The glowing strands lent him energy, twining a golden cage around his heart and the pulse he thought of as his essence. The two powers warred across his body even as the witches clashed around him, and Rigan knew they were all running out of time.
Rigan drew the spirits of the dead closer, bidding them to step into the golden power, promising their release to the After. They came to him, first by ones and twos, then in larger clusters, those long denied their rest and those finally ready to give up their unfinished business. From each he received a flicker of power as they left the world of the living behind and he opened their passage to the After. Those pulses of energy strengthened him, shoring up his war against the poisonous tendrils of darkness.
Rigan’s body and soul had become the battleground, torn between ground and sky. He felt the Wanderers channeling all their energy into him, as the cavalcade of spirits increased, strengthening him flicker by flicker. He pulled the dying and the newly dead of the battlefield to him, the villagers and farmers who fought alongside the hunters, the Wanderers who had taken up arms, and those of their allies, the guin and the thropes that had fallen in battle. They came to him willingly, offering up the last of themselves if it could turn the tide of the battle.
With each soul that passed through the gateway he had made of his being, the dark tendrils shrank and withered, as the golden strands lengthened and grew thicker. Rigan felt the cosmic powers warring around and through him. He knew that no human was meant to contain or sustain such power for long. He would burn to ashes, a husk sucked dry, and it would be worth the sacrifice if only he could seal the Rift and keep Corran, Elinor, and the others safe.
Rigan opened himself to take in all the remnant soul energy, feeling the magic swell around him and the dark tendrils draw back as the Wanderers channeled all the energy they could muster to him and through him. Caught up in the tide of magic, the golden power ran up his body like an athame, assaulting the bloody gash of the Rift.
Distantly, he realized that the foundations of the manor shook with the power channeling through it, as the walls trembled and chunks of the ceiling began to fall around them. Glass shattered, and curtains caught fire. All of it felt too far away to concern him.
Magic burned against his skin and bone like lightning, blazing from his eyes and mouth, consuming him as its conduit. The light warred against the tendrils and the Rift, a clash of titanic powers. In the background, Rigan sensed the old power of Colduraan and Eshtamon as they watched their champions war for dominance.
Screams echoed in the crumbling manor as He Who Watches drew on the magic of the three blood witches, draining their power and then their lives, releasing them only when the screaming stopped, and nothing remained except brittle husks.
The influx of ghosts waned, and Rigan knew he dared not let his magic falter, not now. He had one last chance, one remaining card to play. Fear and sorrow rose in his chest. If he could add his own soul to the power assaulting the Rift, it might be enough to turn the tide of the battle, no more of a sacrifice than the men who had lost their lives to the claws and teeth of the monsters they battled on the ground below him.
I’m sorry, Corran, Elinor. Be safe.
Rigan’s head fell back. He threw his arms wide, arching his chest as the golden power tore through him. The chants of the Wanderers echoed in his mind as raw energy and pure magic burned away the last of the dark tendrils from his body. The bolt struck the center of the Rift, and fire blazed at the contact, cauterizing the gash like a raw wound with a hot poker.
An inhuman shriek of anger and frustrated hunger escaped from beyond the Rift, the cry of He Who Watches as he realized victory would be denied, a sound like thousands of creatures screaming in agony. The Rift burned closed, and the screaming cut off abruptly.
The ceiling ripped away overhead, unable to contain the surge of power, sending a hail of rock and plaster that gashed and pummeled him, but Rigan did not feel the pain. Brutal magic stripped through him, securing the seal on the Rift, past his ability to control. He gave himself over to it completely, holding nothing back.
What consciousness remained slammed back into his damaged body. Rigan no longer felt the beating of his heart or the rise of his breath. Fire withdrew, leaving him so very cold. The golden glow lowered him to the ground, and it was the last thing he knew before everything went dark.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rigan woke slowly, aware of voices nearby. He could not make out the words, but the tone disturbed him. A man’s voice, ragged with grief and exhaustion. Women’s voices, some with authority, and another thick with worry.
He drifted. Sometimes the voices sounded closer; at other times they receded until he could barely hear them. The tone changed. They argued, pleaded, consoled, and sobbed. Rigan wondered why they did not move away and just let him sleep in peace.
Rigan floated in warmth and darkness, broken only by the fire of sigils that circled his resting place. The sigils burned with a golden glow that soothed where it bathed his skin and calmed when it touched his mind. Nothing else existed, and he could not remember anything before the darkness and the sigils, nor could he imagine why remembering might be important.
Gradually, the warmth and glow receded, and Rigan felt sad at their loss. He felt smaller, contained. The vessel into which his essence poured seemed weak and limited. Feeling returned, followed by pain. He longed to go back into to the darkness, though the voices begged him to stay.
For the first time in a long while, Rigan felt solid, not a thing of light and energy, but a heavy, sluggish body. A heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he was aware of the inhale and exhale as shallow breaths rose and fell. Everything ached, more in some places than in others. The heat of the blankets could not match the enveloping warmth he had left behind in the darkness.
“Rigan?”
It took him a few seconds to recognize the strained, rough voice as Corran’s. He had only heard his brother sound like that a few times. The night they buried their mother. The night they lost Kell.
Rigan opened his eyes with effort, and saw Corran leaning over him, with an expression of hope and fear. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face thinner than before, but the wide, relieved smile made Rigan’s heart stir in response.
“Rigan.” Corran’s hands closed on his shoulders, gripping him as if to hold onto his essence, to keep him from slipping away. He swallowed hard, and his breath caught. “Thank the gods. You were… gone… for a while.”
Rigan wanted to reply, but all that came from his dry throat was a groan. Corran’s face lit up at the sound, and he let go of Rigan’s shoulder long enough to drag a hand across his eyes. “Aiden! Elinor! He’s awake!”
He heard running footsteps, and then two anxious faces appeared beside Corran. Corran stepped back but kept a hand on his shoulder like he feared Rigan might vanish if he let go.
“Just now,” Corran said, responding to something Aiden said that Rigan did not catch.
Elinor pressed a kiss to Rigan’s dry lips, making no attempt to hide her tears. She brushed a hand through his hair. “I’m glad you’re back,” she managed as her voice cracked.
Aiden’s face filled his line of sight. “Got a million questions for you, but they can wait. It’s good to see you. Don’t go anywhere,” he added with a wan smile, clapping Rigan on the shoulder. Rigan closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep, anchored by Corran’s firm grip on his forearm, and Elinor’s hand in his.
“You gave us all quite a scare,” Aiden remarked. Rigan was unsure how much time had passed since he first opened his eyes. He had slept and woken, each time to find Corran and Elinor holding him, whispering their concern, stroking his hair like a sick child. Other times, Aiden prodded him into awareness tending to his needs.
“What happened?” Rigan’s hoarse voice sounded brittle with disuse.
“We won,” Corran replied. He sounded dead tired. Rigan looked over and saw Elinor asleep in a nearby chair. Corran sat nearby, and the dark circ
les under his eyes suggested a long vigil. “The Rift sealed. He Who Watches didn’t get through. The monsters are dead—and when we got inside Thornwood’s defenses, Aiden and Elinor killed the two minor blood witches who were controlling the monsters, and it was a free-for-all for a while, but the Wanderers sent us good fighters, and then the guin and the thropes saved our asses.”
“And didn’t eat us in the bargain,” Aiden chimed in as he moved around the room, coming in and out of Rigan’s line of sight.
Corran’s laugh suggested that might have been a near thing. “Yeah. They kept their promise and went back to the Old Woods. As long as everyone leaves them alone, there won’t be any trouble.” He reached for a cup of tea and took a sip to ease his throat. “That’s when the sky got freaky. And then the golden light came, and the manor blew apart.” His voice caught. “We didn’t know whether any of you made it through, with so much magic loose. We didn’t know how much of it was you until after, when Mina and Brock told us.”
He looked away, gathering his composure before he went on. “Then we got inside Thornwood, and we found the other three blood witches—the ones who really had power—but they were nothing but dried up shells. Guess they didn’t figure on being part of the sacrifice to bring He Who Watches through the Rift.”
“So it’s over,” Aiden added. “At least the plot to let a First Being through is finished.”
“Other blood witches,” Rigan croaked. “More monsters. Bounty hunters.”
Corran shook his head. “Jorgeson is dead. Killed him myself, and we captured what was left of his guards. I don’t think any of his crew will be coming after us.”
“As for the blood witches and monsters, we’ll deal with them when they cross our path,” Aiden added, mixing up an elixir and holding a cup to Rigan’s mouth for him to drink. “That’s a battle for another day.”
“Calfon’s dead,” Rigan said when he had swallowed the medicine. Corran looked startled and then nodded.
“You used your grave magic, there at the end. I felt it and tried to give you what I could to help. Yes, Calfon died in the battle. Ross, Trent, and Polly got pretty banged up, but they’ll live,” Corran replied.
“Elinor—”
Aiden chuckled. “She and I did our part in the battle from a distance, and then moved in to help the survivors as soon as the fighting was done. She was terribly worried about you, and with good cause,” he added, arching an eyebrow. “Once we got you back from the Wanderers, she and Corran stayed with you the whole time, until you woke up.”
“How long?” Rigan croaked.
Corran and Aiden exchanged a glance. “A week,” Corran replied. “You wouldn’t wake up. We were afraid you might not. The Wanderers told us not to give up, that you were a fighter.” A wan smile touched his lips. “They were right.”
“You owe your life to Mina and the Wanderers, not me,” Aiden said, sitting on the end of Corran’s bed. “And to Eshtamon, since Mina said you weren’t breathing and you didn’t have a heartbeat when the Rift vanished. So much for the need to make a ‘total sacrifice,’” Aiden said with a grimace. “The Wanderers got your heart started again and helped you draw air, and that strengthened you enough for me to take over.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Even so, it was rough going.”
“I remember a little of it,” Rigan said, his voice faint. “The glow from the Wanderers’ power. Calling the grave magic. Calfon’s spirit. The Rift sealing.” He gave a weak shake of his head. “Not much after that.”
Corran squeezed his forearm. “Mina and Brock told us all about it. We’ll fill you in when you feel better, but for now, you can rest up knowing that you saved the world.”
Rigan snorted. “I feel more like I got hit with a boulder.”
Aiden laid a hand on his shoulder again. “With rest and food, you should feel much better soon, and I’m certain when Elinor wakes up and finds out you’re back among the living, she’ll see to it that you’ve got incentive to make a full recovery,” he added with a grin, and Rigan blushed.
They fell quiet for a while, Corran’s hand still on Rigan’s arm as if he were afraid to let go, Elinor asleep nearby in the chair, Aiden moving quietly around the room. The part of his mind that channeled magic felt stripped raw and burned, and he winced away from examining it too closely. He felt a faint presence from the Wanderers, a thread of power lending him strength and helping to sustain him. Otherwise, he sensed only exhaustion, something fairly easy to fix.
“What now?” Rigan asked, beginning to fade.
“We’re in what’s left of Thornwood, protected by Wanderers and the witches and farmers who survived the battle,” Corran said. “When you’re well enough, Polly says she has a new monastery picked out for us. Without Jorgeson, someone else will have to take up the hunt for us—if we’re still a priority with all the other things going on. And with three powerful blood witches dead, there won’t be new monsters—at least for a while.” He managed a tired smile. “Gives us time to regroup.”
“When the monsters come back, we’ll be ready,” Rigan added in a whisper as his eyes drifted shut.
“Yeah,” Corran said, staying close as Rigan drifted off to sleep. “We know the game now. We’ll be ready.”
Epilogue
Merchant Prince Kadar paced, stopping every few minutes to peer out the window as if he could see the smoke rising from his ruined vineyards.
“You’re certain? A total loss?”
Pior Tolen—Joth Hanson’s reluctant replacement—nodded, carefully keeping his face expressionless. Pity at his reversal of fortune would have infuriated Kadar; compassion might have undone his fragile reserve. “Yes, my lord. That vineyard and the next closest. Our men contained the fire at that point, but…” He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, the message clear. The damage had already been done.
Kadar turned from the window and ran his hands back through his hair. “We can’t meet our future quota without that harvest.” He hated the desperation in his voice. He’d been up all night, getting reports from sooty-faced riders who had been able to make out the fires from the watchtowers and come to bear the grim news. It would be a week at best before any of his people who had been at the vineyards could return with a full report; and that only if they rode at full speed and switched out mounts.
The details could only make it worse, magnifying the catastrophe. Vineyards took years to come to maturity, and the lands that burned were among his oldest, bearing grapes that became his best wines. He had other lands, as yet untouched, but recovering from this setback would not be easy or quick.
“What do you hear?” he asked, afraid to ask and even more fearful of remaining ignorant.
“Nothing good,” Tolen replied, and Kadar marveled at the man’s ability to keep his voice neutral. “Several smugglers were captured by Aliyev’s men near the harbor; they not only gave up the name of your contact but also the Sarolinian man who sent them our way. He’s one of Crown Prince Neven’s loyal retainers.”
Kadar bit back a cry of utter despair. He could see it all clearly now, how he had been played. Neven’s men had exploited his ambition, his need to show up Gorog and Tamas, his desire to spite Aliyev. The extra profits the smuggling venture had netted now looked paltry compared to the damage inflicted—on his own fortunes, Ravenwood’s economy, and the trade agreements.
I’ve been a fool, an utter idiot, Kadar groaned silently. The platitudes about pride presaging a comeuppance proved true once again, on a devastating scale. “What of Wraithwind? Have you been able to track him?”
“No. But my people have learned that Shadowsworn left Ravenwood City abruptly not long before Wraithwind vanished, and our spies in Sarolinia report that Crown Prince Neven’s blood witch also suddenly left on a long journey.”
Kadar turned to look out the window to hide his reaction. “They’re up to something.”
“The lesser witches picked up on a large flare of energy some distance to the north,” Tolen replied.
“No idea what to make of it.”
“Nothing good,” Kadar murmured. “What of Aliyev?”
Tolen’s hesitation confirmed Kadar’s fears. “Ravenwood is in rebellion, my lord, even as the farmlands rise in revolt. The Guilds refuse the Crown Prince’s orders, hunters roam the streets killing monsters and fighting the guards with impunity, and we are well and truly fucked when it comes to meeting our trade agreements.”
“It’s all coming apart,” Kadar murmured. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
“We received a messenger from Aliyev this morning.” Tolen handed over the parchment, sealed with wax embossed with the Crown Prince’s signet imprint.
Kadar broke the seal, read the paper twice, and let his hand fall, barely biting back a cry. “Aliyev wants the ledgers early,” he croaked. “He must be desperate for money, or for proof he can supply enough goods to the king to salvage the situation with Garenoth.” Kadar dropped the parchment and ran a hand over his eyes. “Gods. The king. Rellan will have our heads.”
“One other bit of news,” Tolen continued, and Kadar wondered whether the man enjoyed being the bearer of bad tidings or realized his fortunes fell with those of his masters. “Aliyev declared Hant Jorgeson rogue and put a bounty on his head. It appears he hasn’t been successful capturing those bloody undertakers and their outlaw friends, and they’ve been marauding across the countryside, raising insurrection and telling the villagers the truth about the Balance and the Cull.”
“They’re behind this,” Kadar said, as fear, loss, and humiliation fueled the viciousness in his voice. “The Valmondes. It’s all been a plot to destroy Ravenwood. First Machison and Gorog. Now Aliyev and me. Tamas and Gorog the younger are hardly worth the bother.” The possibility that someone else might have been responsible for his reversal of fortune fueled him with vindictive purpose.
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