Lightbringer

by Claire Legrand

  “Do you hear me?” She raised her voice. The air was strange, thick and close, and it swallowed her words as soon as she shouted them. “I won’t help you. I’ll die before I help you. I can do this forever.”

  Simon crawled toward her. “Will you help me? Like you did for Remy. Remember?” And then Simon let out a sharp groan of pain, a tight sob. He blinked hard, shook his head. “Hurry, Eliana. I want to explain. I want to tell you everything. Please, help me.”

  Eliana turned her back on him and walked away. She heard him cry out, begging for her to come back. Something was attacking him; she heard a chittering sound, like a swarm of bugs, and then the pounding of feet and fists against flesh. A bone snapped, and Simon’s scream was hoarse with pain.

  “Eliana, please!”

  She closed her eyes and walked until she had worn holes in her boots and the soles of her feet trailed red prints. It wasn’t real. She knew that. None of this was real.

  And yet Simon’s cry of anguish followed her to the edge of the world.

  • • •

  Will you hurt me to get her back?

  Eliana opened her eyes to see a young woman glaring down at her.

  Clad in the square-shouldered black uniform worn by palace guards, the woman’s skin was a honeyed brown, her cheeks sprayed with freckles. Her long braid was a rich, bright scarlet.

  Jessamyn.

  The memory came quickly: the smooth warmth of Jessamyn’s skin as they kissed in that shed outside the city of Karlaine. The relief of her touch, and the peace that came after—until the attack, not an hour later, that had nearly claimed Remy’s life.

  Eliana recovered quickly. “The last time I saw you,” she said, sitting up, “you were punching me. We were on the pier in Festival.”

  “I remember,” said Jessamyn, every word clipped. “Get up.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “The Emperor has assigned me to your escort,” came the flat reply. Jessamyn gripped Eliana’s wrist, yanked her hard toward the edge of the bed. “He has commanded your attendance at tonight’s concert.”

  So, this Jessamyn was just as relentless as the one Eliana had known.

  Two of her adatrox attendants led her into the bathing room. They were exquisitely lovely women, both of them gray-eyed and mute, one with smooth brown skin, the other eerily pale. Their white robes fluttered at their ankles, and around their necks gleamed gilded collars.

  As they combed and styled the loose curls that now fell to her shoulders, Eliana watched Jessamyn closely. Though she stood at the door to the bathing room, stationed as any guard would be, Jessamyn seemed restless, unsettled. One finger tapped against her thigh. She held her jaw tightly.

  A thought came to Eliana’s tired mind. She knew little of the mechanics of time, but still she wondered: Was it possible for anything of her Jessamyn to exist inside this one? Some commonality she could find and use, if she only knew where to look?

  Eliana needed to keep her talking. She glanced at the gown waiting on its hook. “So, another concert tonight, then. Orchestra? Choir? A soloist, perhaps?”

  “I am not privy to the Emperor’s plans,” said Jessamyn, “and if I were, I would not share them with you.”

  “Why did he assign you to my guard?”

  “I do not ask the Emperor to explain his orders. I merely follow them.”

  Eliana’s attendants helped her rise, then dried her with soft white towels and began strapping her into an elaborate undergarment that cinched her waist.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Eliana insisted.

  Jessamyn glanced at her, impassive. “No.”

  Her attendants wrapped her in a plunging red velvet gown. Diamonds spangled its sheer sleeves, and its skirt sparkled with an overlay of gold organza.

  “I would be, if I were you,” Eliana said. “You’re an Invictus trainee, aren’t you? You should be out in the world somewhere, carrying out missions. Tending my clothes, escorting me to concerts—you don’t find that a little insulting?”

  Jessamyn shot her a thin look. “‘He has chosen me to guard His works. He has chosen me to receive His glory. I am the blade that cuts at night. I am the guardian of His story.’”

  A chill seized Eliana at the reverence in Jessamyn’s voice. She cloaked it with a shrug. “If you say so.”

  There was jewelry to match the gown—two heavy gold rings crowned with flat bouquets of stars. The attendants bent to slide them on and then flinched away from her hands, where the gold chains of her castings glinted. Their smooth brows furrowed slightly. One opened her mouth and let out a muted cry of fear.

  “Let me,” came Jessamyn’s brusque command. She dismissed the attendants and put the rings on Eliana’s fingers herself.

  “I knew you once,” Eliana said, watching Jessamyn’s face for any sign of the woman she had known. “You were kind to me then. You kiss as well as you fight.”

  Jessamyn stepped back to inspect her, frowning. “They forgot your earrings.”

  Eliana swallowed against a pang of disappointment and lowered her gaze to the floor. If Jessamyn felt any curiosity about such strange remarks, she betrayed none of it, her stony face hardly more familiar than a stranger’s, and only at that moment, with a swift ache of despair, did Eliana realize what she had been hoping.

  That if the Jessamyn she had known could be reached, then maybe Simon could be too.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, her voice thick. “How long have I been here?”

  Jessamyn retrieved glittering earrings from a cushion on the floor. “Two months.”

  A moment passed before Eliana could speak again. Two months was longer than she had guessed. Eight weeks she had spent in nightmares of Corien’s design, and still she could not be sure if what she had seen of Remy—his thrashing body, his horrible screams—had been the truth or a lie.

  Her eyes filled with tears; quickly, she blinked them away. She had not used her castings since that day in her bedroom, when Simon had traveled from one side of it to the other. That was a triumph. That was worth any sacrifice.

  But how tired she was of sacrifice.

  I’ll end this, Eliana. Corien’s whispered memory came sweetly, reminding her. This life of yours, all its violence, all its sacrifice. Your brother will be safe. He’ll be so happy, and so will you. Alive, healthy, safe. Safe, can you imagine? For once in your life.

  Eliana blew out a soft, shuddering breath. She pressed her palms hard against her legs.

  “Will you hurt me to get her back?” she whispered.

  Jessamyn, fastening Eliana’s earrings into place, did not respond.

  “I keep hearing those words,” Eliana said. She wiped her cheeks, careless of the rouge. “I don’t know why I’m hearing them. I think someone’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know who they are or what they mean to say. Will you hurt me to get her back? What does that mean? Is it a warning? A message?”

  For a moment, their gazes locked, and Eliana searched Jessamyn’s face with a desperation that felt half a breath from madness.

  A flicker of feeling crossed Jessamyn’s face and was quickly gone. Her mouth was a straight line of annoyance.

  “Perhaps a memory,” she offered. “With so many angels about, there are often strays.” She raised an indifferent eyebrow. “I would suggest you not dwell on it. The Emperor will not appreciate your distraction.”

  Then she glanced past Eliana, dropped smoothly to one knee, and bowed her head.

  Eliana turned to see Corien standing at the threshold, watching them in amusement. He wore a high-collared vest of black brocade, a black velvet coat, a bloodred waistcoat.

  “What a vision you are,” he mumbled. “If I squint and enjoy a few more drinks, I think I can almost pretend you’re her.”

  He held out his arm, but Eliana refused it. Eyes burning with exhaust
ion, she nevertheless felt warmed by a sudden calm.

  Will you hurt me to get her back?

  At last, she knew that voice.

  “I need to see Simon,” she declared. She flexed her fingers; her castings were cold and dark.

  Corien’s smile stretched wide. “As my queen demands.”

  • • •

  Simon awaited them in a sitting room in the palace’s north wing. He wore a dark dress uniform, the knee-length coat buttoned high at his neck and snugly hugging his trim torso. He stood at the window, looking out into the night, and at their entrance, he turned and inclined his head.

  “Your Excellency,” he said smoothly, his gaze on the Emperor. He avoided looking at Eliana entirely.

  But from the moment she entered the room, Eliana did not take her eyes off of him.

  “Apologies for delaying the concert, Simon,” said Corien, brimming with a quiet, gleeful energy. “I know how fond you are of this composer. But our queen demanded to see you, and it sounded quite serious. I could not deny her.”

  Then Corien found a decanter on a serving table, poured himself a glass of red wine, raised his drink to them, and settled comfortably on a chaise in the corner. A servant had lit a small fire; the room’s bronze light shifted with shadows.

  Eliana stood in silence for a moment, tense with uncertainty. Perhaps it was a mistake to be here. She could not allow herself to release even a scrap of anger.

  But there was something she had to know.

  “I am myself,” she muttered, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Not here, she commanded her castings. Not ever again.

  Simon watched in silence. On his chaise, Corien smiled over the rim of his glass.

  “I was indeed looking forward to this concert,” Simon said at last, his voice edged with impatience. “So if you don’t intend to speak after all—”

  “I will speak,” Eliana said quietly, her arms rigid. “That night in Karlaine. We were attacked. There were adatrox. Crawlers. Cruciata.”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Remy had been following me, I suppose, since Harkan…” Harkan’s name caught in the back of her throat. “Since Harkan drugged me and took me from Dyrefal. The day the Empire invaded Astavar.”

  “Yes.”

  That hollow voice, lifeless and cold. Eliana’s fingernails bit her palms. Simon wasn’t stupid. He must have known what she was about to say, and it infuriated her that he could remain so calm, and it infuriated her even more that she could not allow herself to be furious.

  She made her voice steady. “Remy was shot that day. Shot in the gut. He died, and I healed him.”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Save him, or watch him die.’ That’s what you said to me.” Eliana’s mouth soured at the memory. It was mortifying to think of her old, foolish self. “You held me. You told me you weren’t letting go of me.”

  Silence. Not even a shift of weight. He was a lifeless painting, watching her unravel.

  Eliana forced the words out. “I let you fuck me.”

  A tiny smirk played at the corner of Simon’s mouth. “And I thank you for that. I needed it.”

  His words punched her, and her stomach lurched to hear them, but she remained standing. Heat flared in her palms; she hardly noticed it.

  “I keep hearing something in my head,” she said through her teeth. “At first, I didn’t recognize the voice. It was distorted, distant, and my mind’s been run ragged. But now I know it belongs to Remy. I’ve been hearing it for…” She hesitated. In her mind, days became weeks became hours. She didn’t know how long she had been hearing it.

  “I don’t know why it’s happening,” she said at last, “but I’ve heard Remy say the same phrase dozens of times now. ‘Will you hurt me to get her back?’”

  She searched every scar on Simon’s face, the curve of his bottom lip, the sharp line of his jaw. A bead of sweat rolled down her neck. She imagined striking him with fists of fire, what his face would betray as he burned.

  “‘Get her back’,” she whispered. “Get me back. Because Harkan had taken me. It made sense to me that you brought Remy with you when you came after me. You loved me, I thought. You wanted me to be with my brother because it would make me happy.”

  Eliana approached him slowly. Her gown’s heavy train trailed across the floor. “But now I understand. Now I see that you never loved me. Every time you touched me was a lie. So why, then, would you drag along my little brother when you could have moved more quickly without him?”

  Simon watched her approach, his expression still as an etching.

  “Because you were desperate for my power to surface,” Eliana answered. “You wanted to see more than patchy summoned fires and ships sunk by storms. You wanted to see my real power so it would awaken yours, and you knew the best way to scare it out of me.”

  Three steps from him, Eliana stopped. A distant roar of anger churned in her ears. Her body ached with tension. “You shot him.”

  Simon’s smirk returned. His eyes glinted, lupine. “I did. I shot him right in the gut.”

  With a terrible sharp cry, Eliana lunged at him, her fist raised to strike. He shot forward to meet her, blocked her punch with his own. His fist caught her on the arm, and then the other dealt a hard blow to her stomach. Once, she would have recovered quickly from that, but weeks at sea followed by weeks in the prison of Corien’s mind had left her thin and soft.

  She staggered from the blow, gulping for air, but the white-hot blades of fury blazing up her spine would not let her rest. She flew at Simon, advancing on him with wild kicks and punches, her throat raw from her screams. He trapped her in his arms; she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then turned and clipped his jaw with a ferocious punch. He faltered; she kneed him in the groin.

  As he stumbled, she whirled around, grabbed a vase from a table, and brought it crashing down on his head. He staggered, and when she kicked him, he flew clear across the room and collided with the far wall. Several framed paintings crashed to the floor; he slumped beside them, his face streaked with blood. On his left, the hearth simmered.

  Eliana sank fast to the rug. Rage held her shaking in its grasp, turned her vision red and black. The windows cracked in their panes. On the mantle, candles became blazing spears of flame. Beyond the terrace, out in the city, a slender white tower swayed and collapsed. Distant cries of alarm floated up through the palace.

  Not here. Eliana huddled in a tight ball on the floor, her clasped hands hidden against her chest.

  Not here, not here. She was herself. She was a girl, a child, an infant.

  Not here, not ever again. She was clean and swaddled in white. Soft and cocooned, her power a mere whisper. She was not angry. She was not afraid. She would not despair.

  As she listened to the palace quake, hot tears of shame rolled down her cheeks. For so long, she had resisted the urge to give Corien any part of herself, had kept her power closed off and quiet—until tonight. Had it been Corien who had planted Remy’s voice in her mind, hoping it would provoke her? Or had the memory come from someone else?

  She glanced up, saw Simon push himself to his feet and raise his arms, reaching for threads. Faint lights sparked at his fingertips for only an instant before the room went dark once more.

  Eliana’s eyes fluttered closed, her castings dark inside her fists. When she smiled, she tasted salt.

  Then a familiar roar of rage pierced the air, followed by the crash of glass. Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Remy’s face bloomed in her mind, gaunt and bloody. One eye blue, the other reddened from a cruel punch and ringed with bruises. She wanted to reach for him but would not. She shut her eyes, fought against the pull of his dear voice whispering her name.

  It wasn’t real. She lived inside a nightmare, that was all.

  “I will hurt him again,” Co
rien hissed against her ear, his breath sour with wine. “And again, and again. I show you beauty, I promise you peace at last for weeks, and this is what I get in return? You goddamned idiot girl. You’re fighting a war you cannot win, and you know it. I will hurt him right in front of you, just like I did before. Yes, that was real, and it will be so again. I will rain agony upon him until you break. Is that what you want?”

  He was dragging her across the room, his arm wedged under hers. She struggled against him, but his mind held her fast, forcing her to walk. She felt sick with fear as her legs moved against her will.

  “I want to see the concert,” she gasped out.

  “Oh, no, my pretty one,” said Corien, laughing. “It’s too late for niceties. Consider the peaceful life I have given you forfeit.”

  Their progress through the palace was a blur of motion and color, her feet clumsy under Corien’s direction. When she came to herself again, blinking rapidly, she stood on a terrace blazing with torchlight. The wind howled, and a quick glance around showed her that they stood on one of the topmost levels of the palace, the space lit by a dozen torches. Two white watchtowers flanked the terrace, and Eliana went cold with horror as she saw Remy dangling from one of them. An angelic guard held him by the collar. His face, bloodied and hollow-cheeked, was framed by neatly trimmed dark hair.

  And from the other tower…

  Eliana stared at the man hanging in the air, held suspended just as Remy was. She knew the face, but her mind refused to accept what it might mean.

  “Father?” she whispered. Her arms were ice.

  Ioseph Ferracora stared down at her, his face wet with tears and his eyes no longer black. They were blue, like Remy’s. His square chin jutted stubbornly, like Remy’s.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you this,” Corien said cheerfully. “Your father—I’m sorry, the man who raised you; we know who your real father is, don’t we?—he didn’t die in the Battle of Arxara Bay, as you may have been led to believe. He was alive when Admiral Ravikant found him. And since Ravikant is one of our most talented, one of our strongest, he was able to inhabit your father’s body while still preserving his human life, keeping his mind intact and healthy. The admiral, of course, has graciously absented himself for the purposes of our little reunion tonight.” Corien gently touched Eliana’s cheek. “Isn’t this happy news? Ioseph Ferracora still lives after all!”