevryn who kept his attention on Quendius/Cerat who mounted the bridge cautiously, it trembling under his great weight. The flames about him licked higher, but Cerat Soul-eater showed no care. If the blaze consumed the flesh of Quendius, he still lived and moved. Sevryn kept him fixed in his sight, his jaw tight as she watched them both.
Rivergrace bit her lip as the thought came to her. She dismissed it, but then it came stubbornly right back.
She could affect the chains Trevilara had woven. That realization had brought the scream from the burning queen’s throat, the denial, the fear of losing the army Trevilara had brought into her spirit slavery. Grace could touch them. She didn’t dare free them . . . they would run amok, heedless, bringing blood and battle, and utter chaos. But perhaps she could transfer them, channel their power into one who could use it.
She blinked, realizing she looked at Sevryn, weighing him, assessing her options.
He threw her a sideways glance. “Unless what?”
She tightened a fist about the water in her hands. “I can’t kill her. But I think I can strip her of the chains she’s woven, just as I broke the ones I created.”
“But you just said the power would leap to Cerat.”
“If the chains are broken, yes. But if they are transferred—”
“Not to you. You can’t take it. Grace, you’re thinning, becoming transparent, moment by moment. That’s out of the question.”
Quendius/Cerat took two more steps up the bridge, shifting Trevilara in his hold, and the smell of burning flesh hit them.
Rivergrace did not answer his objections, saying, “We have to hold them here. However long we can. We’ve few choices.” And, with a deep moan of effort, she reached out for the souls bound to Trevilara and ripped them away, replacing Sevryn as their anchor.
He staggered back against her, fighting to see and hear and keep his spear arm up and shield ready, as his ears roared with a hundred hundred thoughts and bodies and knew he had to stop them on the road. He shook his head to clear it. Grace could feel the emanations off him, a thousandfold, even as he grabbed them and bound them to himself. He screamed a war cry that shrilled at her ears and made her turn away.
Trevilara cried out; Quendius/Cerat dropped her at the foot of the bridge, and bounded toward them.
Sevryn reached his shield arm over to grab Grace and push her through the doorway behind them when the Way exploded with shattering noise and blinding light.
Chapter
Sixty-One
Kerith
NUTMEG REMEMBERED CURSING every sit-up and touch-toes she did after the babies’ birth, but now she found gratitude for the flat, hard stomach she’d created with all those rigorous exercises. It flooded her with a rush, even as her pounding blood heated her ears and face, dangling upside down. The herbalist had taught her, lecturing, that carrying twins could do harsh things to a body, but muscle tone could be brought back if one worked at it. She had to get down. Had to. She’d kill Tressandre, so help her, but she had to get down first. No, she wouldn’t kill her, she’d torture the cold-damned woman. And when she’d given up the children, then Meg would kill her. She grasped at her plan as she flexed those stomach muscles and bent herself in half so she could grasp her ankles with her hands. She slid her hunting knife out of her boot’s shaft and began to saw at the ropes binding her.
Just before the rope began to part, she twisted so that she would not fall on her neck or the knife. The neck she remembered from her youth at the orchards on the Silverwing River . . . trader Robin Greathouse coming by the farmhouse and telling of the young boy (and Meg scrambled to remember the name, the Dweller family who suffered the tragedy but she couldn’t) who’d fallen from a tree and paralyzed himself from head to toe. Garner had exclaimed incredulously, “How can anyone fall from a tree?” regardless of the fact they all could, and did. But they’d learned to control their falls, going soft and limp so that if anything, the slap on the back of the head and butt was about all the damage they took. Hosmer had broken his wrist one year, but that had come from a kick from a neighbor’s vicious cart pony. Falling on the knife took no great lesson other than itself. One didn’t fall on pointed objects.
So as the rope gave way, she spread her arms wide and twisted in midair, before landing on one hip and shoulder. The thump took her harder than she expected and she lay gasping a moment, the wind knocked out of her. She curled up and then got to her knees and stood. Anger curled through her and singed the very air she took back into her lungs. She would take the ild Fallyn fortress apart stone by stone. She would not rest until Merri and Evar were hers and home again!
She hoiste
d up her trousers and knotted them together and slid her blouse back into place, but the corset she toed with her boot before leaning over and ripping it open. Inside, between stays and lacings, she plucked out another piece of rag paper, with a different kind of writ. A Writ of magic. A writ that made her head throb to attempt to read, and her eyes stab with pain as she looked from words to the world around her, attempting to see it with Vaelinaran eyes. Eyes that could see the threads of the world as if she were a God at a loom, ready to weave or unknot its patterns. She could barely discern the makings. Nutmeg blinked fiercely, her eyes welling with hot, stinging tears of pain. She was not made for this! Evar perhaps, as Lord Bistel had been, but she was only of Kerith, not of the elven who made Ways across the lands as if reality existed to be rewoven by their hands.
Her nose began to run as freely as her eyes. She couldn’t do this!
She crumpled the paper in her hands and shoved it deep in her pockets, its scant two sentences of words burned into her mind. The power which had begun to well up from the ground about her, like a misty fog in the early morning, sank back down. Perhaps the threat of what she might do would be enough.
Perhaps. She wiped her face on her sleeve. Took a lace from the discarded corset and tied her hair back. Broke into a run, for she’d tarried too long and who knew what might be happening outside the copse.
The ground seemed a little unsteady as she crossed the grove, her steps stumbling or catching now and then until she finally put a shoulder against a crooked tree and paused. Mayhap she’d rattled her brain more than she thought, although she’d taken enough tumbles in her life to know that she had a much thicker skull than most (bless the Farbranch blood). Perhaps the Vaelinaran working had curdled her from the inside out. A thundering roar, muted, but still powerful, filled her ears. She listened a moment to identify whether it came from inside or outside, and then lifted her gaze to the sky peering between tree branches where the rip between worlds pulsed and bulged as if it might burst. Its voice filled the air with the roar of a whirlwind. It shone with the brilliance of a second sun, a bloody sun, colors rippling across its surface in an insane pattern that pounded the head to watch. And below its glare, on the lush and green Larandaril meadow, she could see two combatants engaged in a deadly dance: Lara and the ild Fallyn Tressandre.