by Beth Alvarez
“It's too late for you to take them back. My tether is all that holds his might at bay,” Lumia sneered. “Already they carve out land for their own kingdom at the edge of my ruins. Between me, your queen, and Daemon, you've already lost. You abandoned our cause and everything I thought we stood for, but you are no longer needed. I will have the support of your throne, the moment he takes your place.”
His face softened into a strange serenity as rage washed over him. “You will have nothing.” The rage swept away every emotion, leaving only a cool, calm hate as his blade slipped into her throat.
Tren stroked his beard, staring absently at the pool of crimson on the floor. He hadn't moved her. Instead, he studied the way her vacant eyes stared at the ceiling, the way she sprawled with blood cooling in her pale hair.
She'd not been dead long when a maidservant's screams drew him to the throne room. Truth be told, he'd always assumed that if something happened to Lumia, he would feel it. He'd never been able to figure out the blood-bond or how it worked, just that it sometimes gave him a strange awareness of her, a peculiar sensation or an impression she was reaching for him.
But nothing had come from their link when she died. Not anger, not hate, not fear. Idly, he wondered if she'd felt any of those things when it happened.
Whoever did it had been quick. It had been fast and clean, with not a trace left behind. A page mentioned seeing a man in the hallways not long before Lumia had been found. An Eldani in fine clothing, the boy had said. Tren could only recall one of their lot who had seen an entrance to the underground recently enough to know how to return. What had his name been? Venn? Von? Either way, it wasn't as if the young soldier had reason to do such a thing. As far as Tren knew, Lumia hadn't even been aware of the boy's presence.
Weary, he rubbed his eyes and leaned forward on the throne until he could rest his elbows on his knees. He had little time to decide what to do, and unless he could clear his mind, he wouldn't be able to do anything. He didn't even know what to feel, still numb from the shock of what lay before him. He ought to move her. Clean her up. He ought to wash the blood from her beautiful hair, wrap something around the ugly wound in her neck. He ought to do something.
And yet he felt paralyzed. A band of tightness constricted his chest, a thick, almost sore feeling in his throat making it hard to breathe and swallow. Perhaps she'd known that he found her beautiful. That despite all his plans to seize power from her hands, he never would have allowed anything to bring her harm. Perhaps that was what numbed him; the weight of failure that settled over his shoulders.
He became aware of someone behind him. Tren frowned, but did not turn to face the page. “We must avenge our queen.” Very little emotion colored his words. If only he'd taken the time to tell her how beautiful she was. “The Eldani have done this. Send word. Gather the soldiers. We must react before the blood shed by their wickedness grows cold.”
“My lord,” the boy started, unable to keep the quaver from his voice. “The general is—”
“I am your general now!” Tren roared, surging to his feet, wheeling on the boy with his sword drawn. The child yelped, scrambling backwards as Tren pointed the blade at him. “I am your leader. Do as I say! Daemon led the mages to Core and now Lumia is dead. The Eldani will pay for their crime and Daemon will, too!”
Much to his satisfaction, the page bolted without another word. Tren turned his eyes to the body of his queen one last time. He felt something now, anger filling him so completely that he thought he might burst. Anger, and the satisfying sense of power.
He stood tall before the throne as officers filtered in and assembled in front of him. “Arm the men and prepare them for battle,” he barked. His gaze skimmed past them and lingered on the group of men that gathered around their fallen matron. However Lumia planned to take the Eldani king's throne, nothing would come of it now. He had no mind or patience for her twisted schemes, no desire to play the games that came from her petty grudges. Drawing himself up, Tren wondered briefly which jewels should adorn his crown.
“Tonight, our war begins!”
23
Duel
“You could just Gate us there, you know.” Firal swung her feet farther than necessary with each step, kicking up the hem of her plain brown skirt. It had grown loose in the waistband again, though it had only been a few weeks since Minna helped her adjust it. She had never been slender and probably never would be, but Core had changed her in many ways.
“I could,” Rune agreed, “but no one expects me to, and it would take away from the time I get to spend with my wife.” He lifted their joined hands to kiss her fingers.
She allowed herself a small laugh. “I suppose I shouldn't encourage you to be reckless with your Gift, besides. It's hardly responsible of me.”
“Marrying me wasn't particularly responsible of you, either, but here we are.” A mischievous grin flashed across his face before he caught it and tamed it into a more reasonable smirk.
“Depends on how you look at it,” she said. “One could argue I'm shouldering a great responsibility, volunteering to keep you in line.”
“Great and grave. A vital service to all living people.” Again, he kissed her fingers.
They rarely hurried through the ruins. They hadn't hurried out of bed that morning, either, and the sun rode high in the sky. Firal had been glad to see him rest. Though he hid it well, she recognized exhaustion in the tension of his muscles and in the shadows underneath his eyes that grew darker through the passing days.
“Well, I must admit not all of my motives were so selfless.” She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment. His step faltered and she grinned. No matter how composed and charismatic he seemed, there was a hint of awkward uncertainty just below the surface of his persona. Prodding it was both amusing and endearing.
Rune cleared his throat. “I suppose I'd have to disagree. After everything I've done, you'd have to be selfless to forgive me.” He paused to pluck a wildflower from the weeds beside one of the ruin walls. He twirled its stem between his claws and tucked it into her hair.
The simple gesture put warmth in her cheeks. She ducked her head and hid her face against his arm. “Just because I've forgiven you for keeping secrets doesn't mean I've forgotten.”
“Then I'll have to do my best to replace those memories with sweeter ones.” He spun her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
Laughing, she pushed him away. “You're a bit of a romantic, aren't you? I never would have guessed.”
“Well, I never thought my life would be like this, so I suppose anything is possible.”
She tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Happy.” His violet eyes shone bright, the unnatural light of his power granting them an ethereal glow even in the sun. “I never thought I would be.”
Firal blushed again and hurried ahead. “Come. I'm sure someone at the village needs me by now.”
More frames for peaked roofs greeted them. The clearing had grown a shade wider while they were gone, letting in more sun. The midday intensity of the light had driven most of the outpost's occupants to the edges of the budding city, where lines of laundry spread between the trees in bright splashes of ivory and cream beneath the forest shade.
“So much progress,” she murmured.
“Distributing the work evenly makes things faster. Everyone agreed to build the village, so everyone contributes.” Rune motioned toward the far end of the clearing. “There. I want to show you something.”
Curious, she trailed at his heels as he led the way to one of the newer structures. The skeletal frame was taller than the other buildings, with beams for a second floor overhead and an unfinished chimney rising from a stone hearth. He stepped through a gap in the frame that she supposed would become a doorway. His claws clicked on the plank floor as he turned to face her, pacing backwards. “Over here.”
On the far side of the house, a small plot of fresh-turned dirt hosted a number of small plants, their
wilted leaves indicating they were recent transplants. There was no fence yet, but posts stood in the ground to mark where one would be.
Firal squeezed between the bare studs. The ground was a good foot below, the earth soft beneath her boot when she landed. “What is this?”
“Yours. I asked that some of the herbs you use most be transplanted out here as soon as possible. I thought it would make things easier.”
Her mouth fell open and she turned to look up at the framed building. “And this—?”
“Ours,” he said, smiling. “The first floor is designed to function as an infirmary. There will be space for waiting chairs and private rooms for patients who need to stay overnight. The upstairs will be for us.”
Tears pricked her eyes and she raised a hand to cover her mouth.
Rune's smile faltered. “I know you're fond of Core—”
“It's perfect,” she interrupted, climbing back into the naked framework of the house. She all but threw herself into his arms and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “It's everything I could have hoped for.”
His shoulders sank with relief and he hugged her close.
They barely had time for a kiss before a soldier Firal didn't recognize stepped through the would-be door.
“Sir,” the man started in a rush, giving Firal an apologetic look as he drew to a halt before Rune, “all soldiers have been summoned to the palace in Core. It's an emergency. You must come.”
“What's happened?” Firal stepped forward, but Rune gently pushed her back.
“You stay here.” He brushed a strand of her unruly dark hair away from her face. “You'll need to tend injuries. And your new garden. I'll send word as soon as I know what's happening. I'm sure it won't take long.”
She was loath to let him go, but he was right. If no one had called for the healer, she was more useful where she was. “Fine. Just be careful.”
Rune flashed her a troublesome grin. “When am I not?” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and dropped their bags by the hearth, though he kept his sword.
She watched with a sigh as he joined the soldiers streaming away from the encampment in a long, narrow line. Women and children gathered in the street to watch them leave. Wedding him hadn't changed his role in the ruin-folks' army, Firal reminded herself, righting the satchel of medicines on her shoulder.
When a man sporting a broken hand appeared at the door of her incomplete infirmary moments later, she was glad she'd come prepared.
In the late afternoon, when she finished tying a bandage and looked up at the sound of shouting, the banners on the horizon made her wish Rune had stayed.
People crowded the corridor and doorway into the great hall. Rune shouldered his way past them with a growl. Grim faces followed him, some bearing looks so dark he might have been startled, if not for his irritation. Faces he recognized turned away. Some looked shaken, others sorrowful, but not a word was spoken. He pushed harder and the crowds parted to let him through. Then he saw what had silenced them.
A bier draped with red and white silk stood before the dark metal throne. Upon it, Lumia's body lay with her hands folded against her chest. Rune stared, frozen in place for what felt an eternity before he could move his feet. Slowly, he paced forward through the empty space between the soldiers and the body of their queen.
The blood had been washed from her throat, though nothing had been done to hide the deep, ugly slice that split it. He reached out, one green-scaled hand hovering over her cold form for a moment before he dropped it to his side. The last he'd seen her, he'd left her screaming on the floor without a shred of magic left. He'd never expected that to be his final memory of her. He stared at her face in disbelief, his chest tightening with a tumult of confusing emotions. What was he supposed to feel?
“What happened?” he asked, startled by the quaver that shook his voice. He turned to the crowd behind him and reeled backwards when a fist connected with his face.
“I've always wanted to do that,” Tren sneered, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers as he stepped back. “That blasted mask was always in the way.”
Rune touched the side of a claw to his busted lip with a grimace, glancing at his hand when it came away bloody. He licked the black ichor from his lip and spat at the floor. “Now isn't the time for this.”
“You did this!” Tren thrust a finger toward the bier, his angry words reverberating throughout the great hall. “You're the reason our enemies knew where to find her! You're the one who brought one of their soldiers here!”
“That soldier saved my life,” Rune growled.
“We'd be better off if he hadn't.” Tren paced in front of him like a restless animal, his hand on the knife sheathed at his belt. “If you were dead, he wouldn't have come here. If you were dead, Lumia would still be alive!”
Rune's violet eyes narrowed. Surely the man wasn't serious. Rune had laughed back when Vahn told him he wanted to join the army. Vahn, who'd once cried over a stray dog injured by a cart's wheel. Vahn, who couldn't hurt a fly. “Dishonesty is unbecoming, Tren.”
Tren charged without warning. His back crowded to the bier, Rune didn't have room to draw his sword. Spitting a curse, he ducked. Tren's knife caught the hood of his cloak and tore it to the edge. Rune staggered back, unable to regain his footing before his opponent came at him again.
“Only one of us can rule!” Tren snarled, feinting with his knife, darting just close enough to catch hold of Rune's sword before throwing him off balance with a kick to his middle. The soldiers crowded around them in a ring, jeering and shouting.
Rune caught himself at the edge of the crowd, sanguine shades flooding his luminescent eyes. “Just between you and me,” he began, evading easily when Tren swung at him with his own sword, “you'd make a terrible king.” The scabbard at his side now a useless hindrance, Rune unbuckled his belt and cast it to the floor.
Baring his teeth, Tren lunged at him with both blades. Rune skirted the sword and caught Tren's knife arm by the wrist, twisting hard. His talons dug deep, severing flesh and tendon. The knife clattered to the floor and Tren bellowed in anger and pain. He lashed out with his sword arm and struck hard with the hilt. Stars exploded into Rune's vision, pain blossoming in the side of his head. He stumbled and fell to his knees, hands out to keep him from prostrating on the floor.
“Move!” Davan's shout from the edge of the ring was all that kept Rune from falling senseless. He rolled to the side as Tren brought his sword down. Sparks flashed when it struck the stone, searing his eyes. Rune shook his head and blinked hard, struggling to find his feet through the spinning of his head. Black blood flowed from his temple, matting his hair. His limbs refused to cooperate. His hand brushed something and he curled his fingers around it.
He didn't have time to rise before the sword came down again. It wasn't until metal sparked against metal that Rune realized he'd gotten hold of the knife and used it to deflect the blade. Seizing the opportunity, he sprang forward, plowing his shoulder into Tren's gut, bowling the man to the floor. Tren was stronger than he anticipated. They rolled, and he pinned Rune to the ground.
“I expected a better fight from you!” Tren shouted. Rune barely caught the sword in his hands as Tren leveled it with his throat and bore down on it with all his weight.
Grimacing, Rune pushed back, struggling to ignore the way the sword bit into his scaly palms, the way the blood coursed down his arms. Frantic, desperate, he reached for the flows of energy around him. His eyes locked with Tren's and he lashed out with the full force of everything he could grasp.
Howling wind kicked up around them, overturning braziers and spilling ashes across the floor. Embers spun through the air as the fires went out. Icy gusts tore through the great hall and the ground beneath them shuddered. The wind drowned the voices of the men around them, roaring louder, battering their bodies until Rune felt nothing else.
Then, all at once, it was gone.
Rune fell back against the floor, gasping for breath, closin
g his eyes against the spinning of the room and the pain throbbing in his head. It was only when he felt the warmth and weak glow of torchlight against his skin that he opened his eyes again.
“Basilisk,” someone said in a stunned whisper. The word swept through the crowd with an awestruck, frightened murmur.
Above him, Tren's vicious snarl was frozen, the man's flesh turned to stone.
“Will you be leading us, then?”
Rune grimaced, half at Davan's question, half at the sting of the medicine Minna slathered on his palms. He could tell she tried not to look at him as she wrapped his hands with strips of clean linen bandage. It was no surprise the woman had become Firal's medical assistant. She'd grown adept with herbs and treatments, but he still wished it were his wife that tended his wounds. “I don't have a choice.” He tried to move his fingers. The cuts were deep, but aside from the bulk of the bandages, it didn't seem like his movement was impaired.
Davan frowned, scratching his unshaven chin. “You make it sound like you don't want to. I always thought you intended to be our king.”
“I just never thought it would—Ow.” Rune flinched away from the poultice Minna dabbed at the split in his lip. “I just never thought it would happen like this. With Lumia gone, and Tren...” he trailed off, the vision of the man's face, etched in stone, sending a shudder through his frame. “I knew I was next in line, but I never wanted it to be like this.”
“Some of the men will follow you,” Davan said, nodding in understanding. “But some followed General Achos even when he wasn't general anymore. I don't know if you'll win them back.”
“Maybe I’m better off without them.” Rune leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands. Minna assured him he wasn't concussed, but his head still ached and probably would for a while, considering the bruise at his temple.
Davan hesitated, shifting uneasily.
