“Let me walk you a little ways,” she said, feeling the strange urge to talk to him, to explain herself to him, though she knew she owed him nothing.
He shook his head. “No. If the others see a Human now, when we are not hosting a class, they will know something is wrong. The Court must be our first priority. You will stay here.”
“Then…let me talk to you for a minute in the back?” Faith was dying for alone time with him, to say that she didn’t mean for anything to happen with Jag, to tell him that she missed him, but her heart plummeted when he shook his head again.
“No time,” he said, moving for the door. Halfway in and half out, Light paused to glance back at her. He must have seen her depressed expression, the droopiness of her shoulders, the pleading look in her eyes, for he amended himself, “We can talk when I get back.”
Faith smiled, and Light quickly coughed as he looked away, leaving her with two strangers, basically. When she turned to them, Jag was studying her like a science project. “I would ask you to tell me what you’re thinking about, but I have a feeling I already know.”
Jag smiled a toothy grin. The reason she found him weirdly attractive, she decided, was because his face was mostly fur-free. Ignore the mutton-chop-like fur on his jawline, and his face was Human. “You know me so well already.”
She went to sit on a wooden chair near Camden, and the Ulen abruptly turned away, pretending she wasn’t there. The bag that was on his back now sat in his lap, and his arms held it like he would hold treasure. “What’s so special about that cloak anyway?”
Jag chuckled as his stare moved from Camden to her. “I suppose we didn’t tell you, did we?”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t. You’re going along that cliched and stupid path of choosing what to tell me and what not to tell me.”
“I’ll be glad to tell you all I know,” Jag spoke with a wide smile, his teeth just a tad sharper than hers. “For another kiss.”
Faith was about to tell him off, to swear herself off kissing for a while, when Camden muttered, “This is not the time for that, Jag.” He rested a cheek on his shoulder, turning as far from her as he could before he added, “The cloak belonged to the Dread King.”
Ah, right. She really should’ve been able to guess that.
“It’s his,” she whispered. Of course it was. She’d definitely have a reaction to it, given the fact that she was suddenly stewing in her own anger just thinking about him.
The Dread King.
Soon.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Well. Light hadn’t expected this.
His plan was to go to the Court, divulge his plan, let them ruminate about it like they always did about every little thing, and return to his home while awaiting their response. He certainly did not expect them to send guards to his home and fetch them straight away. He expected more waiting, and a bit more arguing, if he was honest.
Though there was plenty of arguing, just not with him.
Frey tilted his head, his copper crown resting comfortably on his forehead. His expression was one of disdain as it usually was, and he said, “This is preposterous. There is no probability that this…this foolish plan will come to fruition.” His eyes, a bright, tawny amber, stared holes into Light. “How do we know this cloak even belongs to the Dread King? It could very well be a lookalike.”
“Perhaps it is,” Ophelia amended, long legs crossed on her jeweled throne. Today her hair was in a poufy updo, a string of jewels that sparkled with every movement wove through the mound of fair hair on her head. “But I know this girl is the Harbinger.” She turned her gaze to Frey, who sat in the middle. “This is to convince you.”
“And Bul’ara?” Frey questioned, glancing to the other Court member beside him. She was, until now, quiet.
“Once she is here, with the cloak, we will know.” Bul’ara shifted, the chains on her headdress swinging slightly. Her long, curly black hair hung on her right shoulder, revealing the low-cut bodice of her dress. If Faith wore something like that…
Light should not be thinking of Faith like that.
“And of course,” Bul’ara added with a wave of her slender hand, “once it is done, there are things we could ask of her that only a Harbinger would know.”
That seemed to placate Frey, though he did turn to Light and say, “Remember, Weylon, should this not work, you hand over your bow.”
The old Light would’ve gotten angry, would’ve grown upset. But, after all of this, he was a different Light than before. He simply said, “If you would’ve put up more of a fight for her, I wouldn’t have had to do this. And you won’t be getting my bow.”
“I let her go? We have lost a relic in this endeavor,” Frey roared, suddenly standing. He pointed at Light. “Or have you forgotten about the Ageless Blade? If the Dread King’s agents have it, the next time he rises, the Harbinger will not win and we will be the first he sets his horde on. I knew this alliance with the Humans would only doom us—”
“You also lost half their class,” Light shot back. “You are not blameless here. They were in your custody, or have you forgotten?” He used Frey’s own words, throwing them back at him.
Ophelia spoke, “Enough. This arguing does not matter. Let us simply wait until Faith is brought here.”
Light straightened his back, nodding. He didn’t wish to argue with the Court anyways. It would get them nowhere. They only needed results, and he was confident that the results they sought would be brought by giving Faith the cloak.
He was but a boy the last time the Dread King was alive, when the last Human Harbinger slew him by plunging the Ageless Blade into his heart. The stories said that he tore off the Dracon’s armor, gave a piece to each of his generals. The cloak was given to the Ulen, in thanks for their cooperation in the battle. They would be upset at its disappearance, but Camden was well-loved by their Count. Camden would survive the thievery.
When Tarnel returned to the courtroom, gesturing for Faith to enter, Light felt his heart skip a beat. Damn her. He’d watched her with Jag, and yet she still had this hold on him. It was not a hold he was proud of, and not one he wanted, but here he was.
As Faith stepped in, she immediately locked gazes with the Court members. Behind her, Camden and Jag were slow to enter. Camden looked supremely uncomfortable being this close to the Court again. Jag was busy picking at his sharp nails, muttering about how rude Tarnel was.
“Camden,” Frey sneered. “I should have expected your hand in this.” He snickered, eyes narrowing as he said, “The hubris you must have to return to these halls. You were banished, were you not?”
Light would not stand and listen to him disparage his friend. “He does not come as a banished Elf. He comes as an Ulen, and he brings the cloak with him.”
The Court member could not argue with this.
“Give it to her,” Ophelia said, a tone of wonder in her smooth voice. “Let us waste no more time here.” She leaned forward on her throne, hands clasping the armrests, her long, painted nails digging into the white stone. Her chest rose and fell with bated breath, the diamonds resting there clinking as she inhaled deeply. Her flowing gown was a flowery pink, delicate in ways she pretended to be. Light knew Elves were good for a few things—overindulgence, bodily pleasure, and deceit. She was as strong as any of the Court’s guards, and on her body she probably hid numerous knives. They were not defenseless, so should the Dread King seek to take the capital of Alyna from them, they wouldn’t fall easily, unless aether was used as it was at the gathering with the students.
Hopefully, Light thought solemnly, they wouldn’t fall at all. But such things were far off. Right now, all they had to do was prove that Faith was the Harbinger. Once that was done, when Frey believed as Ophelia did, the next steps could be taken. What were the next steps? He hadn’t a clue, but he would be there, by Faith’s side.
He had to keep her from Jag somehow, didn’t he?
Light turned to Camden, giving him a small nod. He
watched as his old friend knelt, swinging the sack to his knees, undoing the straps that kept the knapsack closed. All eyes were on him, on his painted-grey flesh as his fingers worked to undo the buckles. He yanked it out, and a hush fell upon the room.
Stories said he always wore it, clipped it to his metal shoulder pads so that it swept behind him with each stride of his legs. It was a simple article of clothing. Black cloth with grey fur at its top, large enough to encircle Faith in her entirety. The Dread King’s cloak.
Camden, looking down, offered his hands and the cloak towards her, but she didn’t move to take it. She only stared.
Jag broke the pregnant silence as he mused, “It’s in remarkable condition, given how old it is, don’t you think?” His glibness was met with harsh stares. No one wanted him to speak. His ears and expression fell as he shrugged it off.
Taking a hesitant step, Faith outstretched her hand. Another step. All eyes on her, everyone holding their breath. Her hand shook a bit, but her resolve hardened. She snatched the cloak from Camden’s grasp, eyes widening.
“Tell us what you see,” Ophelia said, speaking from her throne.
But Faith did not respond. She didn’t even blink. She stared, absentmindedly, at the cloak.
“Faith,” Light spoke, moving to her side. He gently touched her arm, and she still did not move. She was frozen, motionless, as if she wasn’t inside her own head. “Faith,” he shouted her name this time, but like before it fell unto deaf ears.
Jag muttered a weird sound, asking, “Uh, what is happening there? Kind of creepy from over here. Tell her to say something.” Even Camden was shocked at her reaction to the cloak. No one in the room said anything more, for there was nothing to say.
Light’s bright idea fizzled into flames. What had he done?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The short hall before the courtroom was an unwelcoming place. No decorations to elicit warmth, no rugs or pictures on the wall. Faith stood in its center, marveling at it. This was her first time here—but it wasn’t. She was Faith…but she wasn’t.
She was the Harbinger. She was a man. A very strong man with a tense jaw and a feeling of unease before the glamor that was the Elven Court. She wore clothes that were not hers, feeling things she did not feel. And then, suddenly, she was not alone.
“My, my. You are something else, aren’t you?”
Faith turned in a body that was not hers, watching as a familiar Elf slinked her way to his side. With a long, flowing dress of ivory and hair as pale as yellow could get, jewels around her neck and her bosom, she was Ophelia, and though this was years ago, she looked quite the same—radiant, young, gorgeous.
“The Harbinger of mankind. You do us all a service,” she spoke as she circled her/him. She practically purred as she talked, a wave of seduction rolling through Faith, in spite of the Harbinger’s pull against it. Who could go against someone so beautiful?
“I can think of a service you can do me personally…” Ophelia trailed off with a smile. Her lips, though thin, looked perfect on her angled face. Her blue eyes, an intense pair, traveled all along Faith’s body, gaze lingering at her midsection. “After the meeting,” she said, setting her hand on the Harbinger’s face, “why don’t you meet me in my room? I’m certain there are things we could discuss, just the two of us.” She leaned down—for she was taller than the Harbinger, than Faith, by quite a bit—and planted a soft kiss on her/his cheek.
That kiss was all it took. One kiss and the Harbinger was wrapped around her finger.
Memories. Fragments. They pounded into her mind, attacking her brain all at once.
A battlefield. A massacre. The effects of war, an entire race decimated. The Fae were all dead, all those who volunteered to fight for what they believed in, and that something was the Harbinger.
Another body, another memory. A stab in the heart. These were his Fae—her Fae. The Harbinger had failed them all.
Unable to bear it, Faith fell to her knees, desperate to make it all go away. Wishes were pointless, but she prayed for it anyway. This was too much. The smell was too strong, the sight too horrible. These Fae did not deserve an end like this. All because of the Harbinger and the Dread King.
A voice whispered from behind her, “This is what you have brought us.” It had to stop every few breaths to cough up liquid. The birds above circled the field that at one time used to be full of flowers and greenery, rolling hills of nature that the Fae loved so much.
Faith could not argue with the voice. She did not want to, for he was right. The Harbinger’s ancient enemy, and she agreed with him. For the first time ever, the Harbinger wanted to give up, give in, let him do the killing for once.
Alas, it was too late. The final blow of the fight had already been taken.
“I will kill you,” the same voice muttered, growing faint. “Even if it is the last thing I do.” And then Dracyrus died, leaving Faith alone with the stench of death. If the Harbinger didn’t have the Blade, perhaps this battle would’ve gone differently.
Maybe it all would be different.
Yanking the sword from the stone, clashing with a man who was more like a beast, the searing hatred that grew between them. Stabbing him in the gut, only to receive a dagger in the throat.
Sometimes the Harbinger won. Sometimes they both lost. Each time the Dread King died, doomed to fail, for what?
Faith stood, finally herself, in the never-ending water world that she hated. The sky was dark above her, lit up only by the far-off sun in the horizon, its beams dancing off the water that she stood on. No waves, just the gentle rippling of water. She hated this place because it seemed so lonely.
She did not like feeling alone. She was one of those people who loved to feel loved, who needed to feel needed. Faith hated this place and the desolation that came with it. Not even wind blew by.
Something tickled her neck, and she cautiously reached up, realizing that she was not naked. In a way she was, but there was a cape around her, a black cloak with grey fur around her neck. The fabric was nearly as tall as she was, an inch short of touching the water below.
“Hello?” she asked, her voice sounding far too loud for this quiet place. The word echoed in the empty space, here, where she stood holding the strings on the cloak. “Is anyone there?” Again, with the loneliness. She hated it more than anything, even more than her ingrained hatred toward him.
She decided to try again, asking anyone who would answer, “Where am I?”
Nothing spoke back, other than her echoes.
Faith collapsed, able to hold herself up no more. She wanted to give up. She wanted to end this. Had it ever really started? she wondered. When did it begin? Falling to her knees, she cradled herself. Despite sitting on it, the cloak did not get wet. The water remained below her, as if she sat on solid ground instead.
Her eyes closed, and for a moment, everything disappeared. However, it all came crashing back as she slowly opened them to see a man sitting twenty feet in front of her. His back to her, hands on his knees. He was naked, and she was able to see the silvery-white scales that dotted his wide back, the straight white hair that flowed longer than hers, the horns that curled on his head, reaching to the blackened sky.
Not a man. A Dracon. Dracyrus.
A blind rage filled her, and she sputtered, “You.”
He did not react at first, so she quickly stood and stormed over to him, standing before him, glaring down at him like her stare was her weapon. His eyes were closed, and he did not react to her closeness. Was he alive? Had to be, otherwise she would not feel like this. He must be, otherwise she would realize that he was as naked as a newborn baby before her.
“You,” she said again, unable to say much else. How dare he look so still, so innocent as he meditated. He was the Dread King, he was a killer, he was her sworn enemy. She hated him with her entire being.
Finally, after an eternity of staring down at him, his eyes opened. Black things they were, so black Faith got lost in
them as he turned them up to her. He deliberately took his time getting to his feet, and when he stood at his full height, she wished that he would’ve stayed down. At least then she felt bigger than him. Now, with her eyes level to his abdomen, she just felt so small.
“You do not belong here,” he spoke, his voice deep and low and menacing. The white scales on his skin near his horns sparkled in the dim light, his teeth sharper than hers. Three of her could not make him. He was wide, strong, and intimidating, and even though she hated him, a part of her was frightened. “You should not be here.”
Faith inhaled sharply when he lifted a hand, cupping her face. Such large hands that could so easily snap her in two. How was she supposed to fight him?
“This is not your place,” Dracyrus hissed, his chest thundering with breath. The hand on her face fell to her neck, but as he started to wrap his fingers around it, he paused, eyes falling down to the fur and the cloak. “That is not yours.”
“It is now,” Faith whispered, not sounding nearly tough enough. She sounded like a little girl, and even though that’s what she was, she couldn’t be. She was the Harbinger. It was her destiny to fight the Dracon before her and stop his reign of terror before it began.
The smirk that grew on his lips caused her stomach to knot. “You would fight me for my cloak?” One of his fingers hooked on the strings, tugging her closer. “You would not win,” he spoke quietly, black, metallic eyes intent on her.
If she did not win, there was only one other option. “Then you’ll kill me,” Faith stated, as if talking about her death at the large hands of this man was an everyday occurrence.
“You,” he said, his expression darkening, “are the Harbinger.”
“I am,” she admitted what he should already know.
“You are weak, pathetic, and—” Dracyrus withdrew his hand from the strings of the cloak, grasping her chin as his other hand swept through the fabric hiding her body. He saw all he needed to. “—female.” And then, the bastard, he started laughing. He released her chin and started to walk away from her. “You will not defeat me. You cannot.”
The Harbinger Page 18
