He stared at the snowy ground for a long moment, breathing heavily to regain his composure. He still held her hand, though loosely. Emma realized she could pull away now, but instead gave his soldier’s hand a small squeeze.
“Emma, don’t go. Stay here with me. We can figure this out.” He reached a trembling hand toward her face, tucking her red curls back into her hood, brushing her cheek. There was a woman’s shriek echoing in the distance. Maybe one of the lovers was getting a bit rough.
“Unael…”
“You and I, we are so alike. Both taught by Escamilla, both desiring freedom from our responsibilities, but resisting because the call of duty is too strong. Gods, Emma. Our obligations bind us together, surely as they tear us apart! Let us find some way around this. Let me help you.”
Unael leaned toward Emma, his mouth seeking hers. In that split second, Emma froze—anger battling fear, with resignation moderating the fight. How dare Unael assume that she was some dullard maiden, needing to be rescued? She had led armies, and bartered with some of the most powerful people in two countries. She had risen from being a maid to having thousands of lives in her hands, her decisions influencing whether they would live or die. And, they almost certainly would die. They would die.
As Unael’s face approached hers, Emma shivered in a way not attributable to the cold. Maybe she truly did need rescuing.
Unael’s lips, cracked and dry, brushed hers. Feeling no resistance, he pushed deeper. His whiskers scraped into the tender skin around Emma’s mouth, and the pungent stench and taste of wine filled Emma’s senses. Yet, she found that she still did not push away.
She had no attraction to Unael; he was old enough to be her father. But, it would be easy—so easy!—to stay at Farrow’s Hold with this man. He was honorable, and he paid his debts. He was respected and wealthy, and would likely do the right thing when push came to shove, just as he’d proved with Pious and the Yetranians. Emma knew that he would eventually fight the growing power of Rostane, and she could help guide him. She could help preserve the lives of her men, assisting them in finding new lives in Jecusta.
While their families were left behind in Rostane, to an unknown fate. While the Rostanians consolidated their power and created more of those Feral—eventually enough to overwhelm any defenses that a divided Jecusta could put together. While Escamilla’s murderer still lived.
“Lord Unael…” Emma murmured, pushing away from his grasping mouth with some effort. “Lord Unael, I cannot stay. That is, I must go. Ardia needs hope, and we will have to provide it. Even if the chances of success are slight. Though the hearts of each duchy has fallen, the limbs still resist. Florensians rally in southern Draston, and we have allies yet to be tapped.” Emma swallowed a knot in her throat, taking another step back, watching as Unael’s soft expression turned to stone. This had been a brief moment of vulnerability and emotion for the man, and judging from his frosty eyes, he regretted it.
Just then, a scream pierced the air, cutting through the moment like a dull axe.
It wasn’t a lover’s passionate cry. No, Emma has been near enough battles to know that sound—this had been a death cry. And a nearby one, at that.
Unael whipped around, his hand darting to his boot and extracting a knife in a smooth motion that belied his age and girth. A warrior, he was, above all else. Emma drew her own ever-present dagger, though what she would do with it was questionable at best. She looked around the winter garden, trying to discern something in the darkness. With the size of this place, the cry could have come from anywhere. Where were Nail and Havert? Where were the black cloaks?
The night was strangely silent, and Emma could hear little more than the creaking of Unael’s boots as he pivoted, scanning the environs for a threat. The numerous towers of the Hold blotted out the starry sky, and the few gas lamps in the garden only seemed to intensify the darkness. There seemed to be something behind every shrub, behind every tree.
Emma felt that familiar warmth flair in her heart—Disorder’s curse. Her fear amplified beyond anything she had ever known, her legs shook so much that she fell to her knees. The winter garden, the sole source of comfort for Emma during these past weeks, warped in her vision. The winterblooms became screaming devils; the frost weeds morphed into a thousand serpents. Pandemonium grew before her, tearing its way into her brain and rendering her body useless.
And, through it all, she could see a pair of dark spectacles approaching her. Disorder? Had he finally come to kill her, knowing that she disobeyed him, marching back into Ardia with an army at her back?
“What are you doing in my Hold, demon?” Unael shouted through clenched teeth, his voice quavering as if he fought to master his own terror. Emma managed to raise her head, to see the Lord of Farrow’s Hold standing tall and holding his dagger in a warrior’s stance. It gave her some small measure of courage, at least enough that Pandemonium subsided somewhat. The devils became terrible primates, and the serpents small if still venomous snakes.
“Your Hold? You have nothing. You are nothing,” intoned a voice, it being the gravely sound of a woman who had taken in too much kerena. It was not Disorder, then. This woman was the same thing, though: a Pandemonium-ridden demon.
“Who are you?” Unael sounded strained, and a renewed wave of terror forced Emma down, like a physical force that shattered her will. Her heart, burning inside her, was a child’s rattle, thrumming against her wheezing chest.
“Me? I am also nothing. But, if you must put a name to what you see before you, call me Dread.” A more accurate name had never be given. Emma’s previously burning, palpitating heart seemed to have stopped in a frosty terror.
Just then, a great explosion rattled the Hold as an emerald… power… streaked into the side of one of the visible towers. Emma could barely discern her immediate surroundings, so great was her fear, but she knew that tower. Dignity, it was called simply, being the highest point in all of Farrow’s Hold. She had also overheard it called Condescension by some black cloaks, and Immorality by a put-upon serving girl. It was the place where all gathered visiting nobles—including the magnates of all of Jecusta—spent their evenings. And, chunks of that tower were currently raining down all around the Hold. It still stood tall against the blast, though in Emma’s twisted mind, it appeared to have been bitten by a demon the size of a mountain.
Unael whipped about, trying to keep his eyes on both Dread and his crumbling domain. The strange silence of earlier was replaced with screams and howls, tumbling masonry, and the clash of weapons as an unknown force assailed the Hold. Strangely, the sounds of battle brought Emma some measure of control, her Lady Emma Breen mask falling into place. Her barrier against fear, which she had been wearing for months now. She fought the force pushing her to the ground and rose slowly, inch by inch, until she was standing on weak legs behind Unael.
Dread looked at her through impermeable glasses, her impossibly pale, delicate features betraying a lineage that Emma had never seen. Not Rostanian, Jecustan, Rafónese, or so on. She smiled, small white teeth reflecting the scant light in the winter garden.
“Tsk, Tsk, Lady Breen. You were warned. That warning still burns inside you, does it not?” Dread pointed a finger at Emma’s chest, and heat—a searing, terrible burn beyond anything she could ever have imagined, ran throughout her body. Every vein, every artery, was filled with lava, so much so that Emma only had one reality… pain. Her fingers and toes curled so that she could hear bones snapping. Her muscles in her stomach bunched so that she could feel them tearing. Her eyelids were squeezed shut so tightly that it was a wonder her eyes didn’t burst.
Abruptly, she was freed of her agony, finding herself again on the cold ground, knees scraped from having fallen. Looking up, she saw Unael struggling with Dread. Rather, she witnessed Unael slowly being overpowered. Dread, her long, black cloak wafting about in the air, held a red, burning knife that she’d begun inching toward Unael’s chest, despite his warrior’s arms attempting to hold the
weapon back. Not knowing what else to do, her own weapon lost during her convulsions, Emma grabbed a handful of snow with her good hand and launched the hard-packed ball into the side of Dread’s face just as she began her final push for Unael’s heart.
The throw did just enough to save Unael’s life, as the blow intended for his heart instead pierced his shoulder with a hiss and the fierce scent of burning flesh. Unael reeled back, shrieking in agony and falling into the snake-laden ground as Dread turned her attention to Emma, who fought to keep her mask in place, knowing that certain death glared at her from behind opaque lenses.
“Disorder spoke of you, little girl. He said you were brave and canny. Manipulative. Dumber than your predecessor.” Dread’s words were stilted and choppy, though her diction was perfect.
Dread was not from Jecusta. Not from anywhere in Saiwen, as far as Emma knew.
“Are you… Recherche Oletta?” Emma had squeezed the words through clenched teeth. So close to this strange, terrible woman, the visions of Pandemonium were amplified. Great beasts filled the air in her vision, blotting out the moons and stars while small, sharp-toothed demons danced around Unael’s writhing body. Dread seemed almost… mundane amidst all this.
“Ha!” Her barked laugh was like dragging a corpse over gravel. “You think you have an inkling of the powers that are at work here? You know so very little. All of you Ardians and Jecustans know so very little.”
“Then educate me!” Emma spat.
“How droll.” The flaming dagger seemed to leap back to life in her hand, its blaze renewed. “I could educate you with fire. I could melt your flesh, bit by bit, just enough that the agony would take weeks to end. Months, maybe. I could melt your eyes and burn your ears, leaving you blind and deaf, your only sensation being pain. I could create a symphony from your screams, so that the demons would dance and the beasts would rejoice.” Dread took a graceful step toward Emma, and she stumbled backward into the snow—the snow that burned so much like the fire that Dread described.
“But, I don’t have weeks or months. Events are rapidly coming to a head back in Ardia.”
“Then why are you here?” Emma managed.
“To ensure no interference. You, little girl, were warned. Disorder is far too kind. Far too… given to erratic human tendencies. I am here to ensure that you cease this fight with your little army. That these magnates do not get it in their little heads to interfere.” She gestured to Dignity, the tower crumbling and burning as blasts continued to detonate against the once grand structure. “Without leaders, as ineffectual as they are, this country will flounder. We will be back in force, once we gain what we need from Ardia. Besides, domination is less pleasing than chaos. And this…” Dread licked her lips, “is quite pleasant indeed.”
Like Disorder, this Dread seemed unhinged, completely unbalanced. Emma recalled that Disorder had been taken by an irrational anger several times while they’d spoken, but he had, as Dread said, seemed to have some humanity. He’d even spoken of disliking killing in their short time together. With his powers, he probably could have fought through a couple dozen guards to kill Escamilla, but had instead opted to subvert the guards through treachery. Perhaps to minimize casualties.
Dread, though, was alien. She was reveling in the destruction around her. Screams still rang out across Farrow’s Hold, and battle against an unknown foe still raged. It was hard to distinguish reality from Dread’s illusory aura of fear, too, but Emma thought she could make out some words in those shouts.
“My wife! She’s burned! Someone help her!”
“Oshwon bastards!”
“My legs! Dear fucking Yetra, my legs!”
Dread abruptly glided forward, clutching Emma’s skull with her two hands. Emma made as if to fight, but the strength was drained from her limbs. She could somehow see her reflection in the black spectacles, as well, though they were not reflective. She looked like… she looked like her mother, lying dead following her battle with the flux that had ravaged Little Town.
“Now, I may not have weeks, but I can spare minutes, hmm? What is it that drives you, little girl? What is it that you truly fear?” Dread again smiled. There was no malice in the expression—just a wet-lipped excitement.
***
Emma woke up as if from a nightmare, panting and covered in sweat. Her quarters at Brockmore did have the tendency to grow warm in the summer, and whatever terrible, Pandemonium-ridden dreams she had seemed minor. She ran her hands through her hair, finding it pinned back, held tightly in place in case of a sudden need for her presence. And, a knock at the door showed that she’d had great foresight.
“My lady,” called Nail before opening the door. He’dever been one to worry over privacy, but his brother Hammer yanked him back in case she was indecent. But Emma found herself already dressed in a black and red dress, sleek and silky, emblazed with an apple on the chest. Her monogram.
“Yes?” she asked with bored amusement.
“We’ve caught the girl. We’ve caught the traitors. The council is awaiting your judgement.”
Without knowing how then, Emma was in the Chamber of War, the stained glass shining brightly over the faces of the gathered traitors. It was… all of them.
Morgyn, murderer of Escamilla, huddled small and meek, looking like a scared girl. She was whimpering. “I had to. I had no choice. I had to protect him.”
Feeling nothing at the sight, Emma walked forward, snatching an axe from Braston and gripping it in her hands. Both of her intact hands. Without pausing, she swung the axe overhead, cleaving the girl’s skull in twain and leaving the axe buried there. No joy. No satisfaction.
No shame.
“You are a monster! You condemn men to death because of your pride!” shouted the former General Empton before Emma nodded to Hammer, allowing the big man to bash in the general’s head with his namesake. The dead man slumped out of his wheeled chair.
Trina Almark glared at her, tears dripping down. “How are you not tired of war? Have you not allowed enough women to die in your name?” Emma yanked back her silver braid and drew a knife across her pearlescent neck.
Ferl simply smirked as Emma drove this same blade, awash in the Silver Lady’s blood, into his eye. He was still smirking as he fell to the ground.
“Monster! Florens is gone because of you!” cried Eric Malless.
“Foul liar!” called Opine, looking like less of a hero all clothed in rags.
“Heretic!” shouted Ezram, making the sign of the Ascension.
“Follower of Pandemonium, be vanquished!” Ignatius wheezed around the iron bar driven through his cheeks.
One by one, Emma slew the traitors. Malless, she tossed from a window to emulate the fate of his father, Brockmore somehow occupying a cliff. Opine was hung upside down and bled out in the fate of peasant nobodies. Ezram, she burned alive, ensuring that his soul would never reach Harmony. Ignatius underwent the Yetranian Trials until dead.
Throughout it all, Emma felt nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not guilt.
Throughout it all, Emma felt empty.
***
Dread’s laughter was pure mirth as Emma reeled back.
“This is your greatest fear?”
Emma—having seen what she could become, the Lady Breen who could casually kill without a second thought, glance, or emotion—began to weep. Was that her future, built from constantly donning this mask? A cold -hearted, emotionless killer of men, willing to condemn others to death on a whim? Willing to wield the blade herself?
She could never become that. She never would become that… would she?
Dread continued her gleeful laugh, apparently soaking in Emma’s tears as a sort of sustenance for her good humor. “You fear… emptiness? I have seen so much. Fear of death, of the self or loved ones. Fear of dismemberment—which you should have, but don’t. Fear of failure. But you fear losing emotions? That is so… perfect.”
Disorder flared inside her, and rage replaced her fear. How dare this m
onster mock her fears? How dare Dread make little of her plight? Emma glared at the pale women from under her red curls, catching a flicker of motion behind her. Again, finding herself without a weapon, she tossed a chunk of snow into the woman’s grotesquely laughing face. Her black spectacles were knocked askew, and her burning dagger flickered to nothing.
“Hei wontu!” Dread howled in an unfamiliar language, scrambling to put the things back in place. So frantic was she that she didn’t notice Nail limping up until the last moment. His hard-swung blade scraped across her arm, briefly, before she vanished into a black mist, re-forming fifteen feet back. Nail stood in front of Emma protectively, his armor dented and blood running down the back of his head from an unknown wound. Havert and several black cloaks were close to follow.
“You… hurt me! You made me bleed!” Dread was appalled, gripping her arm. If Emma hadn’t known better, she’d have said that the woman’s mouth curled in terror, and that tears were running down her cheeks.
“We will do more than hurt you, Dread. We will kill you if you do not leave this place.” Iolen, haggard and grim, entered the garden unattended. His voice had none of its characteristic sarcasm. Rather, it held an exhausted but potent power. He grabbed two of the black cloaks by their necks and began to gather his magic. The men paled at his touch, but did not struggle.
Dread considered the Savant through her glasses. Considered the bared steel wielded by exhausted soldiers. Considered Unael, motionless in the snow. And, finally, she considered the blood dripping from her arm, her face twisting in a brief grimace.
“Today is your lucky day, but the head has been cut off the snake,” Dread rasped, gesturing toward Dignity.
The tower was smoldering and crumbling in a dozen places, looking for all the world like a termite-ridden tree on the verge of collapse. As Emma watched, she could see a figure illuminated by the green flame, dangling from a window ledge in a vain attempt to flee the flames. Inevitably, he fell without a sound.
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