by Tara Grayce
“At me for existing.” Farrendel’s tone was soft, but impassive enough that she could not tell his emotion from it.
“Yes.” She rested her chin on her knees. “You became the target of my anger. You were the only one left to hate. Everyone else was gone or dead.”
It was such a bad, bad reason for betrayal.
“In the end, I solved nothing. I am still so angry. I do not know what to do with this constant simmering. I just want to lash out and fight and hurt something. Or someone.” She dug her fingers into her hair, ignoring the way the greasy, dirty strands clung to her fingers and scalp. “Hardly the proper attitude for a healer.”
When she finally found the courage, Melantha lifted her head and glanced at Farrendel. He was studying her, his expression impassive. What was he thinking? That she was an even more horrible sister than he had believed?
She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “Growing up, I wanted to be an elven warrior like Father and Weylind. I was so disappointed when I came into my magic, and it turned out to be healing magic. I begged Father to allow me to avoid taking the healers’ oath and fight as a warrior, but he refused. He said that all killing hurts the soul, but killings when an elf can feel the heart stop with magic tears a mind the most, and he would not see that happen to me.”
“Father was wise, in that.” For a moment, Farrendel’s silver-blue eyes filled with pain, but not the physical kind of pain that she could heal.
“I envied you. I think I still envy you. Your magic is what I always wished to have.” Melantha could imagine crackling power filling her fingertips, blasting into her enemies. It would feel so good to have the power to lash out that way. Maybe then the fiery pain in her chest would ease.
But, perhaps, with that kind of magic, she would have become even more of a monster than she already was. All that anger would only lead to more anger.
She gave in and brushed the strand of hair from Farrendel’s face. He flinched, but when he met her gaze, he was not glaring. Just hard and cold. She pressed her lips into a small smile. “It was probably better you were gifted with such deadly magic instead of me. I would have enjoyed the destruction and death far too much. You have a good heart, and your love for our people—not anger—controls your magic.”
“All except once.” Farrendel’s fingers clenched into fists, his eyes squeezing shut. “I understand killing anger. All I thought about was vengeance when I killed the troll king.”
Melantha nodded. She had felt that same anger when their father had been killed. She just had not had Farrendel’s chance to do anything about it. She had cheered when he had returned and told them what he had done, though by then he had been far from jubilant.
Such vengeance had long reaching consequences. Would their situation with the trolls have been different if Farrendel had not killed their king?
The war would have dragged on longer. The trolls had only ended the war because their king had been killed. But would this second war have happened? King Charvod was much like his father. He enjoyed torture and death. He would have pushed for war regardless.
But Prince Rharreth was different. He hated Farrendel because of the assassination, but he would not condone this kind of torture in other circumstances. He did not fully condone it now. Would he have been less hardened against her people if Farrendel had not killed his father? Or if his father had been killed on the battlefield rather than assassinated?
“I wanted to be a healer.”
“Pardon?” Melantha turned back to Farrendel. Had she heard that right?
Farrendel’s mouth twitched in a hint of a sad smile. “When I was young, I wanted to be a healer.”
How had Melantha forgotten that? How he used to play healer and pester her with questions about what it was like to actually be a healer. She had spent those times brushing him away, still trying to come to terms with the fact that her magic forced her to become a healer instead of a warrior.
She smiled and touched his hand. “You would have made a good healer. You have a healer’s heart far more than I do.”
He had a loving, protective heart. It would have made him an excellent, caring healer, just as it made him a terrifying warrior.
“Perhaps.” Farrendel’s gaze swung to the ceiling, but it no longer seemed like he was ignoring her with the gesture. “While I do not enjoy killing, I enjoy the thrill of testing myself and claiming victory. I am, perhaps, more a warrior than a healer after all.”
Melantha focused on the floor. She was not a warrior. Not really. She had attempted to kill her own brother. Worse, she had not even had the courage to do it herself. Instead, she arranged to have him killed by the trolls.
She had thought getting rid of him would solve all her problems, as if he was merely an inconvenience she could do away with, the circumstances of his birth making him less worthy of life.
But, she saw now, she would have realized her mistake soon enough. She would have missed Farrendel, the guilt of his death gnawing in her chest the rest of her life. She would have been haunted by the brother she had killed to make her life a little easier.
Was it possible to change? To change her heart and the direction of her life? Or was it already too late? Had her choices cost too much and made her irredeemable?
FARRENDEL STIRRED from a doze. With Melantha’s magic banishing the pain and the blanket keeping him warm, he had let himself sleep. He needed the rest, since he got little of it during the night.
A faint vibration traveled across the floor a moment before Farrendel heard bootsteps in the corridor.
He blinked and turned his head to find Melantha curled up on the floor a foot away. Close enough to tuck her slippered feet beneath the blanket she had spread over him, but not touching him. “Melantha?” He would have nudged her, but he could not move enough to reach her. “Someone is coming.”
Melantha stirred, swiped at her face, and pushed herself into a sitting position. “Is it Prince Rharreth? Or someone else?”
If King Charvod walked in and discovered how lenient Prince Rharreth had become, he would not be pleased. Farrendel suppressed a grimace.
The locking bar grated, and the door creaked open. Prince Rharreth strode inside. He wore the same leather jerkin and black trousers as he had earlier in the day. His short white hair spiked above his tapered ears.
Melantha clambered to her feet, then gestured down at Farrendel. “You usually come before your brother in the morning, so I would like to leave my blanket with Farrendel tonight. You can bring it back to my cell in the morning. You would not wish for him to weaken from cold.”
Prince Rharreth glared, but Melantha did not back down.
Farrendel hardened his expression. It would do no good to let Prince Rharreth know how much he wanted that blanket. Or how much he was weakening toward Melantha. If all her help was a trick, then he should not let either of them know how close he was to losing his wariness.
“Very well.” Prince Rharreth’s thin-lipped, hard expression did not waver, giving Farrendel no hint to the reasons behind his actions. Why was he so willing to let Melantha help him? Did Prince Rharreth disapprove of the torture?
That was something Farrendel could leverage. Maybe. Though, figuring out people’s motivations was more Essie’s thing. Farrendel spent most time around people bewildered.
Prince Rharreth pressed a hand to the wall, and the stone shackle fell from Melantha’s ankle. With her head high, Melantha glided from the dungeon cell. Prince Rharreth followed a moment later.
Farrendel flexed his fingers and stared at the ceiling. If only he could ask Essie what she thought of Melantha’s actions. She would be able to tell if it was a trick or if it was genuine.
That foolish part of him so desperately wanted Melantha to be sincere. She was his sister. No matter what she had done to him, she was still family. As much as he had to keep his guard up, he could not hate her. No, worse. He was pretty sure he was most of the way to forgiving her.
If he wa
s not careful, he would end up trusting her before this was over.
The door creaked again, and Prince Rharreth’s heavy tread tromped back into the dungeon cell.
Farrendel flicked a glance toward the troll prince as he knelt. An icy flood of troll magic rushed through the stone piercing Farrendel. He sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth at the renewed rush of pain, though Melantha’s magic managed to dull it somewhat.
He forced himself to breathe deeply and steadily until the pain subsided.
Prince Rharreth stood and turned to leave.
“Why would you allow her to help me?” Farrendel needed to probe for the answer. He was not sure Prince Rharreth would tell him the truth, but he had to ask anyway.
Prince Rharreth faced him once again, crossed his arms, and studied Farrendel.
Farrendel was not sure what he would see. Desperation, perhaps.
After a long moment, Prince Rharreth’s shoulders rose and fell, as if in a deep breath. “This is not how I would have chosen to deal with a prisoner.”
Farrendel huffed out something that might have been a laugh in different circumstances. He twisted his fingers as much as he could, pointing at himself. “You do not have a choice for me. Nothing less would hold me.”
“If it were up to me, I would not have taken you prisoner. I would have killed you as due a vanquished enemy.” Prince Rharreth rested a hand on the sword belted at his hip.
“I see.” As Farrendel had decided he would rather survive for Essie, even if it meant enduring torture, he was almost thankful Prince Rharreth had not been the one in charge. Almost.
“Nor would I use torture, even for the elf that killed my father.” Prince Rharreth’s gaze hardened, his mouth thinning. “But I can understand why my brother would wish to.”
“He is much like your father.” It was probably not wise to bring up the late troll king, but this had started with him. The late troll king had been the one to order the raids that killed the elf queen. He had tortured Farrendel and killed his father.
It had been wrong to hunt him down and kill him out of vengeance. The horror of so deliberately shedding blood still plagued Farrendel’s nightmares. But there were times he struggled to feel truly sorry he had killed his tormentor. Perhaps he was only sorry he had not found a better way, a more honorable way, of going about it. It was likely that, had Farrendel waited, he would have had the chance to kill the troll king on the battlefield.
“Yes.” Prince Rharreth glanced away, the only acknowledgment that he was likely to make that his brother had the same enjoyment of torture that their father had.
As the recipient of their torture-happy ways, Farrendel could vouch for that aspect of their personality.
With one last glance in Farrendel’s direction, Prince Rharreth stalked from the dungeon cell. The door thunked shut behind him, the bar sliding into place. At this point, that sound was almost comforting because it signaled a few hours of being left alone.
Farrendel stared at the ceiling, the patterns of the stone overhead memorized by now. He waited until even the echoes of footfalls faded before he accessed his magic. With Melantha there for most of the day, he had not dared store the magic in the heart bond in case she sensed what he was doing. Nor had he been sure he could draw on his magic without letting a few crackling bolts slip free.
Hints of magic crackled around his fingertips under the blanket. It was so tempting to use the magic to crack the stone binding him. It would be such a relief to move a hand or arm or curl onto his side for the night to relieve the throbbing bruises on his back.
But the trolls would notice if his bonds were broken, and it was not yet time to make his move. As much as it hurt to lie here, he had to be patient. His chance would come, and this time he would be ready for it in a way he had not been fifteen years ago.
Essie, I am going to pour more magic into the heart bond.
He sensed her pausing, questioning, waiting.
When he drew his magic into his chest this time, it was easier to pour it into the heart bond than it had been before. He paused several times, making sure the impression from Essie remained as before without the slightest discomfort. All he sensed was confusion. If only he could explain exactly what he was doing.
By the time he had poured all the scraps of his magic he had been able to pull thanks to Melantha’s magic, his wrists throbbed, and his head pounded.
Now concern tinged the impression from Essie.
I am fine. Just...He was not sure what he was.
If only this could be over. He could be home with Essie, either at Estyra or Aldon. Either would work. Anywhere but here. What he would not give to be safe. And free of stone and pain and daily torture.
Would he ever truly be free? Even after rescue, he would find himself back here in his nightmares. Parts of his mind were still trapped in the torture of fifteen years ago.
Farrendel forced himself to take a deep breath and unclench his fingers. One battle at a time, otherwise the future would overwhelm him.
First, he needed to face tomorrow. More torture. More pain. Another healing by Melantha.
What was he going to do about Melantha? Did he dare trust her? Was she helping him out of guilt or a reawakened sisterly love? Or was this all yet another betrayal? Her healings allowed King Charvod to torture Farrendel even more each day than he would have been able to otherwise. But if she truly did want to help, what was she supposed to do? Sit by and let him suffer?
Nothing in her actions could prove her true motivations. He did not know what to believe anymore.
What he would not give to have Essie’s opinion, though he was thankful she was safe and far away from this dungeon.
He needed to figure out if he could trust Melantha, and soon. A plan was beginning to take shape, and he might need her help to implement it.
If he guessed wrong, then his plan was already doomed to failure.
ESSIE CROUCHED deep in the line of trees. Between the dense pines, the rows of soldiers and elves crowding the space in front of her, and the shields Averett had insisted on placing around her, she could barely see the edge of the crevasse. She couldn’t see the Gulmorth River, though its roar filled the early morning while a mist hovered in the gorge.
Across the way, the scraggling pine trees and scrub brush of the Kostarian side remained quiet. Too quiet? Were they expecting the attack?
They had to be. From the moment they had captured Farrendel, they would know Tarenhiel, at least, was coming. Did they know yet that Escarland would also participate in the invasion?
Her stomach knotted. How many people were about to die on both sides of that river? Perhaps Essie should have stayed farther behind the lines as Averett had wanted.
Jalissa tucked in closer to her and pressed her hand to the ground, though she did not use her magic yet. None of the elves had, since they would not wish for the trolls to sense the use of magic and alert them to their presence.
“Are you as nervous as I am?” Essie kept her voice low as she glanced at her elvish sister-in-law.
Jalissa’s face was set. Almost blank. But when she glanced at Essie, a glimmer shone in her eyes. “Terrified.”
It was more than Essie had expected her to admit. But they had not had much of a chance to talk since their heart-to-heart on the train after Farrendel was taken. It seemed the bond they had formed then was still holding strong.
Today’s goal was to cross the river. That was all. But that one task could take all day.
If they even succeeded in this first attempt. What if they failed and had to try again? How many times would Weylind and Averett try an invasion of Kostaria before the cost became too high? The cost would already be far too high as it was.
We’re coming, Farrendel.
She resisted the urge to rub at her chest. That crackling feeling to the heart bond was getting strong. At times, it almost felt like she was constantly filled with static, though she had yet to shock herself when she touched things. It wasn
’t an uncomfortable or painful feeling. Just strange. Especially since she wasn’t sure exactly what it was.
A signal must have been given. With a creaking of large wheels, squads of Escarlish soldiers pushed the large artillery guns forward. The long cannons would be able to lob explosive charges and grapeshot across the crevasse toward anyone who might be hiding behind the trees and rocks on the far side.
Men with large iron shields rushed forward to help protect the artillery men. It took several men to move the heavy wood and iron shields, which only provided a modicum of protection. But they would be better than nothing if the trolls guarding this stretch of the border were armed with the Escarlish weapons the traitors had provided them.
A few elves rushed forward as well and crouched behind the shield bulwarks.
The other side of the river remained still. Were the trolls there? Surely they had to be guarding their own border.
Essie gripped the stock of the rifle resting next to her. Her black trousers and tunic would keep her hidden in the shadows while her hair hung in a long braid down her back. Even behind the shield, dressed for war, she felt vulnerable. Her skin crawled, knowing each moment the bullets might start flying.
How did those soldiers march forward so bravely, crouching exposed on the edge of the crevasse?
A boom shattered the stillness, vibrating through the ground. One of the guns rolled back a few feet with the force of firing. A cloud of smoke drifted on the morning breeze, filling the pines with the scent of burnt gunpowder.
More guns fired, the roar turning into a solid, unending sound rolling across the river.
Essie pressed her hands to her ears, the ground trembling beneath her.
Under the cover of the artillery fire, the elves crouching in the forest in front of Essie pressed their hands to the ground. Ahead, Weylind’s dark hair bent as a green glow filled the forest around him, illuminating Averett crouched beside him.
