“Whitney…” Sora whispered. Fear flooded her face as Nesilia kneeled and sniffed her neck as Kazimir once had, like she were a Dawning Feast.
“Don’t touch her…” Whitney said. He clenched one of the daggers and swung. Without a chance to counter, Nesilia stole the blade and stabbed it down through the center of his hand so hard the blade jammed into the marble and pinned him down. He screamed in agony as she pushed it deeper.
“How will you steal anything without this?” Nesilia asked.
“Stop it!” Sora shouted. A wave of elements exploded from her fingertips, and she bolted to her feet. Ice, burning coal, sleet, stone, it all landed harmlessly upon Nesilia. Sora was simply too weak, and an upyr too resistant to her magic.
“Enough,” Nesilia said. She shoved Sora back to her knees and wrenched her head to the side. She leaned down to her ear. “I offered you everything, and you chose this laughable excuse for a man. This thief.”
“Sigrid,” Sora whimpered. “If you’re in there, listen to me.”
“She couldn’t hear you before. She won’t now.” Nesilia bit the side of Sora’s neck and drank from her, holding her upright as she did. Her eyes twitched with delight. Sora’s fingers jerked, fire dancing upon them, but unable to summon. The color fled her cheeks. She didn’t scream, didn’t cry—but the sight of her pained face was unbearable.
Whitney could do nothing. Nobody could. They were either too injured or dead. And the horrid sounds from beyond the castle told of a similar tale. Wianu roars were close now—recognizable in their awfulness. The shrieks of people fighting and dying seemed endless.
“Let go of her!” a new voice growled.
Nesilia released Sora and stumbled. Steam poured from a silver-induced wound on her back. This strike hurt her. Her face contorted like she’d never experienced anything like it. Her jaw dropped in utter shock, and she slumped to one knee.
Sora collapsed forward, and Whitney embraced her with one arm. His other hand remained pinned by the knife. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I have you.” As her head lolled over his shoulder, her blood all over him, he peeked.
He expected to see brave and mighty Torsten standing behind Nesilia. Instead, he saw another familiar face. Sure, it was gaunter and more bearded than it had been on their last adventure together, but this was Rand Langley—deserter of the King’s Shield, no doubt. For some reason, he wore all the armor of a Shieldsman except a breastplate. And in his grip, coated in black upyr blood, was half of Torsten’s broken sword.
“Rand,” Nesilia spat, turning on him. He backed away slowly, nearly tripping over a body. “You couldn’t help but be the traitor you’ve always been, could you.”
“You’re wrong,” Rand said. He looked around the room, destroyed and filled with dead and broken bodies. Torsten crawled for a fallen weapon. Tum Tum was crushed beneath a mound of grimaurs. Aquira chirped in pain. Lucindur cradled her salfio, barely able to breathe.
“My sister wouldn’t have wanted this,” he said. “I’ll never see her again.” He swung at Nesilia, but her hand shot forward to catch his forearm. She squeezed and bent it back until Rand lost his grip. Blackness oozed out of her back and from her mouth as she then forced him down and rose to her full height before him.
“You’re right,” she hissed. “You never will, because your pathetic life has come to its end.”
Whitney gave Sora a look while they talked. He didn’t need to tell her the plan. It was like they shared a mind.
In one smooth motion, Sora lunged and drew her silver shortsword. It took everything she had, but she slashed the back of Nesilia’s knees. She collapsed forward, and as she did, Torsten raced to grab Rand and drag him away toward Lucindur and Tum Tum.
Nesilia remained on her hands and knees, steam and black blood shedding off her. Sora crawled toward her. Nesilia started to laugh.
“You should have aimed for the heart,” she said. She raised a fist and punched the floor. The force made the marble ripple like water and threw Sora back. The knife pinning Whitney tore free with it, and he rolled over, clutching his hand and groaning.
“I always knew you’d be the one to save me,” Nesilia said as somehow, she stood. “Your mystic blood. I can feel it coursing through me. Your mortal tools can do nothing against me.”
Slowly, but impossibly fast for any human, her wounds started healing. Whitney knew it shouldn’t be possible based on everything he’d learned from Kazimir. Silver should have caused her injuries to heal like any other person. But Sora’s blood was strong, and she’d had plenty of it.
Nesilia cracked her neck. “I think… I’ll kill you all now.”
As she vanished in a blur, a beautiful chord chimed. Whitney glanced over and saw Lucindur, barely able to move and with Torsten supporting her. He lifted her one arm so she could strum her salfio. Rand sat before her. Both their eyes rolled back into their heads.
XLVIII
The Traitor
Rand looked from side to side. Last he remembered, he was in the Throne Room. He wasn’t sure why he ran there after Torsten left him battered in that bakery. Something deep inside called to him, like when he used to know his sister was in trouble with vagrants down in Dockside.
It wasn’t hard to enter. He was human, after all, dressed like a Glassman, without possessed eyes. And nobody was defending the gates after what Nesilia did to those inside. He knew he should have aimed somewhere fatal when he went after her, but it was hard enough to bring himself to stab Sigrid’s body.
Now he was here. It was then that he realized he had no idea where “here” was. Was that his final failure? Was this the afterlife?
“Hello?” Rand asked, his voice carrying.
Everything was white. But as he started to walk, shadows took the shape of buildings and streets. He saw the Glass Castle rising high above them, even taller from down in sunken Dockside.
That was where he was. He recognized the couturier on the corner. Spinning a slow circle, he noticed that the entire district was empty. But not only that—every building burned. He could smell the seared wood and ash, taste the smoke, and feel the heat.
He coughed, then shouted. “Hello!”
No one answered.
His weary feet carried him along Port Street into the thicker smoke that forced him to cover his eyes. The blaze wasn’t spreading or destroying, just crackling in place. He turned down the stairs toward the North-End Harbor. Stopping by the water and searching from side to side, he spotted a lone figure seated down on the dock, veiled in smoke.
“Hey!” Rand called out. He started to jog, his feet bare against the wooden planks that’d given him so many splinters as a boy. In fact, he was now dressed in rags as he used to then.
“Hey, what are you doing! Can’t you see the city’s burning?” He kept pushing through until the smoke cleared. His heart skipped a beat, and he skidded to a stop, no doubt earning one of those infamous splinters.
It was Sigrid sitting just in front of old Gunter’s oyster stand, which was also on fire.
His Sigrid.
“Let it burn,” she said. Then she raised a fishing rod and cast her line into the inlet.
“Sigrid, is that really you?” Rand whispered.
“Ye never were very observant, big brother. It’s a miracle that ever ye made Shieldsman.”
Tears welled in Rand’s eyes. He couldn’t even feel himself walking, but somehow he wound up directly behind Sigrid, watching as the breeze tossed her curls. And they were red as the fire across all of Dockside, not upyr-white as he’d come to know them in recent days.
“They must not have had high standards.” He half-laughed, half-sniveled.
Sigrid’s fishing rod jerked. “Got one.”
She struggled for only a few moments, and then like the expert Rand knew, she pulled in a fish. He shuffled up next to her and slowly crouched, eying her in disbelief the entire way. She held up the fish to observe.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Rand asked.
“Nothin,” she said. “Absolutely nothin.” She gave it a wriggle, then unhooked the line and tossed it back in.
“Sigrid, is this a dream?” No longer able to control himself, Rand clutched her shoulder and turned her to face him. Her stunning green eyes looked back, only, there was no light in them. It made her almost unrecognizable, despite her appearance. The Sigrid Rand knew could always make his days seem brighter—cheer him when all the world seemed to be ending.
“No,” she said. “It’s the purge. The real one. Not the one that got me killed the first time. Do ye want to see the spot where I bled out? Where that controllin wretch Kazimir found me?”
Rand sat and let his legs dangle over the water.
“I should’ve never left you here with them,” he said. “I know that now.”
“Yet here we be. Can’t be undone, it can’t. Just like that Tessa of yers can’t be brought back to life. Or any of the people ye killed.”
Rand bit his lip. “No, they can’t. But this? We have to at least put the fire out.”
“Why? What did any of these people ever do for us? Force us to murder. Make us work so they can toss a few bronzers our way and move on? Let em all burn with it. Maybe somethin better will grow from the ashes.”
“You know it won’t. Not with her in control. I see that now. I know you do too.”
“Can’t be worse.” She turned away and started fixing another worm on her hook.
“It can be. I promise you, it can.”
“What do ye care anyway? All these people, they cursed and betrayed ye, then call ye the traitor. Even Torsten, coming day after day to check on ye. Where was he when Valin took us? Where was he when I died on the streets? They abandoned us all.”
“That’s not you, Siggy. That’s Nesilia, taking over your thoughts.”
“It ain’t her. They’re all food, Rand. No different than the fish.” She cast her line in again.
“You’re lying to yourself. Look at you; look at your hair.” He ran his finger through one of her curls. “You’re no upyr in, wherever this is. You’re you.”
“Go back to all the people ye chose over me, Rand.”
“No. I’d rather let them all burn than leave you again. It was the worst mistake I ever made—not following Oleander’s orders when I knew it was wrong. Not deserting the shield. Leaving you. And I’ll stay here an eternity if that’s what it takes to show you how sorry I am.”
She bobbed the fishing rod but said nothing.
“The world sent us both down paths we never wanted,” Rand went on. “But it’s not too late to make a difference.”
“There’s no redemption, brother, don’t ye understand that? There’s no changin what we done. The people we killed, they’ll always be dead.”
“I know. I know. You’re right. Redemption is a dream, and I don’t want it. I don’t care what they think of me anymore. Let them blame me for killing a King, and you, for a Queen. All I care about is what you think of me.”
“I think yer a gods-damned coward,” she snapped.
“I am,” he replied, choking on the lump in his throat. “But I’m here.”
He stroked her hair again, and this time, he noticed how she struggled to not look at him. Her head tilted slightly into his palm before she straightened out.
“I made you terrified. Valin made you a prisoner. The upyr made you a monster. Nesilia made you something so much worse… All I want is for you to be you again. The sister I loved. The sister I—I…” He choked up again. “The sister I looked up to all my life, even though you were younger.”
Sigrid’s throat bobbed. She lowered the fishing rod, and the line went slack, but still, she didn’t turn.
“The truth is, my dearest Sigrid,” Rand said. “Without you, I’m nothing. I’m a coward—worse even. A deserter, a traitor—all of it. Without me, you’re still the strongest woman I’ve ever known. So, I sit here, begging you to realize what I did the moment you caught our first dinner. You never needed anyone—not even our parents. And you don’t need Nesilia.”
Sigrid sniffled. Then, just as Rand was about to keep going, she turned and threw her arms around him. It caught him off guard at first, but as his head fell against her shoulder, it was the pillow he’d always needed.
“I just want to stop bein so angry,” she whimpered.
Her chest heaved against his. Her heart raced. Rand squeezed harder and let himself feel everything, tears running down his cheeks as he fought to breathe.
“I know,” he said. “I know, Siggy. But don’t blame the world. They don’t know what they’re doing. Just blame me. Only me.”
Rand peered through the strands of her messy hair and saw the fire throughout Yarrington starting to extinguish. Embers flurried all over the horizon in a way that he found surprisingly beautiful. It was like they were dancing to some unheard melody. He could almost imagine the notes… like from a Glintish bard playing her salfio.
“I forgive ye, brother,” she whispered into his ear, and never was there a sound sweeter.
“And I’m here for you, Siggy,” he replied. “Whatever you want to do.”
“Let the world, let Nesilia, let all the monsters and the men fend for themselves. I’m done fightin…”
XLIX
The Knight
It was a split-second decision. While Nesilia reeled, first from Rand’s attack, and then Sora’s, Torsten could have gone for a blade. Instead, he grabbed Rand and saved him from the fury of his enraged master.
He didn’t do it to save Rand. It was something from Whitney’s story that spurred him—unbelievable as that was. Using Sora’s connection to Nesilia through Lightmancing hadn’t worked, but when they tried last time, it was Whitney’s connection to the body Nesilia stole that gave them a chance, not the goddess, herself.
That was Rand.
“You should have aimed for the heart,” Nesilia spoke, and a burst of energy helped throw Torsten and Rand forward, close to Lucindur. Just where they needed to be.
“Torsten, you…” Rand muttered as Torsten rolled him over and dragged him even closer. His eyes pled for forgiveness that would never be offered.
Torsten shook his head. “You can save your sister, Rand,” he said. More than once now, he’d had the chance to kill Rand and get revenge. Part of him wanted to, but another… it felt the mercy of Iam’s light.
“Lucindur, this is Sigrid’s brother,” Torsten said, sitting Rand across from her. “We need you one last time.”
“I can’t…” Lucindur groaned. “I can’t.”
“You can.” Torsten released Rand and crawled to her. “I believe in you.” He cradled her broken body, lifting the salfio into place and holding up her arm. She was so exhausted from Nesilia breaking free, her muscles barely seemed to work.
“Pantego needs you now,” Torsten said, ignoring whatever Nesilia was saying. She was irrelevant now. He knew what needed to be done—why he’d spared Rand all those times when every part of him wanted to put him out of his misery.
Lucindur closed her eyes and drew a ragged breath. “Talwyn…” she muttered as she moved her fingers into place on the strings of her instrument. Torsten held it upright and supported her arms the entire way.
“You can do this,” Torsten urged.
“I think I’ll kill you all now,” Nesilia said.
“Sigrid, you have to be in there,” Rand sniveled, the Brike Stone lying right beside him. “Please… don’t…”
Nesilia made her move. Torsten had been in countless battles, and his heart had never stopped like it did then. He held his breath. He’d have closed his eyes if he had eyes to close. He focused, feeling the muscles of Lucindur’s forearm tense as she strummed a chord, as if channeling his own strength into her.
When he breathed out, Nesilia was directly in front of them, the Brike Stone in her grip. She’d squeezed it so hard in that fraction of a second, it began to crack, releasing ribbons of dark energy. But she couldn’t break
it because, like Rand, her eyes were rolled back, and she was completely frozen in place. Lucindur continued to play, and Torsten didn’t dare move lest he disturb her harmony.
Whitney and Sora stumbled over, supporting each other while Whitney held his injured hand. “She’s the sister Rand talked about when we were together, isn’t she?” Whitney asked.
Torsten nodded.
“You yigging genius. I could kiss you!” Whitney exclaimed. He went to hug him, but Sora barred him.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t disrupt anything.”
“Aye, ye remember last time?” Tum Tum said. He leaned against a column, clutching his wounded leg with Aquira on his lap. The little wyvern seemed to have passed out from pain, wheezing with each unconscious breath.
“Aquira,” Sora blurted, running toward them.
“She’ll be fine, Lassie,” Tum Tum said. “Focus on what needs be done.”
“Now, there’s a good question. What now?” Whitney asked.
“What are you talking about?” Torsten replied. “You both did this last time.”
“The bar guai magically stabbed right into her!” With his good hand, Whitney reached for the Brike Stone nestled in Nesilia’s hand, then stopped. She couldn’t move, but the dozens of twisted bodies lying all around them had him justifiably cautious.
Whitney turned to Torsten. “This is just a stone.”
“You useless—“ Torsten’s jaw clenched. “Do we kill the body then?”
“No,” Sora said, circling around behind her. “She’s trapped while Lucindur plays. But the moment we do that, she’ll take over another of us.”
Nesilia’s eyes twitched. Her fingers shifted slightly.
“Well, we better hurry,” Torsten said.
“Oh, thanks for the tip,” Whitney said. He looked to Sora, opened his mouth to ask a question, but nothing came out. She too looked baffled.
Worse still, the roar of the wianu echoed. The sound was so close now, Torsten could do nothing but imagine them like they were in the streets of Latiapur, flouncing through the city, destroying everything, and wheezing for water. The clamor of stone crumbling and the shaking floor suggested just that.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 169
