Queen of the Pale

by Sarah Hawke

  “Damn it,” Rohen hissed, angling his blade to dispel more of the long shadows down the hall.

  “How…?” Delaryn breathed, releasing his hand and clutching her head again. The Wailing must have been getting louder. “How can this be happening? How can they be here?”

  “I don’t know,” Rohen said, stretching out his left arm and glancing down at the rune-inscribed bracer protecting his wrist. “But I have to stop them.”

  He touched the runes and conjured a shimmering, translucent disk of pure Aetheric energy over his forearm. The “Guardian’s Ward” was the second most powerful weapon in a Templar’s arsenal; thanks to its weightlessness, it barely impeded swordplay at all. The disk was also just as effective against magic as it was against physical weapons.

  Not that he expected the Chol to be weaving any spells. All the corpses so far had probably been killed by Dretches, but it was conceivable that they had at least one Anointed leading the group. If that was the case, Rohen was going to need every conceivable advantage he could get.

  “Come on,” he said. “This way!”

  He rushed toward the atrium separating the royal wing from the rest of the Hold, and for the first time he could hear the cacophony of battle. Swords clashed, Chol shrieked, and the familiar deep voice of the king bellowed down the corridor.

  “Watcher take you!” Thedric shouted over the monstrous cries.

  Rohen charged around the corner, sword and shield at the ready. The king and two of his guards were standing amidst a growing pile of Chol corpses about a hundred feet away in front of the master bedchamber. The rest of the hall was littered with the bodies of soldiers, servants, and even a few of the visiting tharns who had attended the feast. The reek of the Chol was bad enough, but the miasma of blood, urine, and death was so intense that Rohen nearly choked.

  “Hide!” he said, as he curled his nose and glanced back at Delaryn. “Now!”

  He half tugged, half threw her into one of the open guest rooms before he sprinted down the hall. A group of six Chol were trying to swarm the king, and the remaining guards couldn’t hold. The one on the right screamed and collapsed as a spear plunged through his armor and into his gut, and the one on the left died in a gurgling heap when she parried one thrusting blade only to have another slice open her throat. Thedric may have been a legendary warrior, but even he couldn’t beat six-to-one odds while clad in nothing but his nightshirt and smallclothes…

  “For Darenthi!” Rohen cried out as he bounded over the corpses and charged into the fray. Five of the surviving Chol turned to face him, just like he had hoped, and before they could properly defend themselves, he bashed one in the face with his shimmering shield and cut down another with his wraithblade.

  The others were ready for him. Varlothin crashed into a buckler as one of the Chol charged the Templar, and even though the blade carved halfway through the wood, it was denied another taste of Godcursed flesh. The Chol twisted the shield at the last instant, nearly wrenching the sword from Rohen’s grip, and he suddenly founded himself surrounded and off-balance. A second Chol took a mighty sweep at the young Templar’s head, forcing him to block with his Ward while a third Chol drove the tip of his spear into the half-elf’s upper thigh.

  Rohen screamed in anguish. Varlothin slipped from his grip as he clutched at the wound and collapsed onto the floor. The entire world slowed to a crawl around him until all he could see were individual moments frozen in time: the snarling, twisted elven faces of the Chol, the desperate, sweeping strikes of High King Thedric, the blood-soaked, rusted ax blade that was already chopping for Rohen’s neck—

  But somehow, impossibly, the ax never reached him. Even as the fires of agony seared his wounded leg—even as he desperately tried to hoist up his magical shield—the air around him became unbearably cold. The Chol froze in place—literally—as an icy sheen entombed their bodies and paralyzed them in their tracks. Rohen stared up at the monsters, confused and horrified and relieved all at once, before they suddenly and inexplicably shattered into gory, freezing chunks of cracked flesh and chilled blood.

  “By the Watcher…”

  The Templar glanced up and saw his own shock mirrored in the king’s face. It was only when Rohen realized that Thedric was looking past him that the half-elf finally turned.

  “Delaryn…?” the king breathed.

  The queen was huddled in the doorway of the guest room, her outstretched hand glowing nearly the same icy blue shade as her eyes. Rohen’s mouth gaped open, and for a fraction of a second, the pain in his leg felt like it was a thousand miles away.

  She’s not just a hapless, untrained adept—she knows how to channel the Aether!

  “How…” Thedric stammered. “How can you—?”

  A loud click down the hall was the only warning. A crossbow bolt hissed through the air and streaked over Rohen’s prone body before it struck Thedric squarely in the chest. Once again, time collapsed into single, disconnected moments: the king’s blood-choked cry of pain, Delaryn’s ear-piercing scream, Rohen’s startled shout—

  And then Thedric’s body hit the ground. Rohen, still clutching at his wounded leg, craned his neck as two more Chol rushed around the corner from back by the atrium, one with a crossbow and the other with a gore-spattered spear. This time, however, they weren’t rushing at the king—they were headed straight for Delaryn.

  Rohen lunged for his fallen blade, triggering a fresh spike of pain through his leg. He screamed through clenched teeth as he grabbed the hilt, but the spear-wielding Chol had already reached the queen. He thrust at her chest, compelled by an ancient fury to cleanse sorcery from the world. Instead of skewering Delaryn where she stood, however, his weapon crashed into a barrier of pure ice that hadn’t even existed a second earlier. The Chol stumbled away as if he had just crashed into a wall.

  And then Delaryn struck back. Crying out with a scream that was filled with as much rage as fear, she punched the underside of the icy barrier and shattered it into a dozen jagged shards—shards which promptly shot across the hall and struck the staggered Chol like a barrage of tiny frozen darts.

  Delaryn wasn’t done. She turned toward the reloading marksman and chilled him in place even faster than she had the others—so fast, in fact, that his snap-frozen blood ruptured his veins, killing him instantly. It all happened so quickly that Rohen wasn’t convinced he was still alive. The scene was so haunting and surreal that his soul must have passed beyond the Pale…

  But then Delaryn collapsed face-first onto her hands, crying out in anguish as the Flensing finally unleashed its retribution upon her. Her eyes went bloodshot, her flesh turned pallid, and an angry purple latticework of veins appeared beneath her hands and forearms. As staggering and awe-inspiring as her display of power had been, the Aether always demanded painful penance from any mortal shell that dared to channel the power of the gods.

  “Del…Delaryn…”

  Rohen dragged himself into a crouch as he turned to face the fallen king. Just five years ago, Thedric Ashellion, the last surviving member of the true royal family, had reappeared in southern Darenthi after a decade-long absence. He had organized and rallied the resistance against the Usurper King, and after two years of brilliant victories on the battlefield, he had reclaimed the White Throne. He had spared the Usurper’s daughter and promised to marry her in order to unify the kingdom for the first time in decades. His reign was supposed to herald the resurgence of Darenthi.

  Now he was lying flat on his back, a thin stream of blood trickling from his open mouth. He reached out for his queen with the last of his strength…and then he went limp.

  Rohen couldn’t move. He could barely even think. The pain in his leg had transformed into a full-body numbness that once again convinced him he must be hallucinating. None of this was possible. The Chol couldn’t be here. Thedric couldn’t be dead. Delaryn couldn’t be a sorceress.

  Delaryn…

  She was staring at the body of her dead husband, her bloodshot e
yes filled with tears. She trembled in place, unable to muster the strength to move. If not for the glow of his sword and shield, Rohen might have stayed there frozen with her forever.

  Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, the half-elven Templar crawled over to Delaryn. The stench of death, momentarily forgotten in the heat of battle, flooded into his nostrils and threatened to choke him again. It was a stark, brutal reminder that this nightmare was real.

  “More Chol are on the way,” Rohen whispered. “We can’t stay here.”

  Delaryn didn’t budge. She was crying but not sobbing; she looked more shocked than sad. But no matter how freely the tears flowed, no matter how much the brine must have stung her eyes, she refused to look away from Thedric’s corpse.

  Had he known the truth about her nature? Had he been protecting her this whole time, not just from the tharns who hated her but from the Tel Bator as well? Or had she been keeping this secret all along, even from her husband?

  Rohen swallowed and shook his head, struggling to bury the dozens upon dozens of questions he wanted to ask her right now. Their only hope of survival was to try and find the Lord Protector and pray to the Guardian for deliverance…

  “Delaryn, we have to go,” he said, wincing as a fresh spike of pain finally cut through the shock-induced numbness enveloping his body. “We have to try and find Lord Kraythe.”

  Her bloodshot blue eyes finally turned to face him. “They’re here for me, aren’t they?” she rasped. “Gods, the Chol are here for me.”

  Rohen took her hand. “Please, we have to keep moving. It’s our only chance.”

  Her eyes flicked back to Thedric. Delaryn didn’t say anything, but she also didn’t resist when Rohen helped her to her feet. She was steadier than he was—the wrath of the Flensing had started to recede, while his leg could barely support any weight. Every step invited a new agonizing twinge. Without a healing salve or a poultice, he wasn’t going to make it very far…

  “Come on,” he said, grimacing.

  Just before he turned away, he caught a glimpse of the small dagger the Lord Protector had given the king at dinner. It was half buried in the kidney of a dead Chol, the visible part of the blade still glowing a faint blue. Rohen quickly leaned down and yanked it from the corpse.

  “Guardian protect us,” he breathed, squeezing the hilt. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Delaryn clutched at her head as the maddened cries of the Chol stabbed into her skull like a thousand dissonant chords at once. She had heard stories of the Wailing before, but she had never imagined it could be this terrible. If the stories were true, these monsters were the vengeful fury of the Fallen Gods made manifest, and the Wailing was part of their retribution against the sorcerers who had banished them and damned the world in the process.

  Sorcerers just like her.

  Run, Delaryn! Run!

  The discordant screeches were too legion and too insane to understand as language, but one voice always cut through the rest. Delaryn had been hearing it most of her life, and it had saved her from danger countless times. It was the only reason she had survived long enough for Thedric to rescue her from his own men during the sacking of Whitefeather Hold, and it was the only reason she could channel the Aether and control its power.

  It was the voice of the Winter Witch, the mother she had never met.

  You must go with him, my daughter. You must escape!

  Delaryn squeezed Rohen’s hand as he led her back the way they had come. She couldn’t stop looking down at the corpses littered about their feet—not the Chol, but the royal guards who had died trying to protect a king they loved…and a queen they didn’t give a damn about.

  All their concerns about her nature, all their fears about her dark legacy…they had all just been proven right. She was the one who had drawn the Chol here; she was what the monsters were truly after. The blood of these people was on her hands. If she had simply told them what she was, if she had simply offered herself to the Keepers…

  They would have burned you at the stake, her mother’s voice said. No matter how pure your intentions, no matter how many lives you could save with your power, all they will ever see is heresy against their silent gods.

  Delaryn’s stomach clenched into a knot so tight she nearly retched. Rohen dragged her back into the atrium, his magical shield held defensively in front of him just in case more Chol swarmed around the corner. There were more of the monsters here somewhere; the screeching in her head was growing louder again.

  “This way,” Rohen said, reluctantly dismissing his shield so he could clutch at his wounded leg as he led her north toward the guest wing. “The Lord Protector must be here somewhere.”

  And what would happen, she wondered, when he inevitably told Lord Kraythe about her abilities? The old man had always treated her kindly—far kindlier than Galavir or any of the tharns—but he was still a Lord of the Tel Bator. He would have to tell the Lady Seeker and the Lord Vigilant. Would they have her executed on the spot? Would they have her Branded and locked in the Galespire? Would they have her Purged and turned into a Faceless?

  They might try, but Rohen will protect you. He isn’t like the others. Not yet.

  As they turned right and then left again into the guest wing, Delaryn belatedly realized that the trail of carnage had stopped. There weren’t any guards, either, but given the number of bodies back in the royal wing, they had probably all flocked to defend the king.

  “Where the hell is he?” Rohen asked as he leaned into the Lord Protector’s small, empty room. “He was still awake when I snuck out earlier…”

  Delaryn pushed her fingers hard against her temples, but the pressure didn’t help. If she couldn’t get away from the Chol soon, the screaming in her head was going to drive her mad.

  “What was…?” she swallowed and braced herself as best she could. “What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Rohen admitted. “Patrolling the castle, I suppose. I don’t know where he could have—”

  He trailed off when they heard a scream followed by shouting and clashing steel outside the window. Rohen lunged across the room—or tried to, but nearly tripped thanks to his wounded leg—and pushed open the window enough to look out upon the courtyard to their right.

  “Gods have mercy…” he breathed.

  Delaryn peered past him and watched in horror as a shrieking mob of Chol swarmed the overnight sentries in the moonlit bailey. There must have been dozens of the monsters, possibly even hundreds…and yet the gate behind them was still closed. How had they even gotten inside? Where had they come from?

  She cried out and stumbled to her knees as the Wailing intensified yet again. As agonizing as Flensing could be, that pain receded quickly once she released her hold on the Aether. As long as she didn’t try to channel for a while, she could mostly ignore the buzzing tingle in her arms and fingers.

  But there was no escape from the Wailing without escaping from the Chol, and if the courtyard was overwhelmed…

  “Oh, gods,” Rohen said, slumping back against the wall and closing his eyes. The hand clutching at his leg was covered in blood, and his skin had already whitened at least two shades. “We could head up to the parapets. Maybe there’s some way we could scale down the walls and…”

  He trailed off in grim, silent recognition that there was no other way out of the castle.

  None that he would know about, at least.

  “Thedric ordered the family crypts sealed several months ago,” she said, squeezing his hand. “He planned to eventually fill the whole thing with rubble as punishment for my father’s betrayal, but the laborers hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

  Rohen’s green eyes reopened and stared at her in confusion.

  “There’s a passage through the crypts into the mountains,” Delaryn explained. “It’s the only other way out.”

  “But you just said that the crypts were buried.”

  “Sealed, not buried—not completely. I think I can g
et us inside.”

  Rohen looked back at her, a hundred unspoken questions flickering across his face. For an instant, Delaryn wondered if she had misjudged him. He still seemed like the sweet, charming boy she had fallen in love with back in Silver Falls, but that was before he had known what she was. The Templar didn’t hate sorcerers like the Keepers did, but they were still a sect of the Tel Bator. Would he suddenly see her as pure evil for concealing her abilities? Would he even be willing to trust her now?

  “Where’s the entrance?” Rohen asked, visibly bracing himself.

  “Through the library,” Delaryn told him. “This way.”

  She took his hand and dragged him back into the hall. His movement had slowed to a rough stumble, but he clearly willed himself to press on as they retraced their steps back in the direction of the chapel. The fighting in the courtyard grew louder and louder by the second, and just before they reached the library, a muffled crash reverberated throughout the Hold.

  The rest of the Chol had forced their way inside.

  “Shit,” Rohen hissed, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Delaryn froze in place. The last time she had heard that sound, Thedric’s forces had just smashed their way into the keep in search of the Usurper King and his children. Skaldir and her father had made a final stand in the halls, but they had locked her away right here in these crypts, knowing full well what would happen to a pretty sixteen-year-old girl if she were captured by the enemy. She remembered whispering prayers to the Guardian to help her; she remembered begging the whole Triumvirate to spare her and Rohen and her family.

  The gods didn’t help you then, my daughter, and they will not help you now. The only one you can ever truly count on is yourself and your own power.