Shadow & Flame

by Mindee Arnett

  Rendborne let out a grunt of pain, but that was all he had time to do before Corwin was on top of him, fists slamming into his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. All the rage Corwin possessed poured out of him now, his fury a living force inside him. Memories flashed through his mind, of his friends’ suffering, his brother’s death, Dal’s death, Kate’s death, his homeland ravished. So much destruction this man had wrought. Corwin would kill this man with his bare hands if he had to. Mindless of the pain in his knuckles, his hands, his arms, he kept at it. Blood splattered from Rendborne’s mouth, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he made no motion to defend himself.

  Sensing the end was near, Corwin struck harder than ever, but then a firm hand touched his shoulder and he froze. Sudden warmth spread through his body, and his hatred fled as quickly as it had come. He sagged toward the ground, panting and spent.

  The Paragon pulled him into a standing position, then moved him aside, out of the way, as easily as if he were a child. She knelt beside Gershwen Tormane, laying one hand on his red, swollen cheek, the gesture almost a caress, the smile on her face almost loving.

  “I don’t understand,” Corwin said, bloodied fingers clenched. “Why did you stop me? This man deserves death.”

  The Paragon turned her head toward Corwin, and there was no trace of Kate in her face anywhere. No trace of humanity. “The power of the goddess is not meant to take life, but to give it.”

  She laid a hand over her left breast, cupping the light there with one palm. When she pulled her hand away a moment later it glowed like a star. Turning back to Gershwen, she placed her glowing hand on his chest, over his heart. His eyes went wide and a groan escaped his throat, a sound of pain and also relief.

  The light in the Paragon’s hand shifted from brilliant white to a golden hue, lovely to behold and far less blinding than the Paragon’s light. She stood, cupping the gold in both hands. Then, raising her gaze, she let out a whistle. The uror horse trotted over to her at once, its neck arched and mismatched eyes wide with wonderment. It stopped before the Paragon and waited, absolutely still.

  “What are you—” Corwin broke off as the Paragon placed both her hands against the uror horse’s chest. The golden light grew suddenly brighter, and then it exploded, expanding outward in a brilliant wave. It swept over Corwin, and he stumbled sideways. Recovering, he shifted forward and had to brace himself against the uror horse’s side to keep his balance. The moment he touched the animal, he felt his mind slip his body. It was like falling into a dream—one moment awake in one place, the next somewhere else entirely.

  Someone else entirely. He was the uror, one of many, many of one. He was Kalar, the horse sent to judge the hearts of Edwin and Corwin. He was Murr, the wolf sent to choose between Orwin and Owen. He was Jahara, the bear who judged Borwin over Norwan and Jorwen. He was all of them, so many that had come before, so many yet to be. Uror, one of many, many of one.

  And yet one of him was missing, lost a long time ago, leaving the rest broken and incomplete, like a great chain with a missing link.

  The eagle, Niv, who had been sent to Morwen and his brother Gershwen. Niv, who had died at Gershwen’s hands, and yet had lived on in a wrong vessel, twisted and bent, corrupted by a transformation that never should have been. For years the missing uror had longed to return, the trauma of separation turning into hatred, into madness. Even now, with the Paragon holding its soul cupped in her hand, Niv resisted this rejoining, terrified of what it had once been, so long forgotten. The golden light turned a darker hue, the fear Niv had known as a human trying to overtake it. But the rest of the uror surged brighter, welcoming Niv home, restoring it as part of a whole. One of many, many as one, the chain reforged.

  An equine scream rent the air, the sound of it pure joy and elation, a trumpet of victory. At once Corwin felt himself pushed back into his body, the connection he’d momentarily shared with the uror horse severed.

  Gasping, he looked up to see the Paragon standing before him. Her gaze shifted to Gershwen, who lay silent and still a few feet from Corwin. Corwin turned to look at the man as well, startled to see he was Rendborne no longer. The severing of his soul from the uror’s had left him old, skin yellowed and sagging off brittle bones, hair as white as salt. Deep crevices lined his face, and his body was so thin a strong wind would be his undoing. Yet he wasn’t dead. He lingered still, spent and empty. Stripped of magic and purpose, along with everything else. Despite all the man had done, Corwin felt pity swell in his heart for him.

  Yet when Gershwen turned his gaze on Corwin, there wasn’t despair in his eyes. Only relief. He drew a deep breath, straining from the effort. Then, on a breathless exhale, he said, “Be a good king, Corwin Tormane. As I was the worst of us, may you be the best.”

  And with that, the life at last passed from Gershwen’s body.

  Corwin stared at him, waiting for a relief that didn’t come. Rendborne was gone, his worst enemy defeated, but at such a price.

  Kate.

  He turned his gaze onto the Paragon. “What happens now?”

  “The victory of Rime is certain,” she replied. “Magnar Fane is dead and the Sevan forces are retreating.”

  Corwin blinked in disbelief. Was it truly over? He stared at her face, reading the truth in her eyes. The Paragon would know. In the end, believing in her was easy.

  “Yet all is not finished for you, Corwin Tormane.” The Paragon motioned to the uror horse—to Kalar. “You must complete the third trial. Only then will Gershwen’s corruption be completely undone.”

  Corwin swallowed, the knowledge of what he would have to do sending a spike of fear through his chest. The third trial had always been the same for every would-be king: to throw himself into the Well of the World. He glanced at the door behind the Mirror Throne, the one that led to the Vault of Souls.

  Then he turned back to the Paragon. “What about Kate? Where is she?”

  “She is here.” The Paragon touched her left breast, where the white light of the brand was already starting to fade.

  “What happens when you go? Will she remain? Will I ever see her again?” He couldn’t forget the sight of the Hellsteel piercing her throat, the way she’d fallen, the blow surely a mortal wound.

  The Paragon didn’t answer. Instead she sank to the ground, slowly, like a cat settling down for a nap. “Go now, Corwin. Before it’s too late.” Her eyes slipped closed, and she lay on her back, hands folded across her stomach. She seemed to fall asleep at once, going as still as death.

  34

  Corwin

  SUMMONING ALL THE STRENGTH OF will he possessed, Corwin rose to his feet and turned to the door behind the Mirror Throne. He descended the long, steep steps to the Vault of Souls, carrying one of the torches that were always kept lit in the passageway. His heart was heavy with thoughts of his fallen loved ones. The burden of death seemed to pull him down and down, one slow step after the other.

  When he reached the vault, he paused at the threshold, feeling the weight of that great, black eye, the opening to the Well of the World, staring at him once more. For a second he almost turned back, all the fear and doubt he’d known before rising up in him. But then he remembered Kate, the way she had been after the Paragon ritual first failed, and the way she was a few moments ago, vessel for the goddess. Destiny fulfilled. A sacrifice made for the triumph of Rime.

  He would do no less.

  Steeling his courage, he strode toward the edge and looked down. Warmth seeped up from out of that endless pit, like an exhaled breath. He stared down into its depths, seeing nothing, yet feeling everything. The weight of what he was expected to do pressed down on him. It was so much harder to do this alone, with no one standing beside him, either to encourage or dissuade. This was all on him, a choice to be made, a leap of faith to be taken.

  Faith. The word resounded inside with the ring of truth, of revelation. He realized that might be the entire point of the trial. To answer the question of if he could step forwar
d in faith. Only it wasn’t truly about making an impossible leap into a bottomless hole. It was about whether he could make decisions without knowing for certain what their effects would be but trusting they would be for the good. For every decision made was like jumping into the dark. Nothing could be known for certain beforehand. There was always risk.

  Was he wise enough? Brave enough? Did he possess the compassion to think of those he ruled as both equal to and better than himself? Did he have the capacity to listen to them, to learn from them? Could he risk losing himself to the Well of the World, if it meant Rime would be as one? That Rime was more than just a king?

  Yes, he thought. That was something this long, hard journey had taught him, if nothing else. It was the one thing he knew without doubt.

  Be a good king.

  Setting the torch on the ground, Corwin stepped off the edge and into the pit. He fell and fell—right out of the world itself.

  He found himself in a dark place, void of light. For a time he was nothing, not even shadow. Just a mind, a soul adrift. But then a warm, soft light began to grow around him, pushing the shadows back, giving them form.

  He saw large, white leaves that must be growing on a tree the size of the universe. A woman appeared from between the leaves. He knew her face, her shape, the feel of her presence. And yet he’d never seen her before, not truly. He didn’t think anyone ever had. Her skin shifted from white to black and all the colors between. This was the goddess Noralah. The true sovereign of Norgard, protector of Rime.

  Corwin bowed, vaguely aware that he once more possessed a body to do so.

  “Arise, Corwin Tormane,” the woman said, her voice filled with the sound of a thousand combined into one.

  He did so, his limbs trembling from the sheer terror of her awesome presence. The power radiating out from her was the same as the Paragon, only magnified a hundred times. He would’ve preferred to remain kneeling, but instead he held himself upright, obeying her command.

  “You have fought a long, hard fight. A good fight,” Noralah said. “You have helped restore the uror, and proven yourself worthy to be king of Norgard and protector of all of Rime. Do you accept this charge?”

  The meaning of her words slid through Corwin slowly, the dawning realization that he had the choice to refuse. If he wanted. He searched his heart, but the doubt that had been with him before he stepped into the Well of the World was no longer there. In its place was a quiet certainty. He would face every challenge, conquer every fear, and turn every failure into good. That was what it meant to be a good king.

  No, he realized. That was what it meant to be the best version of himself. The best anyone could ever be, king or commoner, wilder or magist, man or woman. We are all the same.

  “Yes,” Corwin said, finding his voice at last. “I accept.”

  The light around the goddess began to grow, until it was bright enough to extinguish all the darkness that had been there before. It enveloped Corwin, consumed him, and returned him to the world—the prince reborn a king.

  Corwin found himself lying next to the Well of the World. The torch had long since gone out. But he no longer needed it to see. The uror brand on his palm glowed white, casting long shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Vague memories flitted through his mind. He remembered stepping into the Well of the World and a fall that seemed to go on forever. He remembered a vast, ancient tree, and a woman, but everything else about his time in there was shadowy, like a dream that fades upon waking, remembered later only for the feelings it invoked and none of the details.

  In a daze, Corwin climbed the steps back to the throne room. It was full of people, the sound of their voices a low grumble. Most were Rimish soldiers—wilder, magist, and common folk alike, still soiled and bloodied from the battle. They all went silent as he stepped through the door. Familiar faces stared back at him. He saw Lord Jedrek and Lord Felton, Lady Myrrh and Lord Ormand all crowded near the throne. Toward the middle of the room Bonner, Nadira, Signe, Valora, Wen, Harue, and Tira were standing in a semicircle around Kate. She was lying where he’d left her, in the same lifeless pose. The uror horse stood guard over her.

  Kalar, Corwin thought, and the horse raised its head toward him, its mismatched eyes fixing on his with unspeakable intelligence. A warm glow spread through Corwin as he sensed Kalar’s mind. It was like those times when he and Kate had shared thoughts. Only in this, Kalar felt like a part of him, a link from within instead of without. His thoughts were Corwin’s thoughts, shared and connected.

  She waits for you to call her back, Kalar said.

  I know. Corwin saw that other world again for a moment, however, and wondered if he should. If it was what she would want. He couldn’t know. All he knew for certain was that he didn’t want to live in any world without her.

  He strode into the room, the crowd parting for him. He kept his eyes fixed on Kate, even as he felt everyone else watching him. They didn’t matter. Not yet. His friends also parted for him, giving him room to kneel beside Kate. Her skin had turned to gray, and when he laid his left hand on her arm it felt like ice. For a moment, fear held him in its grip. She was gone, truly gone, not a spark of life in her. Belatedly, he realized that Tira and Bonner were both crying, and Signe’s cheeks were flushed from the effort of trying not to.

  Turning over his hand so the palm faced up, Corwin stared at the uror brand and the light shining through it. It was so bright the others pulled back from him, shielding their eyes, but Corwin didn’t look away. He stared at it, waiting for it to grow brighter yet. Finally, when it seemed to reach its peak, he turned his hand down and pressed his uror brand against Kate’s chest, atop the Paragon brand over her heart. Heat burned through him, and he watched the light blaze through Kate. It slid through her veins, turning them into golden rivers beneath her skin—they flowed down her arms, up her neck, and across her face. Everywhere.

  A moment later, Kate’s mouth opened, and she drew a breath, her chest rising and falling beneath Corwin’s hand. Then her eyes slid open, finding his at once. Like always.

  “Corwin,” she said, and the rest of the room broke into cheers.

  He barely heard them, barely sensed anyone else around save Kate. He stared down at her, unable to keep the smile from spreading over his face, the joy filling him up like air in his lungs. For a moment he felt the same connection to her that he felt with Kalar, as if they were one and the same, the light they shared binding them together.

  When she returned his smile, one half of her lip curling up, it was like a shared secret between them. Corwin grasped her hands and pulled her into a sitting position. She went willingly, face turned toward his. Their lips met in a kiss. Corwin breathed her in like life and she did the same. The things that had been between them seemed far away, banished forever by the sacrifices—and choices—they had made.

  “I love you, Kate,” Corwin said against her lips.

  “And I you,” she replied, her mouth brushing against his. “You have always been my friend, my love, my prince . . .” She pulled back from him. “And now my king.”

  “All hail Corwin Tormane!” Valora shouted, her voice echoing through the throne room as loud as a trumpet call. “High King of Rime!”

  Applause broke out anew, and this time Corwin registered it. He glanced down at his palm to see the light in the uror brand was already faded. But it didn’t matter. Everyone in the room had seen it, and they’d witnessed the way it had pulled Kate back from death.

  With a firm grip on Kate’s hand, Corwin rose to his feet, pulling her up beside him. One by one the people began to bow, the motion spreading out like a wave. When it reached the lords of Rime near the throne, they too bowed—even Jedrek, although he was the last.

  Corwin felt the weight of his new title already pressing down on him, but he turned his gaze to Kate, knowing he could bear it all, bear anything, with her beside him.

  “And you have always been my queen,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. Then he kissed her ag
ain. A promise of many more to come.

  35

  Kate

  THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED WERE filled with both great joy and great sadness.

  War, regardless of how necessary, was always a dark endeavor, but never more so than at the end of it. For even at the lowest points during the fighting, there was also the hope of victory, the sense of purpose to save what can be saved, no matter what the cost. Afterward, however, those debts came due. There were so many dead to see to. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. Kate felt the loss of each one, but none more so than Dal.

  Thinking about it now sent a wave of despair through her. Not just for the loss of her friend, but for the horrible weight of her actions as she saw them now through the foil that was Gavril. He had orchestrated Dal’s death with sway, the same as she had done with so many others. She’d learned many things in her time in that other world, and during her journey as the Paragon, and one of them was the certainty that she never should have used her power to kill. Just because something could be done didn’t make doing so right. Sometimes the opposite was true—not doing something that could be done was what made it right. But she’d gotten so wrapped up in the need to win, to end the war, to fulfill her duty, that she’d failed to weigh the cost of her actions against her very soul. She understood now that how the battle was won was equally as important as the winning itself. Losing herself along the way would’ve made the victory a defeat. She needed to maintain a good heart, not just to win at any cost.

  A part of her wondered why, when the goddess restored the life to her body, she hadn’t stripped her of her sway. Noralah could’ve, if she’d chosen. But Kate had a feeling she could guess the reason: because she needed to come to terms with her power, to live with it, to constantly be making the choice of how to use it. To take away the temptation to use it entirely would be too easy.