Nesilia remained with her hands upon the stone but looked back. He’d never seen this version of his sister so self-satisfied. Echoes of Sigrid when she used to beat him at well, anything, filled his brain. It made him look away.
“The dwarves who built this bridge had reinforced the stone with glaruium,” Nesilia said. “Thanks to you burying me under the only mountain where it’s found, Bliss, it listens to me.”
Bliss didn’t answer. She flew out and swirled around the loose pieces, still filling into the impossibly complex puzzle of reversed devastation.
“You see,” Nesilia went on. “Patience. Everything happens for a reason. They thought they’d bought themselves time by destroying history. But the past cannot be forgotten. And it cannot be forgiven.”
Her eyes fixed on Rand, and he froze. Was she talking about his conversation with Lucas? Could she hear them?
“Come now, my pets,” she said. “Yarrington awaits.”
She stayed where she was. Rand realized that the bridge didn’t merge or repair completely. All the cracks remained visible as if she were holding them in place only temporarily. As creatures began to cross without any fear of it crumbling beneath them, Rand realized she was.
A grimaur pecked at his ear as it swooped by, and he swatted at it with his sword. Then he, too, began to march. They were close now. He, also, was close. To the end of this nightmare and seeing Sigrid on the other side.
The Glass Kingdom be damned. The whole world be damned. It was broken as is. Filled with cruelty and suffering for no good reason.
“But we can change that,” Lucas said.
And his sister would.
She had to…
XXXVI
The Knight
Sora was what, by the Buried Goddess?” Torsten asked, incredulous.
He scanned the Shield Hall and saw more than a dozen faces equally aghast as he was. He ignored the irony that the north wall of the room was an open balcony overlooking Mount Lister—the very place where Nesilia had been buried in the God Feud.
Everyone with an essential role in Yarrington’s defense was present, seated or standing around the thick, stone table, including Whitney and his group, who claimed they could stop the goddess.
Torsten had caught them up on what had happened since he’d left Yarrington for White Bridge, along with everyone else. From Nesilia’s return in the body of an upyr to the ambush at Latiapur where Rand Langley completed his betrayal. Then, Whitney did the same, telling all about a journey to the upyr Citadel to save who he just claimed to be Nesilia’s host prior to Sigrid.
If it weren’t for the other companions, especially the Glintish woman called Lucindur, Torsten would have believed the tale to be just another wild exaggeration by the self-proclaimed “World’s Greatest Thief.”
“Possessed by her,” Whitney said blithely, as if that were a routine event in his insane life. “Keep up, Torsten. We broke her mind free using an old mystic relic, and nearly contained Nesilia’s power in time to destroy her in the mouth of a wianu, when Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale showed up and ruined it all. He killed… Sigrid’s master… and caused the bar guai to break. Then, Nesilia escaped into Sigrid’s Upyr body.”
Torsten didn’t respond. His gaze fixated on Sora, who sat beside the thief, quietly staring down at the table. Tum Tum and Lucindur stood behind them, and they were the only ones who didn’t have their jaws ajar.
“And you brought her here?” Mahraveh asked, stealing the question straight from Torsten’s mouth. She and her lieutenant, Bit’rudam, sat across the room.
“Yes, and?” Whitney asked, shooting daggers at her with his eyes.
“Need I truly say it?”
“Truly,” Whitney said with as much sarcasm as Torsten had come to expect. “And then, Torsten can explain why the castle is filled with you gray skins? Or did the King not just die in your hot, crusty desert?”
“I second that,” Sir Mulliner muttered.
“We have pledged our spears to the defense of this city,” Bit’rudam snapped. “Who are you to question anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know… perhaps one of the inhabitants of Troborough—do you remember that place? You might remember it as one of twelve Glass villages that now looks like piles of ash,” Whitney said. “Weren’t you there? I swear I saw you there, killing children.”
“How dare you!” Bit’rudam pushed out his chair. Mahraveh stopped him with a raised fist.
“My father did what he thought he must, for our people,” she said, firm and steady. “As yours have. As your former Wearer or White did when he burned down my village. It is behind us now.”
“Shog, it is!” Whitney protested. He placed his hand over his heart. “And Torsten Unger would never burn down a village. I’m offended you’d even accuse him of that, right, Torsten?”
Bit’rudam opened his mouth to yell, then stopped himself. His features crinkled in confusion.
“He doesn’t mean me,” Torsten said. “Sir Nikserof Pasic.”
“But you’re… and…” Whitney threw his hands up in confusion. “I can’t keep up with this city. How many Wearers does that make now? And you… you can see, you can’t see. You’re Wearer, you’re nothing, you’re in charge. By Iam, it’s been a mess since I left.”
“Stop!” Torsten’s large hand slammed down on the table. Pieces from the modeled version of Yarrington in its center toppled from the vibration. “None of this matters. You brought Sora here and didn’t think to mention that at the start of your story? It’s bad enough you worked with the very upyr who killed our Queen!”
Whitney shrugged. “It wasn’t relevant until we got to the part where we saved her.
“It couldn’t be more relevant,” Torsten said.
“And hey, those upyr hated Nesilia as much as we do. The enemy of my friend is my enemy, or however it goes.”
“I agree with Sir Unger,” Mahraveh said. “The Buried Goddess is a deceiver to her core. I’ve met her.”
Hearing that finally seemed to break Sora out of her blank stare. She eyed Mahraveh curiously, but still remained quiet.
“How are we supposed to know she isn’t in the mystic still?” Bit’rudam said. “Just as she controlled the one who drowned Latiapur?”
“Gray skin or not, that’s a valid point, Torsten,” Sir Mulliner said.
“Wait, I’m lost,” Lord Jolly chimed in. “They were with Nesilia when she took over Sigrid’s body, and then Rand summoned her to us with a blood pact on the late Sir Danvels?”
“We don’t know he’s dead,” Torsten said.
Jolly conceded the point with a wave of his hand.
“I don’t know what’s so hard to understand,” Whitney groaned. “Yes, and yes. And we need to get close to Nesilia again so that we can wake Sigrid up inside her own head using Lucy’s Lightmancing, then bind Nesilia inside of this.”
Whitney reached into his pocket, pulled out a gem, and plunked it on the table. With his enchanted vision, Torsten couldn’t perceive color in all its magnificent shades, but for him, the gem seemed to be draining all the light from the room. It was midday, the hot summer sun blaring in through the open wall, and yet now it felt like twilight.
A handful of people gasped, flinching, and backing away.
“What in Iam’s name is that?” Lord Jolly demanded.
“They brought it here for her!” Sir Mulliner barked.
Master of Rolls Caspar Brosch, however, moved closer and whispered, “Curious.”
Bit’rudam placed himself in front of Mahraveh, hand on the grip of his scimitar. Whitney tried to argue. Tum Tum too, but the shouting intensified until Torsten wasn’t sure who was saying what.
“That be me father’s Brike Stone,” whispered Al. Their dwarven master of coin stepped forward from the corner where the more unnecessary-for-defense Royal Councilmen lurked. But, even in the face of the end of all things, contractors, smiths, and all the citizens whose work would help prepare the city for war required th
e gold from Yarrington’s coffers.
“My thoughts precisely,” Brosch said, still at a whisper.
“The what?” Sir Mulliner asked.
“My father’s greatest treasure. Said to be the heart of the last dragon, after his ancestors tricked it into tradin its soul for our riches.” He made his way around the table and reached out for it.
Whitney slapped the dwarf’s hand away and said, “It’s ours.”
“How is that possible?”
“We uh… borrowed it. From yer father,” Tum Tum said. “Yer Alfotdrumlin, right? Lorgit’s youngest? He be an old frie—“
“My father would never give that up,” Al said. “Not to a friend. Not to his own sons. He believes the power of the last dragon has allowed him to live all these centuries.”
“It’s bad enough with a mystic, now they threaten to draw the Three Kingdoms into war against us?” Lord Jolly said.
“We’ll give it back,” Whitney argued.
“You don’t give anything back,” Torsten couldn’t help but retort.
“They are clearly attempting to fool us,” Sir Mulliner said. “They should be locked up in the dungeons.”
“We speak the truth,” Lucindur implored.
The fighting and accusing continued. Torsten hushed and begged for everyone to quiet down, but he should have known better, filling a room with peoples and races, all of which had slighted each other for centuries. Nesilia had cornered them and transformed Yarrington into a tinderbox without a trusted King to keep the peace.
Was Sora the fuse?
The two dwarves pushed each other. Whitney pointed a knife at Sir Mulliner and Lord Jolly. Mahraveh bit her lip and glared at Sora with malice. Bit’rudam, the same. The too-young Royal Council members joined in for the sake of not feeling left out. Lucindur, for what’s it’s worth, attempted to calm things.
Sora continued to sit quietly, not engaging, out of the argument. Torsten knew she had Whitney wound around her fingertip. He was a thief, but he wasn’t malicious. If she was a pawn of the Buried Goddess, she could get him to do anything.
Then, everyone went suddenly silent when Dellbar the Holy grasped the outlandish gem and rotated it in his hands. Torsten wasn’t even sure when he’d managed to sneak over so close. Though, he was used to him stumbling drunkenly into things. He still wasn’t used to the sober version of the High Priest.
“Hey, don’t touch that!” Whitney yelled.
Dellbar turned on him. He hadn’t eyes with which to glower, but the grisly holes in his face got the job done. Whitney fell right back into his chair.
The High Priest clasped the stone with both hands. He shuddered for a moment, his face wrinkling deeper. Then, without a word, he sauntered calmly to the great window framing Mount Lister. Every eye was on him now. He stopped there, facing out for a few seconds, and Torsten’s superior hearing allowed him to hear Dellbar mutter in a pained voice, “In the hands of Your children now, eh?”
He chuckled to himself, shoved the stone into his pocket, then turned. Only, it wasn’t to the entire room. He focused on Sora specifically. “So, that’s how we destroy Nesilia?” he said. “We tear her and the upyr apart with Lightmancery, and bind her in this?”
“Yes,” Sora answered.
“Hmph. As simple as it is not. It is said that dragons once served as the messengers of the gods until the Feud claimed so many, they went extinct. I can feel the power emanating from this. Whether or not it is what legends say, it can only restrain her for a short time.”
“We hope,” Lucindur added.
“It has to,” Sora said. “There won’t be another shot at her with something else. If we can’t separate her from Sigrid and bind her, we’ll all die.”
“How do you know that?” Torsten asked. “We can withstand her army. Dellbar and the priests will figure out how to banish her demons. We can hold.”
“We can’t,” Sora said.
“We can.”
“You know that we can’t,” Sora attested. “You of all know. We’ve all seen parts of her army, and when it’s all here? Even Liam the Conqueror couldn’t survive this. Our only hope is destroying her, and that stone gives us the best chance.”
“Exactly,” Whitney said, boasting a proud smile. “So, by all means, if you all have something better hiding in Yarrington’s coffers like a spare bar guai or the kidney of a god, let us know.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “No? Nobody? Thought so.”
“So, what? We’re going to leave our future in the hands of a potentially possessed mystic and a thief?” Lord Jolly said, a sly smile on his face. He glanced at Casper Brosch, the Master of Rolls, who still looked shocked from the sight of the stone. “Do you think I didn’t ask for the records of Whitney Fierstown before coming in here?”
Whitney perked up and leaned forward. “What did they say?”
Jolly ignored them. “I’ve already lost one home this week, I will not lose another.”
“I agree,” Mahraveh said.
“And me,” said Bit’rudam.
“Ah, now we all care about lost homes,” Whitney said.
“If me father was on the fence and now joins her over this, I won’t be able to talk him down,” Al added. “And no offense to any of ye fine people, but this ain’t me home to die in.”
Whitney groaned so loudly it bordered on performance. “Oh, would you fools all stop it? I didn’t get chomped at by a wolf, nearly burned alive, and get half my shoulder chewed off by goblins to not use that stone.”
Torsten raised a hand to preemptively stifle the opposition that would inevitably come from Whitney letting his opinions be known.
“If you’re all right, and telling the truth,” he said, “then what’s your plan for getting close to Nesilia. She conquered Latiapur without even showing up. Her mystic, or sister, or whatever that red-robed witch is, seems perfectly capable of carrying out an attack. Plus, now with Babrak on her side, and her new Arch Warlock leading another Drav Cra horde south, how do you possibly plan on getting near to her?”
Whitney jammed his elbow onto the table and pointed. “I’ll tell you how…” His words trailed off, and with his other hand, he scratched his chin.
“She’ll come to us,” Sora said.
“Yes,” Whitney said. “This is ridiculous. If you all knew who Sora was, you’d be on your knees, not—“
“Don’t.” Sora laid her somehow-unscarred hand upon Whitney’s shoulder and did what Torsten thought impossible—silenced the thief in an instant. She stood.
“It’s true,” she continued, now to everyone. “Nesilia possessed me when I attempted to enter Elsewhere and break every law the mystics should stand for. She thought we were kindred spirits. Both abandoned time and time again. Both misunderstood. Called by names we never asked for. Unloved. Forgotten. There was a point I even thought she was right…”
Her hands trembled as she spoke, and Torsten noticed the embers dancing at her fingertips. His own slowly reached for Salvation, which leaned against the table beside him, ready to do whatever was necessary if the worst was to come.
“I had to watch as she used my body to please herself.” After several gasps, she continued. “I watched her turn a psychopath named Freydis into her latest beloved weapon while she slaughtered Drav Cra not loyal to her. Then, she destroyed an entire city of dwarves simply because they were in her way.”
She gazed down at Whitney, and a weak smile formed. He bit his lip.
“I had to watch while she surrounded the people I love, with every intention of killing them, too.” Her voice cracked slightly. “And then Whitney and his friends—my friends—helped break me free. They reminded me how wrong Nesilia was before I gave in.”
She looked at Torsten, then across the table all the way to Mahraveh. “So no, I can’t prove to any of you that Nesilia isn’t in my head, because I can’t prove it to myself. Everywhere I look, she’s there, her horrors like a shadow on my mind. I looked into the eyes of pure wickedness and ha
te, and they were my own. And that is exactly how I know that when her army comes for Yarrington to wipe every shred of Iam’s existence from this world, she’ll come for me first.”
Sir Mulliner grunted. “Exactly what a pawn would say. Invite her right in.”
“Quiet,” Mahraveh snapped, breaking a long silence.
“How dare you—“
“I looked into her eyes as well,” Mahraveh said to Sora, ignoring Mulliner. “I haven’t slept since. Generations of memories clog my head at all times… and yet, her eyes are all I see.”
“Oh, now you believe her?” Mulliner groaned.
“I have to agree with Sir Mulliner,” Lord Jolly said. “We can’t stake our survival on a prayer that Nesilia will senselessly expose herself. You go ask my family if Nesilia needed to be in Crowfall when that witch your ‘body’ helped train broke open our walls like an acorn.”
“It’s not a prayer,” Sora said.
“You can’t know that.”
“She does,” Dellbar stated, stepping forward. After his long silence, Torsten had almost forgotten about him. But when he spoke, Torsten was reminded of Wren before Redstar got ahold of him. There was vim and vigor in his tone.
“Nesilia will come for Sora for one simple reason,” Dellbar said.
“And that is?” Mulliner asked, fully out of turn.
Dellbar looked at Sora. “Because she rejected her. Right?”
Sora swallowed hard, then nodded.
“She spent an eternity buried,” Dellbar went on as he slowly rounded the table. “Her hate rising with every Dawning. And then she found a woman as powerful as she was unknown. And you rejected her. Not like Torsten or Mahraveh, who were raised their entire lives on their own faiths, with their own families to love. You were the orphan, far from home, and even you rejected her like she believes Iam did. For him.”
Dellbar punctuated the sentence by placing the Brike Stone down in front of Whitney. The thief had been so enraptured that he yelped. Again, the light was sapped out of the room. Then, the High Priest took Sora by the shoulders and positioned his blind eyes straight in front of hers.
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