by N. M. Howell
“We did not know if you would wake, but we prepared just in case,” she says. “As you are awake, we do not have much time.”
“Nevena.”
I know not where the voice comes from, but Marciason leads me over to Baehren and the body he is bent over. I nearly collapse when I see the face. It is Thea. I have not seen her since the day we stormed Orchid’s Eye. When I pushed her from the window, she fell some one hundred feet onto the stone walk below. The only thing that saved her life was a burst of her pure magic just before she hit. It was only just enough, however. They told me her back and legs were shattered. They told me she would never walk again. That was the day I hollowed out inside: the day I took the sweet girl who had laid out all time before me and broke her.
“Nevena,” she calls again.
I drop down beside her, running my hands over her body to check her, to make sure she is even real. This is a moment I can feel, and my love for this girl explodes in my heart.
“Thea, I am so sorry. I should never have hurt you. It was the last thing I meant or wanted.”
“It is alright, Nevena,” she says.
Tired or not she still sounds like silver bells.
“Can you forgive me, my friend? I have done what penance I can for this. I know it shall never be enough, but I am at your mercy.”
“Nevena, I forgave you even as I fell. The Fingers are with me now.”
“She speaks the truth, Queen,” says Baehren, bowing even as he kneels beside her. “If we had been here on the day we could have taken care of her within a matter of hours. We can still help, though now it will take some weeks.”
“Can you help her walk again?” I ask.
“I do believe we can, my Queen.”
I am more thankful than can ever be put into words. I fall over Thea and weep. When I’ve done, she takes me hand.
“You have work to do, Nevena. Dameron.”
Dameron comes at her call, though he keeps his distance from me.
“How may I serve you, my lady?” he asks.
“Tell Nevena what you saw.”
He looks at me, grudgingly, but begins.
“When the Famished began slaughtering in the halls, Yunger and I fought as long as we could. We failed. Because of our importance to the war, they would not kill us—or you either for that matter—but sent us here as prisoners, for ransom or execution later. During the chaos I found Thea and brought her here where she would be with us. When I touched her I saw something. A vision. I saw my father as he lay dying in bed. He handed me a very old roll of parchment. This was a memory.
“That was some years ago and I do not have the parchment now, but I memorized the story held. It told of one of the great Aiglon in the last age of the world. He sought the means to save his race and so he visited a Queen. Queen Maerolwyn. In exchange for preserving his people, the Queen asked of the brave bird a favor. He was to deliver something of great importance to a safe place. The scroll did not say what the object was, only that it held great power. There was a final word written alone at the bottom. I cannot pronounce it, for it is in Old Braelish, but I can spell it.”
And with his talon he scrawls in the dust of the dungeon floor. Sauvetalywn’ge.
“That warrior was Dregathaleon, last and mightiest of his kind. And there is only one place he would have trusted the safety of his charge.”
“The Lost Paradise,” Thea finishes.
I am stunned.
“But that city is lost,” I say. “And that means the tablet is lost with it.”
“The city is not so lost as some would have you believe,” says Dameron. “For all Aiglon know the way to its borders.”
I stare at him for longer than is polite, but this is a moment I feared would never come.
“He will show you the way, Nevena,” Thea says. “You must go now.”
“I will not leave you.”
“Now, Nevena. When we meet again the Fingers shall have me on my feet. There is nothing you can do for us here. You must find your magic, claim your birthright, and then join this fight.”
“What fight?” I ask.
“In the last nine days, the entire world has gone to war. All we have to offer you is Father’s Fruit, but you must eat it quickly. You will need you strength for what comes next.”
I take the fruit and eat much of it; it is fine fare indeed after my hard imprisonment. Thea and Dameron tell me of the plan by which we will escape. They also tell me of the terrible state of the world: Laoren and Delara wreak havoc and death upon Glassenross as they advance from the west, while their other forces all across the realms and kingdoms battle, too. They have even started war across the sea in Targaross. The entire world. And the Famished have totally occupied the Kingdom of Gardenwall and its surrounding lands, fighting against both the army of freedom and Laoren’s hideous minions. The only thing the Famished seem to want is sheer chaos and they are getting just that now that Legion sits on the throne of the High King. Worst of all, he has chosen Ciraa to be his wife, to be married the very night the war is over. Thea tells me we cannot reach her today.
When I am fed and ready, Chelle begins to scream as if in pain. Just as planned, we hear the Famished stomping down the stairs to investigate. I grasp Thea’s hand. We will say no goodbyes, but we share a look and I place a kiss on her forehead. I am still empty and I still wish to die, but I owe Thea more than words can capture and it is for her sake that I prepare myself. We all pretend to be concerned for Chelle as the Famished enter the dungeon and open the cage. I am the first to rise for attack, but I am too weak. My only blow has no effect upon the man and when he hits me I am sent hurtling back. Yunger, Dameron, and Bronden leap up to fight and in a matter of moment the three of them have overcome the two opponents. They move out of the cage. Chelle helps me stand. I take a last look at Thea and she smiles at me as I begin to climb the stairs.
The hall is clear and we begin to search for a way out. The Famished lack an organized watch and so with stealth and patience we are able to avoid them. If ever discovered, Yunger and Dameron leap to fight and Bronden watches over me and Chelle. Around corners and through archways we go as quickly as possible. When we finally reach the entrance hall, we stop short. There must be at least two hundred of them there. Yunger takes a moment to look around us and then points up at the ropes of Orchid’s Eye’s banner and then the crossbeams of the ceiling. He wants us to climb up.
We go up the ropes one after the other, except me. Yunger sees how weak I am and, without speaking to me or even looking at me, he takes me on his back and begins to climb. With considerable effort we all reach the crossbeams and begin to crawl across, slowly and with care, lest we upset the dust and give ourselves away. It seems an eternity of this inch by inch journey, and as we travel directly over the Famished I am afraid. I cannot defend myself and worse yet I cannot defend my comrades. We near the wall and the opening above it. I remember the make of the wall outside and if we can reach the window and climb out, we will be able to scale down the wall and into the moat. Though I do not know how many Famished are outside the walls.
Directly in front of me, Chelle’s skirt catches on a nail. I reach to help her, but she has already snatched it. The ripping breaks the silence and I am so afraid of being discovered that it sounds to me like a boom of thunder. We all wait in fear to be discovered, but no one has heard. It seems a miracle. We are just beginning to move again when an arrow lands in Chelle’s ribs. She cannot help herself and screams. This time every head below us turns up. There is no question now. They move about searching for weapons, but they have none, other than small knives and such. I cannot see who shot the arrow.
“Hurry!” Yunger commands.
And now the five of us hurry as fast as we can across the beams. We take to our knees. The Famished shower us in a reverse rain of knives, daggers, forks, and anything sharp, hard, and small enough to throw. The catch us on our sides, our legs, even our faces, but we do not stop. We are ten feet from the
opening when a second arrow goes by, but misses. Now I see the archer, a Famished perched in a small box halfway up the wall opposite us. As I see him, he is drawing his bow for a third time. He releases. The arrow lands in Chelle, who was already struggling to continue moving. Now she goes still and falls. Bronden has turned and manages to grab her wrist. He is hanging half off the beam, completely exposed, oblivious to the fact that Chelle is already dead. Yunger pulls his small dagger, our only weapon, and throws it. It hits the archer in the chest and he falls.
“You must let her go!” Yunger yells. “We cannot save her!”
“Bronden, let go!” I scream. “Let her go!”
But I have watched these two since I was a small child. They loved each other from the start. I know he will never release her. He looks up at me, in sheer panic.
“I cannot,” he says.
And an arrow lands in his throat. The archer falls from his box, finally succumbing to the dagger. I have just enough time to see Bronden and Chelle falling down into the army of Famished, then the men kicking and beating them for good measure. Yunger is pushing me to keep going and I move as fast as possible. Dameron is already waiting below the opening, reaching back for me. Then his eyes go wide as he sees something below. He shouts his fear.
“Cannon!”
And then the room is rocked by the sound of the shot. The ball crashes through the beam just behind Yunger. He and I fall with the beam. We are fortunate that the beam is large and heavy, as it takes out several of the Famished as we fall. We are pulled from the beam and the blows come hard and fast. I am still dazed from hitting my head on the beam as we landed and now they are beating me mercilessly. I hear Yunger fighting somewhere behind me, but I see only fists.
And suddenly I am rising. Up up up. It is Dameron. He has flown down to get me and now soars out with me through the opening. My last sight of Yunger is a Famished driving his blade into my general’s stomach. Dameron carries me out over the bridge and then out along the moat towards the river. Then we are just as suddenly falling out of the air. We crash into the river bank, but it is so sloped that we roll down and into the river and are carried away. I reach for Dameron and see the two daggers buried in his side. I clutch him to me and we drift.
It is not until some time that evening that we finally come to a rest against old logs. I haul Dameron up onto the bank and remove the daggers. His eyes are swimming. I call his name, but he does not seem to hear.
“High Bay. . . . High Bay,” he says.
“What?” I ask. “What is that?”
“The Lost Paradise. Sail straight out from the middle of High Bay. Straight ahead for a full night and day. Then up.”
“Dameron, I do not understand. How do I fly?”
“We have all died for you. For you, my Queen.”
Dameron closes his eyes and rests for good. I am alone in this place—beaten, hungry, lost, and alone.
Chapter 18
Eighteen days. That is all that is left of the time Laoren has given her. In eighteen days Laoren will draw the vierg’lumière from her child. Her daughter. Laoren still does not know that Delara overheard her and knows that she plans to kill the child. This is Delara’s advantage. Before eighteen days are out, Delara plans to steal the child and run. She does not know where to, for the army of freedom already hates her and if she turns her back on Laoren then this army will despise her, too. There will be no safe place for them. Nowhere on the entire earth will have them, for the entire world will want her life.
These are the thoughts running through Delara’s mind as she charges and dives with her black sword pointed before her; its blade impales four men. She pushes them off and swings her blade with a new fury. The fury of a frightened mother. So many things have gone astray in her life, not the least of which is having a child with a man who not only has a complete disregard for life but who also shares the body of the man she loves. Her parents are dead. Her home destroyed. There is a pain inside her, but she cannot afford to acknowledge it.
She raises her hands and black lightning rushes out from her palm tearing and burning through her opponents. She turns and conjures a mass of floating daggers; she shoots them straight up and then lets them rain around her. There is no fear of hitting her own men, for she is far ahead of them, bold and beautiful and deadly. Her enemies fall by the dozens as the daggers rain to the earth. Then the dark whip is in her hand and it screams in the air as she punishes those around her, twisting back and forth, over and under to catch them with its poison tip. She bends forward and transforms into a tiger. With rage and fury she races across the battlefield, biting at the throat of everyone in her path. She leaps into the air, returning to her normal form in mid-air and landing with her hand on the ground. A vast fissure appears in the earth stretching out from her hand and racing away as far as the eye can see. She turns her back, but she can hear the cries of the men as they fall into the gaping mouth of the earth.
Then the pain strikes again, deep within her. This has been happening for some days now, ever since Laoren coaxed the child from her womb. Delara has checked herself all over for injuries, but found nothing. Whatever this thing is inside of her, it eats at her every day, slowly but unceasingly. It feels like a weakness in her spirit, a malady of the soul. It drains her magic and clouds her brain. So far she has been able to fight it back, but she fears that it may one day be beyond her control. And then she feels the arrow sink in her back. Then another. Then another. She turns.
Another phalanx of soldiers races for her, thinking they have her. She closes her eyes and with her mind she pushes the arrows from her back. She touches her chest and the black star moves from her hand through her chest and there it explodes in healing energy. Already the wounds have closed, yet she continues to feign injury, waiting for them to get closer. Waiting to see the look on their faces when they realize she has fooled them. She smiles and as she does they finally see, but it is too late. She screams and with that scream a yellow force rolls out from her in every direction. Everyone the force touches is instantly turned to ash. With that one spell she kills nearly five hundred men.
Yet since her daughter’s birth, taking lives has been harder. She feels it now, as a mother must feel the things she does. She feels it all.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, Laoren is an unstoppable force. From her perch in the sky she rains down fire and ash. At every attack countless numbers perish. She casts a spell and a thousand men are instantly blinded, left defenseless against her horde. She raises the soil from the earth and sends it into the throats of some thousands left of her. She dives, soaring across the field, and with her bare hands punches through full grown men or takes off their heads. At her whim she can appear a hundred miles away at a different battle front and wreak havoc there. Death follows her like a dog on a scent. She is so fast they cannot even see her and the terror of her omnipresence frightens them. She relishes it.
Eighteen days. Eighteen days until the child is hers, until she plunges into it and rips the magic from its soul. And then she will have the power of the Stones. Once they are hers and ready, she will hunt down the one who has haunted her mind and spirit for so many thousands of years. And how sweet will be the revenge as he realizes that the only reason she is still alive, the only reason she has all her power is because he gave it to her? It is all she can do not to laugh in the midst of battle. And soon Delara will be gone, too. She chose the girl because she is the heir of Nethlamas, who was the most trusted human servant to Traega, that friend she lost so long ago. But the time for sentiment is past. Even now the poison of Heaveneath creeps through Delara’s veins and she will be dead long before eighteen days have come. Laoren rushes up into the air and with a snap of her fingers half a thousand men simply fall apart. She senses trouble thirty miles to the east. Something brews in the Winterlands.
She soars across the lands, raining down fire and death as she goes. When she finally gets there she sees her armies falling before a force of men fighting vic
iously. They are clothed in amber leather and they wield their blades with no mercy. She snaps her finger again, but nothing happens. She rains down fire and ash, but they are unharmed. They look up at her from the ground and laugh. She soars down and strikes one of the men. It is a good blow, but he barley stumbles.
“Empress, I presume,” he says. “I thought you were all powerful, yet to judge by the look of your face I’d think you’d never met a Famished before.”
“What manner of creature are you, that you can resist my magic?” she asks.
“We are an old and infamous race, witch, and there is no magic on earth below or in heaven above that can harm us. If you want our heads, you’ll have to take them with your own hands.”
Before he can finish laughing, Laoren has drawn her sword and slit his throat. And she goes on slitting throats and piercing sides, for though magic has been her pillar for longer than she can remember, she has not forgotten how to use a blade. And if it is her own hands they want, it is her own hands they will have, for she has not returned to this familiar battlefield after all this time to bring peace.
At High bay, the body regains its senses after its long repose. A bitter contest in the mind and spirit of this body has been waged. And decided. He rises and looks around. He is surrounded by some five hundred of Laoren’s men, left behind to guard the body and execute it upon its revival. They instantly brandish their weapons. He is still somewhat confused, his mind cloudy, his sight blurred. But gradually everything clears and he realizes that he has won. He has finally won and defeated his weak, whimpering brother.
“Halt,” says the nearest soldier, who seems to be in charge. “You have been sentenced to death by her omnipotent excellence, the Empress. You are to be hanged immediately.”
“You would hang me without trial? And will the mistress not even attend?”
