The Shattered Dark sr-2

by Sandy Williams

  But Kyol has never been one to needlessly sacrifice his men, not if there’s another way to achieve his goal.

  “Release him, Jielan,” he orders. “We don’t have to be on opposite sides of this war.”

  Jielan lets out a sharp laugh.

  “The daughter of Zarrak does not belong on the throne,” he says. “She and her fae should be banished from the Realm, but you’re supporting her. You’re supporting her despite her refusal to turn…”

  I don’t understand the last part. It’s something about a king or a Descendant, but the conjugation doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s clear Jielan is firmly against Lena and anyone who supports her.

  “The high nobles choose who sits on the silver throne,” Kyol says. “Not you or I. Drop your sword.”

  “Nobles can be bought and blackmailed. No, lord general.” He makes the title sound like a slur. “You’ve chosen your side. It’s the wrong one.”

  The air erupts with a staccato of shrrip, shrrip, shrrips as three fissures flash into existence. The three other fae who were in the house step out of the slashes of light.

  I realize this is a trap at the same moment Kyol grates out, “Taber!”

  He doesn’t have to say more than that—it’s clear he’s ordering Taber to go for help—but before the fae can open a fissure, Jielan says, “Brayan dies if he leaves. So does the shadow-witch.”

  The hair on the nape of my neck prickles. I start to turn, but a sword presses into my back. It’s the fae wearing the black necklace.

  I close my eyes in a silent grimace. It had to happen eventually. Aren argued against allowing any former Court fae to remain in the palace, even if they swore fealty to Lena, but Kyol vouched for them. He trained them and trusted them, and he said that they would protect her with their lives. He was wrong.

  The scabbard belted around my waist moves when the fae behind me confiscates my dagger.

  “Down,” he orders. Even if I couldn’t understand his language, his meaning would be clear. I grip the part of the ladder that attaches to the roof, then start down before the traitor decides to draw blood. My mind works furiously on the descent. The fae doesn’t have his sword on me now—he can’t because he’s following me down—so I’m safe for a very limited amount of time. We’re outnumbered, though, and I’m human and I’m unarmed.

  I’m three rungs from the ground when I decide I have to act. I leap off and to the left, landing on Jielan’s shoulder. He snarls as he swings his fist, not his sword around, aiming for me. It’s a mistake. His blade is no longer against Brayan’s neck. I let go of Jielan when Brayan grabs his wrist and flips the remnant over his shoulder. Then, almost in synch, every other fae vanishes into fissures.

  I back against the stack-house wall. The fae reappear an instant later, all in different locations. With the shadows replacing the white light, I’m disoriented. I have no idea who’s where, not until Kyol grabs my arm.

  “That was foolish,” he grates out, pulling me alongside the building.

  Alongside the building and directly toward a fae who’s standing ready with his sword.

  “Straight ahead. Illusionist.”

  No need to say more. Kyol lunges forward, sword slicing out in front of us. The attack takes the remnant by surprise, but he’s still able to deflect Kyol’s swing. Touch breaks a fae’s illusions, though, so Kyol can see him now, and in two efficient moves, he kills the fae.

  As soon as the soul-shadow rises into the air, I turn, searching for more remnants who might be invisible. The only way to tell if Kyol and his swordsmen can’t see someone is to watch where they look. If they don’t react when a remnant approaches, I assume they’re hidden. I think there was only one illusionist here, though. Everyone’s fighting somebody. Unfortunately, the remnants outnumber us, and one of them focuses on me.

  Shit.

  I don’t call out for help—I don’t want to distract the rebels. Instead, I turn and run, sprinting around to the front of the stack house.

  Its door is a few strides away. I pray it’s unlocked, reach out for it…

  .…and hear a whoosh fly past my left ear. I throw myself to the right, hit the ground as something slams into the stack house.

  Heat explodes behind me. On hands and knees, I scramble away from the burning door, look to the right for the remnant who must have thrown the fire. Taber is occupying him.

  I leap back to my feet and make a dash across the thirty-foot stretch of land between the stack house and the building Jielan and his cohorts emerged from. The outside walls have silver mixed in with the paint. The fae won’t be able to fissure inside.

  Lights erupt around me as I run, but I ignore the fighting fae. As soon as I reach the front door, I turn the knob, shoulder it open, then slam it shut behind me. Almost instantly, I realize I’m not alone.

  SIX

  I’VE ALREADY LOCKED the door. My back is to the dimly lit room, but I hear the softest tap, taptaptap, tap behind me. In my rush to get inside, I didn’t even think about the possibility of there being another fae in here. I draw in deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. I listen for movement—the pad of a footfall, the swish of clothing, or creak of jaedric armor—but the only other sounds come from outside, and while I’m standing here trying to decide what to do, they, too, fade away. It’s silent except for the rhythmic tapping.

  I stare at the door handle. It’ll take a couple of seconds to unlock it. Some gut instinct tells me not to try it, that it might trigger the person behind me. Slowly, carefully, I turn.

  In the center of a sparse living area, a tall, slender fae woman stands between two backless couches. She’s ramrod straight except for her right arm, which is fully extended so she can rest her hand on the hilt of her sword. Its blade is pointed straight down, digging just a little into the surface of a low, wooden table. Aside from one index finger drumming down on the pommel over and over again, she doesn’t move; she just stares.

  I stare back, not daring to breathe. Pale, wavering bolts of lightning fade in and out on her face and hands. We’re in the Realm. She shouldn’t have any chaos lusters here, but she’s not a normal fae. Even if the lightning weren’t visible on her skin, I’d know she was tor’um. Something about her feels off.

  Her inky black hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing jaedric armor. The treated bark is dark, well oiled, and molded to the curves of her body. Etched across her chest is an abira tree with thirteen branches, the symbol of Atroth’s Court. Does she fight for the remnants? She’s standing there silent and unwavering, projecting the feeling that she’s competent with her sword, but tor’um are so magically handicapped that they can’t fissure. That makes her odds of surviving a fae swordfight not much better than a human’s.

  “Your skin is bright.”

  The bluntness of her statement makes me stare down at my arms. White lightning bolts around my left wrist. Another one scurries up to my right elbow. Chaos lusters always appear and disappear quickly, but I guess my skin could be considered bright. I just don’t get why it’s important enough to say out loud, or why it seems to annoy her.

  “I told him you wouldn’t turn it off.”

  Turn my skin off? I frown at the lightning again, and that’s when I realize: she’s speaking English. It’s a skill very few fae have. Usually, only those who work with humans learn my language. Maybe she lived somewhere on Earth for a time? That’s what the tor’um in Vancouver did before King Atroth attacked their homes.

  I focus on her again, watch as she tilts her head to the side, wrinkles her nose, then tilts her head back upright.

  Understanding sweeps through me. Some fae are born unable to fissure. They’re magically handicapped, but they’re sane. This fae isn’t. She lost her magic sometime during her adulthood and, now, her mind is broken. Whether that makes her more or less dangerous, I don’t know.

  Without warning, she’s in front of me, grabbing my wrist. Her cold touch makes more chaos
lusters shoot down my arm. They pool beneath her hand, almost as if they’re trying to keep my skin from turning to ice. I attempt to pull away, but she’s strong, and her dull, dark eyes are locked on me.

  “You’re not Paige.”

  I go still. Her Fae accent is faint; I’m certain I heard her right. “You know Paige? Where is she?”

  “Why aren’t you Paige?” Her hand tightens to the point where it hurts. My back is against the door. I can’t move away when she leans forward, her face coming within inches of mine. Her eyes are narrowed, agitated. “You feel like Paige.”

  “McKenzie?” Kyol’s voice from the other side of the door. He pounds on it, jiggles the handle.

  The tor’um hisses, then swings me around with so much momentum, my feet leave the floor. My hip hits the table, sending a sharp lance of pain down my leg, and I slide off the other side.

  A dagger is on a couch cushion, not ten inches from my face. I grab it, spin toward the fae, and slash at the air.

  The tor’um isn’t near me. She’s standing above me with that same mix of anger and confusion in her eyes. My gaze moves to the sword in her hand. Her knuckles go white then back to normal as she tightens and loosens her grip. Then, all of a sudden, she looks 100 percent sane.

  She whispers, “Nalkin-shom.”

  “Kyol!” I yell, scrambling away because I’m certain she’s going to kill me.

  “McKenzie!” There’s a loud bam as Kyol rams into the door. I reach it and manage to get it unlocked before the tor’um leaps forward.

  The door slams open and Kyol is there, putting himself between me and the fae. His sword is raised to deflect her attack, but there’s no need to. She swings her blade well short of us, then stands there, looking utterly perplexed. After glancing around the room, she scowls at her feet.

  “My fissure is broken,” she mutters.

  Kyol’s muscles were already tense in preparation for her attack, but his stance changes. He’s somehow stiffer now.

  The tor’um stomps a foot on the ground as if that will make a fissure appear.

  “Outside,” Kyol whispers in my ear. I don’t protest. I back through the doorway, keeping my eyes on the tor’um until Kyol gently shuts the door. He stares at it a few seconds before he turns to me, then he takes a step back, looking for injuries I presume. That’s when I notice the wound just above his right elbow. A remnant aimed perfectly, slicing at one of the few areas not protected by jaedric. Kyol’s undershirt is dark with blood, but he doesn’t seem to be favoring the arm any.

  “She knows Paige,” I tell him. His gaze returns to my eyes. His mouth thins before he nods once, then he motions Taber over. They speak quietly in Fae. I don’t catch everything that’s said, but Taber’s eyebrows go up briefly, and he stares at the house. They have to be talking about the tor’um. They know her, I’m sure of it.

  A dozen of Kyol’s swordsmen are standing alert and ready in the space between the tor’um’s building and the stack house. They’re spread out in a honeycomb pattern. If a remnant fissures into the clearing, he’ll be surrounded by no less than four of Kyol’s men. I want to order them to break their pattern. We need someone watching the back door so the tor’um can’t escape. She may already have.

  “They’ll take care of the tor’um,” Kyol says.

  I stop midnod. Fae have told me some form of that sentence often over the past ten years. I assumed it meant that Kyol and the Court fae would fissure after and arrest a fae, but that wasn’t always the case.

  “They’ll fissure her to the palace,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts. He can’t; he just knows me well enough to know how I think. “We need to leave before the remnants return.”

  This time, I finish my nod. I slip the dagger I found in the house into the scabbard at my back. Fortunately, it fits, and less than two minutes after exiting the house, we’re on our way, heading east. I’ve memorized a map of the Realm, so I’m fairly certain we should reach the outskirts of a forest in an hour or two. After hiking through it, the river curves its way to the north. A gate is on the western bank. It’s one of the gates that was lost during the Duin Bregga, an ancient war that resulted in the loss of a good portion of fae history, and the locations of an unknown numbers of gates. This gate isn’t labeled on any public maps, but I don’t think fissuring from there is going to be as safe as it used to be. It’s likely that at least one of the remnants was high-ranked enough to know the locations of all the Missing Gates Atroth knew about. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to set up an ambush there.

  I glance at Kyol. He doesn’t seem to be worried about an attack. He never once looks over his shoulder to check for pursuers, and only three of his fae are traveling with us. Even if he thinks we’re safe, I’m surprised he hasn’t brought along more guards. My jeans and T-shirt mark me as human. I usually change into fae clothing when I’m in the Realm, but I didn’t know I’d be needed to shadow-read so soon.

  Despite how tired I am, I’m able to keep up with Kyol. We’ve worked together long enough for him to know the quickest pace he can set. Any faster, and I’d wear out too quickly. It helps that I’m anxious to get away from the city. I was lucky twice today. The remnants could have killed me at my apartment complex, or they could have killed me just now in Spier. They had the chance, but Jielan chose to swing his fist, not his sword, at me, and that last remnant was definitely trying to capture me, not end my life.

  “Why do the remnants want me alive?” I ask Kyol. There’s the briefest break in his stride, like his thoughts were wandering and he’s just now remembering I’m here.

  “They can use you against us,” he finally responds.

  “They already have humans helping them, and even if they didn’t, they should know I won’t shadow-read or uncover illusions for them.” At least, they should know it if Kyol is right about their leader being one of Atroth’s high-ranked officers. Those officers know I willingly betrayed their king.

  “That’s not why they want you,” Kyol says. “They know what you mean to Jorreb. They know what you mean to me.”

  This is the first time since I broke things off with him that he’s mentioned how he feels about me, and the admission makes my chest hurt. He doesn’t look like he regrets his words, though. His expression is serious, but not pained, and I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t even know if I should.

  Before the awkward silence stretches too long, a fissure opens a few yards ahead of us. One of the fae Kyol sent after the tor’um steps out of the light. I listen to his report and hope I’m misunderstanding him.

  “Keep searching,” Kyol orders. The fae nods, then steps back into the In-Between, returning to the house, I assume. We’re still within line of sight of it.

  I look at Kyol. “The tor’um disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “But tor’um can’t fissure.”

  “Most of them can’t,” Kyol confirms. “A few of them can. The ones who manage it aren’t able to fissure far or often. The small amount of magic they possess takes months to regenerate. Most likely, the tor’um ran or hid.”

  I stare at the grass beneath my feet, feeling the small glimmer of hope that we’d get Paige back soon disappear.

  “I know what Paige means to you,” Kyol says after a moment. “We’ll find her.”

  “You recognized her, didn’t you? The tor’um?” I focus on the swath of dark green that marks the edge of the forest some few hundred feet in the distance, but when Kyol doesn’t respond, I slant a glance his way. Kyol is twice my age but still young for a fae. His dark hair doesn’t have a streak of gray, and his broad shoulders, his back and torso are more toned and muscled than most humans’ in the prime of their lives, but tiny lines appear at the corners of his eyes. I look at the gash above his elbow again, wondering how bad it is.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “I recognized her.”

  The wound is barely bleeding. I don’t think it’s hurting him, so it has to be the tor’um that’s weighing on
his mind.

  “Who is she?”

  Another long pause. I think he’s not going to answer until he draws in a breath, and says, “She almost became Atroth’s sword-master.”

  This time, I break stride. “His sword-master?”

  Kyol’s a few paces ahead of me now. He looks over his shoulder and slows, waiting for me to catch up.

  “She wasn’t tor’um then,” he says, when I’m at his side again.

  I almost ask what happened to her, but I don’t think I want to know. It’s possible for fae to burn out their magic, but it’s extremely rare. They know their limits and the consequence for pushing too far, so I’m almost certain that’s not what happened to her. No, chances are, overexposure to human technology killed her magic.

  I don’t realize I’m clenching my teeth until I feel Kyol looking at me. I try to force my jaw to relax, to act like nothing is bothering me, but he sees right through my façade.

  “It was years ago,” Kyol assures me.

  The muscles in my shoulders relax, and my next breath comes a little easier. We started hunting Aren just under a year ago. It’s unlikely he was the one who turned the woman tor’um. I know that shouldn’t matter—Aren stripped others of their magic—but Kyol knew the fae. They were colleagues—they might even have been friends—so I’m glad Aren isn’t the one who made her insane.

  Of course, that leaves the question of who did make her tor’um, but it’s obvious the memories bother Kyol, so I let the subject drop. We spend the next few minutes in silence; then, just when we reach the outer edge of the forest, Kyol catches my arm, making me stop and turn toward him. His touch excites my edarratae, making the lightning come quicker and intensifying their heat, but I don’t pull away. His brow is ever so slightly creased. No one else would notice it, but I’ve learned that’s a sign that he’s worried about something.