Lightbringer

by Claire Legrand

  That stirred something in Navi’s mind, some distant memory that nagged at her to look closer. She had long ago heard of someone in the Vespers, some figure renowned for shipbuilding. But she dismissed the thought, not allowing herself the distraction. Though she knew very little about sea craft, she appreciated the ship’s bold, sleek lines. It radiated efficiency and confidence, and even as it sat there, docked, it seemed to hum with an eagerness to move.

  “She looks fast,” Navi observed.

  Ysabet crooked a quizzical smile at her. “You know ships, do you?”

  Navi swallowed her slight twinge of embarrassment. Maybe Ysabet’s amusement was a good thing. “No,” she admitted, “but I like the look of her.”

  That made Ysabet beam. “Such a short time we’ve known each other, and already you know just how to make me preen.”

  Utterly disarmed by the sight of Ysabet’s broad grin, Navi fumbled for a witty response—and then heard a shout.

  She looked up and cried out in relief, for Malik stood on one of the rope bridges strung along the cove walls. She waved back to him, then clasped her hands at her chest and whispered a soft prayer.

  Ysabet watched her carefully. She sat and crossed her arms, leaning back against the prow. “I started building her not knowing what to do with her,” she said quietly. “For years I’d been fighting little battles, flitting from island to island and stabbing the Empire here and there like a mosquito. Stealing weapons, raiding their warehouses. Hating myself for not being able to do more. Hating the people of the Vespers for not fighting harder, which was unfair of me, but there it is.

  “And then,” Ysabet said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, “I heard of this astonishing girl. The Sun Queen, say those who still pray to the empirium, hoping it will come back. And then I heard of Astavar falling, and I realized we’re approaching something. A precipice, maybe. And I could either sit and wait for the world to fall out from under me, or I could do something, even if it was stupid and wild. So I took out my mother’s plans after years of keeping them locked away, and I started to build. For what purpose, I did not know. But if I was ever in need of a ship, I would have one. Then I heard about you, and for the first time in ages, I felt something I liked. I felt hopeful again.”

  Ysabet’s brown eyes held a fervent light. “What do you want, princess?” she said quietly. “Why do you fight? If you had an army, what would you do with it?”

  They had reached a small pier. The two soldiers in their boat jumped out and tied it off with thick knotted ropes. Navi remained inside, staring at Ysabet with her heart in her throat. Not for weeks had she felt this surge of energy, this willingness to hope. She hardly dared trust it.

  “The Sun Queen lives,” Navi answered quietly. “She is dear to me, a friend I love with my whole heart. And she needs my help. Had I an army, I would sail to Elysium and fight for her. I would show her she is not alone.”

  “And would you die for this friend?”

  “For her,” Navi said, “and for everyone.”

  One of Ysabet’s soldiers reached down to help her up onto the pier. She waved him off, her gaze fixed on Navi.

  “This ship, once she’s built,” she said, “will be able to make the ocean crossing in three weeks. She’s got guns, and she’s got weapons stores that would make an imperial general salivate.”

  Navi laughed softly in astonishment. “Three weeks? That’s as fast as an imperial warship.”

  Ysabet grinned. “My mother was good at what she did. I’m even better. But a fast ship is nothing without a mission to guide it.”

  Navi glanced back at the cannons standing proudly in their docks. She recognized the design. “Those are imperial cannons.”

  “I like to keep my people busy.”

  Navi heard the little dip of darkness in her voice, the glint of an inner shield. She held Ysabet’s gaze and placed a gentle hand on her arm.

  “I have also lost many,” she said quietly. “I know what it feels like to know you live because others have died, how the grief sits in you like a stone you cannot dislodge. I have to believe that if they could see us now, they would be proud of our fight and would not regret their part in it.”

  Eyes bright with tears, Ysabet gave her a wry smile. “A princess, indeed. You have a way with words, Your Highness.”

  “And you have a ship, while I have a mission.”

  “And you have an army.”

  “A small one.”

  “As is mine.” Ysabet clasped Navi’s hands and squeezed. “But together, our troops are not as few. Together, they are stronger.”

  Navi grinned, breathless with rising joy. What a relief, to no longer be so alone. “You’ll help us, then?”

  “Yes, princess. We’ll help each other. I’ll push my people until they wish they loved me less so they could allow themselves to hate me. A month, I think, is all we’ll need.”

  Ysabet bent to brush her lips across Navi’s knuckles. Then she jumped out of the boat and onto the pier, shouting commands at the soldiers who waited nearby.

  And Navi sat for a moment, catching her breath. The warmth of Ysabet’s lips lingered on her skin. She folded her hands against her chest and held them there until her thoughts steadied. Malik was coming fast down the pier, his smile bright and broad. Her brother, still alive, and so was she.

  Eliana, she prayed, hold fast to your iron heart. Stay strong. We are coming.

  20

  Audric

  “The most remarkable thing has happened. I’ve met an ice dragon. A godsbeast, a creature of lore made flesh. Her name is Valdís, and she travels with one of the Kammerat, the legendary dragon-speakers—a man named Leevi. He looks to be Audric’s age, perhaps a year or two younger than I, and has told me an astonishing story. Leevi and Valdís have escaped a place called the Northern Reach. For long weeks they’ve been traveling to the High Villmark, where other Kammerat live in secret, guarding their dragon companions. Valdís has been ill, poisoned by angels, and I think Leevi might have killed me when I stumbled upon them, were it not for Valdís, who sensed in me the blood of Grimvald and found strength Leevi says she hasn’t shown in months. Tomorrow, we will ride together to the Kammerat. Leevi wants them to help free the others imprisoned in this angelic fortress. He says I, as Borsvall’s king, can help convince them. But how can we hope to win a war against beings so cruel and ingenious? I don’t know the answer, but I do know this: Tomorrow, sweet saints, I will ride a dragon.”

  —Journal of Ilmaire Lysleva, dated January, Year 1000 of the Second Age

  There she was—Rielle, in some distant Astavari forest, surrounded by ferns and brambles. Damp curls of hair clung to her cheeks and neck, and she sat in a bed of moss, wearing only dark tights and a thin white tunic, her hands and clothes stained with mud.

  Audric nearly fell to his knees at the sight, fighting every instinct he possessed not to rush toward her at once. He tried to say her name, but it came out a whisper.

  “Audric?” Rielle stared up at him, her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes shadowed and sleepless.

  “Yes, I’m here. But not for long.” He took a halting step forward. He remembered Ludivine’s warning: pushing the boundaries of the mental connection she had reawakened between the three of them, forcing the vision beyond its limits, could cause it to lose its cohesion immediately—or worse, draw Corien’s attention.

  “He’ll find me soon,” Ludivine said, behind him and to his left. Through the link of their minds, Audric could feel her trembling with exertion. Waves of longing butted gently against him, and he found it comforting to know that Ludivine was also in agony—to see Rielle, and yet not be able to touch her. A torment that stole away his breath.

  “I’ve been practicing, Rielle,” Ludivine said, “growing stronger, working to extend the reach and stealth of my mind, but it still requires…” She paused, and Audric fe
lt the breath of her exhaustion pass through him. “It requires enormous effort, and I have much still to learn.”

  Rielle watched them in silence. Wherever she was, the light shifted, drawing out a strange gleam in her eyes.

  “Darling, are you hurt?” Audric asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. “How are you feeling?” He searched her body for signs of injury and drank in all the things he had missed—the wild dark fall of her hair, the turn of her jaw, the space she occupied in the world. He imagined her warmth, the sweet weight of her body beside him, her head tucked under his. She seemed softer, somehow, even though her shadowed face was worryingly gaunt. Clearly, she was neither sleeping nor eating well.

  Suddenly, he could no longer stand there and pretend to be strong. If he didn’t touch her—even only this pale, half-real brushing of his mind against hers, buoyed on the river of Ludivine’s power—if he did not reach out to her, cup her face in his hands, rest his brow against hers and feel her breathe with him, the ache in his chest would consume him. If he could not protect her, could not help her, he could at least try to reach for her.

  He hurried forward, choked out her name, ignoring Ludivine’s backward tug of alarm—but Rielle scrambled away from him. As if he would hurt her, as if he had cornered her.

  Immediately, Audric stepped back, his stomach pitching with shame.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He held up his hands. Tears built behind his eyes, but he refused them. “There is no excuse for the things I said to you that night. I understand why you left. Rielle…” But the memory of their wedding night, the bitter echo of what it could have been, was too terrible, too heavy, and it cracked his voice in two. “I am so sorry, my love.”

  Rielle watched him in silence, her gaze bright and hard. It flickered to Ludivine, then back to him, and then, saying nothing, she rose to her feet and smoothed her hands down the front of her tunic, flattening it against her torso.

  Audric nearly laughed with relief to see her standing there, her shoulders square and tense. Because there she was—his beloved, his Rielle—and there were her arms, there was the dip of her throat, the folds of tunic and trousers around her every curve.

  He saw the change at once, and at the sight of her rounded stomach, her swollen breasts, he let out a small, strange sound that was neither laugh nor sob.

  A smile flickered across Rielle’s face. There was a soft light in her eyes, and he rejoiced to see it.

  But he could not quite dislodge the sudden fear that jumped into his mind. It was a horrible thing to wonder, a jealousy that deserved no place in this moment.

  Was the child his? Or was it Corien’s?

  He dismissed the thought as soon as it formed. The child was Rielle’s, and he would love it with all his heart.

  “Oh, Rielle,” he breathed, smiling, and his desperate longing to hold her in his arms was a spear through his chest. “How are you feeling? Are you seeing a healer? I know you must be frightened and worried. The prophecy—”

  “I saw that,” she said, her distant voice thistle-sharp. “I saw your face.” She let her arms fall, her hands in fists and her eyes snapping with fury. “That’s the first thing you think after all this time apart? Whether or not the child is yours.”

  Audric’s heart sank. “No, Rielle, that doesn’t matter to me. The first thing I thought was how relieved I am to see you unhurt.”

  “Liar,” she said coldly. Her gaze sparked an angry gold. “Rest assured, Audric—you were the one who did this to me. All of this.”

  A violent force sliced the moment in two, falling between them like the drop of an ax.

  Audric staggered back and collapsed, his head and shoulders forced to the floor, and by the time he was able to move again, the wood had disappeared, and so had Rielle.

  He was in his apartment in the palace of Queen Bazati and Queen Fozeyah, and apart from Ludivine, he was alone.

  His vision spinning, despair sewing his throat shut, Audric pressed his brow and fists into the soft rug. Vaguely, he heard Ludivine moving, and he looked up as she settled beside him, her face sweating and pale. Beyond her, the open windows framed a calm sea, the sun cheerfully lighting the water, the city, the ravaged beach. Darkness brewed at the horizon kissing the open sea, painting the sky a buttery slate blue.

  “He found her,” Ludivine said, gently touching his knee. “I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He is stronger than he has ever been.”

  Audric said nothing. He found the edge of the rug, where Rielle’s image had been moments before. He pressed his palms against it, hopelessly seeking the warm echo of her body.

  After a long moment, Ludivine said softly, “The child is yours, Audric.”

  “I wasn’t lying when I said it doesn’t matter to me.” The words were ash in his mouth and came too late. “She’ll be terrified regardless, and she’ll hate it and love it too, and that I can’t help her through this is a great unkindness dealt to us both. One I deserve but she does not.”

  “I should tell you that Rielle knew before your wedding, as did I.”

  Audric laughed bitterly. It was agony to imagine a world in which he and Rielle would be able to celebrate and worry together. He would dote on her, provide her with anything she desired. She would have everyone in me de la Terre fussing over her—or no one, if she preferred it.

  “You knew a piece of information that was important for me to know,” he said, “and yet you kept it from me? Astonishing. Unprecedented.”

  Ludivine was quiet. “She told me not to tell you. I could not ignore that.”

  “If I’d known…”

  He stopped himself, looked away.

  “If you’d known,” Ludivine said, “you would have treated her more kindly in the gardens? You would have stopped to think? You would have shown your child mercy and understanding that you did not grant your wife?”

  Audric stared at the floor until he recovered his voice, then glared at Ludivine. His blood was a quiet drum of anger.

  “If I’d known,” Audric said tightly, “we would have had this joyful thing between us, a light to illuminate the darkness of that day. An anchor to help us weather its storms. You’re not wrong to accuse me of rashness, of foolishness, even of unkindness. But I am not alone in my mistakes. And none of that absolves you.”

  Ludivine met his eyes for a long moment. The feeling of her own shame rose to meet his.

  “Absolution,” she said at last, “is something I neither seek nor deserve.”

  “On that, we can agree,” he said, which was perhaps unfair, but he could feel himself slipping back into the quiet black depths that had ruled his life for those first long weeks in Mazabat, and the hopelessness of that feeling, the inevitable weight of it, acted upon him like a drug, plying his tongue.

  He rose, gathering the shreds of his voice, and sent her a silent dismissal.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said aloud. “It was a gift to see her face again.”

  Ludivine hesitated, then gently opened up all her love to him before leaving him to his solitude and the escape of sleep.

  • • •

  Not two hours later, Audric awoke to the feeling of rain on his face.

  Audric, hurry, came Ludivine’s urgent voice. They need you.

  The doors to his apartment burst open. Evyline rushed in with the rest of the Sun Guard.

  “My king, we must move quickly,” Evyline said, her gaze darting to the windows.

  Audric sat up and wiped his face. Atheria stood near the bed, shaking out her wings and mane. She pawed the rug, nostrils flaring.

  Audric, glancing past her, immediately saw why.

  He hurried to the windows, beyond which the world was dark, the tide high and furious. Huge churning waves spilled across the shore. Trees shook at a slant in the roaring wind. Even the castle seeme
d to sway. The sky swirled black with clouds, illuminated by jagged fans of lightning. Bells from the city’s seven temples chimed, faint through the howling storm.

  Quickly, he found his clothes, threw on his jacket, pulled on his boots.

  “Are they evacuating the city?” he asked.

  “Yes, my king,” Evyline replied. “But there is much confusion, and many of the roadways are already flooded. They have seen hurricanes before, my king, especially in recent months, but have always had adequate time to prepare.”

  Audric found Illumenor beside his bed. When his hand closed around the hilt, the familiar tremor of power flew from palm to shoulder. “Why did no one wake me sooner?”

  “It came upon us in minutes, my king. Ten minutes ago, it was a clear day, the clouds distant.”

  An ill feeling brewed in Audric’s chest. This was the Gate’s doing. “It is no ordinary storm, then.”

  “I had wondered, my king,” said Evyline gravely.

  A wave of screams from outside drew them out onto the terrace, where sheets of rain rippled like black veils. Atheria used her wings to shield them from the worst of it.

  Audric squinted through the storm. What had once remained of the damaged beach had disappeared beneath climbing waves that must have surpassed one hundred feet, more whitecap than water. He watched in horror as great piles of wreckage swept out with the tide—bungalows and piers, the lookout towers that dotted the coastline, the market district, an entire neighborhood of apartments. With each wave, another piece of the city fell into the sea.

  Ludivine appeared at his side, her expression solemn.

  “How many people have died?” Audric asked her.

  “Five hundred and two,” she said quietly.

  “Where is Kamayin? The queens?”

  “Organizing their elementals near the water, trying to fend off the worst of it.”

  Audric turned at once and climbed onto Atheria’s back. He reached down to Ludivine, helped her settle behind him.