But now, staring into the face of that war, Rhen wished he had been wrong. Oh, how he wished his father were laughing in his face, joking with his brothers about Rhen's new bout of failure.
That he was used to. That would be easy to take.
But watching men close in on his father—point their weapons at his unarmored, ill-prepared body—that was something that burned his eyes, dried his throat, and made his whole being tremble.
Almost as one, the sons of King Whylfrick stood and rushed to their father's side—surrounding him, protecting him. Rhen reached for his hip, pulling his brand new sword free. It wouldn't remain untainted for long.
Four against twelve.
Behind them, the baby began to wail.
Rhen wished to yell right along with his nephew, but he held steady and strong, shifting his weight between feet, waiting for the inevitable attack. He stared at the traitors, eyes narrowing, watching them examine his family with hunger in their eyes.
No one stepped forward.
No one motioned to attack.
They all surveyed each other, letting the pressure build so the room began to feel heavy, full. Tension thickened the air, pulled taut across the small space, stretching, thinning, lengthening, until finally—snap.
It broke.
With a bellowing cry, King Whylfrick surged forward, refusing to wait any longer for his enemies to make their move.
Lord Hamish blocked the blow, their swords slammed together, deafening as the ringing bounced from wall to wall across the great banquet hall.
Just like that, chaos erupted.
Rhen leapt forward, eyes on the three men before him. These were his men to fight, to take down. He took a wide swing, bringing his sword to each of their eyes, hoping just to distract the lords from his brothers, from his family—hoping to entice them into a match.
The center man immediately turned to Rhen, challenging him with a full-body charge. Holding his sword steady, Rhen deflected the blow and jumped sideways. Unprepared to be so easily outmaneuvered, his enemy flew past, pulled by his own weight—off balance and momentarily harmless.
Without a moment to lose, the second man swatted at Rhen. He was older, slightly gray haired and clearly less agile than the rest. Ducking easily out of the way, Rhen aimed his sword low, slicing the man's thigh open in a deep nerve-ripping cut.
Blood dripped to the floor and the man cried out in pain. The strength eased from his leg, going limp, until he slid diagonally to the floor, eyes wide with shock.
But Rhen had already shifted his attention to the third foe, who waited more cautiously before engaging in a fight, focusing instead on reading Rhen—moving left when he moved left, right when Rhen moved right. His eyes shifted ever so slightly, over Rhen's shoulder, signaling…
Rhen fell to the ground as a whistle filled his left ear, the sound of a sword flying harmlessly overhead. Rolling over, he kicked, nailing his first foe in the sensitive spot between his legs.
The man dropped, howling in pain.
Rhen rolled again, already anticipating the sword rushing for his head. It clanged against the stone floor. Before his enemy could right his weapon or center of gravity, Rhen kicked the man's wrist and the sword dropped to the ground.
Fear crept into the lord's eyes and he backed up.
Rhen advanced, facing the weaponless man, unsure if he was ready to kill one of his own people—even a traitor.
One thought of Whyllean was enough to destroy his hesitation.
In a quick and determined move, Rhen gripped his sword with both hands, bringing the sharp edge deep into the man's throat, wedging it beneath his skin. Life faded from the man's eyes, empty and unseeing.
Raising his boot to the man's chest, Rhen yanked his sword out of the wound, wincing as blood gurgled, spurting forth. But there was no time for that, no time for thought.
Instead, he twisted back around, facing the man who still clutched his balls in pain. As their gazes met, the man straightened, teeth bared as he raised his sword. But he was already beat. He knew it and more importantly, Rhen knew it.
Slowly, Rhen approached.
When he was within distance, Rhen raised his sword, giving the man just enough time to set up a defensive strike. As his foe parried, Rhen loosened his wrists, letting the sword twist over so he could deliver a knockout blow to the man's head with the rounded blunt end below his fingers.
He heard a sickening crunch as contact was made. Instantly, the man fell to the floor.
Spinning, Rhen searched for his brothers.
Terror clenched his gut.
Bodies were strewn all over the floor, but the only man in Whylkin red who Rhen saw standing was Whyllem—Whyllem, wounded and moving slowly, surrounded by six lords.
Pushing thoughts of Tarin and his father as far out of his mind as possible, Rhen sprinted across the hall, jumping over a perfectly made table, tossing plates to the ground, not caring as they crashed and broke into a million porcelain pieces.
Rhen's vision, tunneling narrower and narrower, shifted over his shoulder, past Whyllem to the crying women huddled together and using their bodies to shield little Whyllean from view.
"Protect the king!" Whyllem shouted at Rhen as he neared. Confused, Rhen took a second to search the room for his father, quickly scanning from wall to wall.
But his father was nowhere to be seen, hidden out of view on the ground, buried under a body or a table.
Rhen paused. He brought his gaze back around, processing the world in slow motion.
Realization dawned harshly.
Whyllean.
Whyllem meant protect Whyllean—which meant Tarin and his father were dead.
Dead.
Pain pricked his body, numbing his senses.
He had failed.
His family was dying.
"Rhen!" A woman screeched, bringing him back to reality. Back to the scene around him. Back to those still alive.
He would not lose anyone else, not today, not while there was still breath left in his body.
The spark of a flame pierced his eyes.
Rhen's memory flew back to the ship, back to Jin's swift maneuver, his trick to make Rhen speak the truth. He had been able to steady those flames, to keep them from burning the ship to ash. He had done it once…
It was crazy.
It just might work.
Dropping his sword, Rhen grabbed two lanterns from the table. Praying no weapon would pierce his unprotected belly, Rhen charged into the fray, placing his body in front of Whyllem, and more importantly, in front of their king.
"Get behind me," he yelled and threw the lanterns as forcefully as he could at the floor.
Fire flared to life at his feet, billowing up in a huge wave that soared overhead and blasted his face with heat.
The lords jumped back, surprised.
"Rhen," Whyllem yanked on his shoulder, trying to pull his brother back into safety.
Rhen shirked his hold and met his brother's eyes. "Get with the women, and stay back. For once, just trust me."
Not waiting for a response, he looked to the fire, already feeling his hands itch with longing. But he was not there to shut the fire off, to pull it into his skin.
No.
He wanted to make it rage.
Rhen glanced at the oil spreading across the floor, widening the wall of flame before him. In only minutes, it would be dried up, and the lords would be able to advance once more. He needed something else. Something beside stone. Something that would light up and stay that way.
Getting his bearings, Rhen realized he was sandwiched between the two long banquet tables, right in the center of the room. Behind him, the royal table sat undisturbed, confirming his location.
Cloth.
He realized.
Wood.
Running down the center of the table was a red silk of Whylkin, a decoration—a fire hazard. Underneath it, planks of solid wood.
The fire just needed to get there—to sp
read a little wider.
He stared into the orange flames, willing them to grow, to heed his command.
They shrunk.
The fire wouldn't listen. Even as his skin yearned for its touch, the fire denied him, as it had every time he had tried to control it.
A shout caught his notice. One lord had climbed onto the table, circling to fight Rhen from behind.
There was no time.
Ripping his shirt down the middle, Rhen pulled his formal jacket off and dipped it into the flames, waiting until it caught before tossing it onto the tabletop to his left.
Shrugging off his shirt, he repeated the process, only this time throwing it to his right.
Then he waited. Watching. Praying.
Suddenly a spark, a bright flash.
The fire caught.
A blaze singed the approaching lord as the silks burned hot, alighting more oil and rapidly pulsing down the table in small booms.
"Rhen, you will burn us alive," Whyllem yelled over the cackle.
But hope surged in Rhen's chest and he turned to his family, beaming with relief.
"No," he said and reached into the growing flame behind him, letting the heat seep under his skin, comfort him. His mother gasped, a memory flaring to life behind her irises. He pulled his untouched, unscalded hand free.
Whyllem's jaw dropped.
Rhen stepped closer and moved his mother, Awenine, and Whyllem so they all huddled together, covering Whyllean, cowering from the flames. They listened to his commands without protest, without pause.
Like a shark, Rhen circled them, constantly walking around their bodies, pulling any wayward flames into his flesh to prevent them from smoldering his family.
It seemed like hours that he moved, calling a flame in, releasing it, searching for the next encroaching wave.
In truth, it was only minutes.
But the fire had done its job. Rhen knew it the moment he heard the doors slam open. The lords were running, saving themselves, escaping.
Still, Rhen let the room burn until he heard voices call out for the king, the queen, Tarin. He never heard his own name, but it didn’t matter. The guards were there. The people loyal to his family were there.
And the house of Whyl had survived.
When droplets of water brushed his face, Rhen knew for sure that his enemies were gone. If the guards were safe enough to concentrate on putting out the fire, his enemies must be out of reach and running.
Letting go of his concentration, Rhen dropped to his knees, throwing his hands to the side and calling for the fire to come to him.
It listened, crashing into his chest, melting into his bare skin, disappearing from the world. He pulled and pulled, demanding every last source of heat obey his will.
Lord of Fire.
That's what Rhen was—what he had always been. But now the world would know it too.
He opened his eyes and stood, meeting the amazed expressions of the royal guard, all paused with disbelief as water sloshed from the buckets in their unsteady hands.
Not waiting, Rhen spun. He had to check if his family was safe, that Whyllean remained untouched.
As he opened his mouth to ask the question, a gasp escaped his lips instead.
Rhen clutched his stomach.
He looked down at the knife hilt protruding from his skin, at the blood spilling onto his fingers, at the hand—the delicate, feminine hand—forcing the blade deeper.
Rhen's gaze traveled upward, slowly, disbelieving, until they met his mother's eyes.
His mother's empty, white eyes.
19
JINJI
~ RAYFORT ~
As soon as Jinji reached the castle, she knew that something was wrong. That she was too late. That the shadow had beaten her there.
While she ran up the white stone steps, countless ladies ran down—formal dresses bouncing, elegant hair falling. Screams filtered into her ears, screeching over the dull sound of her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
For every step she climbed, Jinji was pushed down three more. Her feet slipped on voluminous silk skirts, her face was pelted by wild elbows and whipping jewelry. Trying to swim upstream would be easier and far less painful. Dressed as a commoner, she was invisible to these women.
But looking into their frightened faces, Jinji had a feeling the entire world was invisible to these girls—their vision was too clouded over by fear, by the desperate need to escape.
Why?
What has happened?
Jinji's heart continued to pound. Was Rhen alive? For some reason, she felt as though she would know if he were dead, that she would feel it, a sinking pit in her stomach, the same way she had felt when Janu had disappeared.
He was alive.
He had to be.
Using her own strength, Jinji pushed the approaching ladies aside, not caring if she injured someone. Her will to enter was stronger than any of their wills to leave.
Luckily, she didn’t need to push for very long. Behind her, men started to shout, to make way, to part the madness. An avenue opened up and Jinji sprinted, her short legs soon overcome by men in shimmering bronze armor and red leather overcoats.
She recognized the symbol on these men's chests. It was the same stallion that Rhen had on his ceremonial garb this morning. The symbol of Whylkin. Better to be a soldier in these halls than a commoner, that much she had learned already. So, in the midst of the chaos, Jinji wove a new illusion around her body, hoping no one saw but not really caring—there was not enough time to be worried.
After tying the spirit strands into a thousand firm knots, Jinji held her breath for a split second, waiting for one of the men to shout, or yell, or hold a knife to her throat. But nothing happened. The trick had worked, she looked exactly like a king's soldier, and now her greatest challenge would be keeping in stride with these men towering at least a foot over her head.
Together they ran.
Soon after entering the main doors of the castle, the stream of women ended, replaced by an eerie silence only heightened by the constant pound of boots on stone. By all counts, the men should sound thunderous in these vaulted halls, but they didn’t. Small and powerless was more like it.
Still, Jinji preferred it to the ghostly sound that followed. A ringing. Subtle at first, but growing louder. Clangs. Vibrations. Shouts. Cries.
Somehow, something that had seemed so foreign months ago had become recognizable to her ears. The sound of battle haunted these hallways. And though it made the men around her cringe, Jinji's heart lifted ever so slightly.
War.
Just as Rhen had described, just as he had predicted. The Ourthuri had come.
It was horrific. Horrible.
But it also wasn't the shadow, which meant she still might have time to save the one person she was worried about losing.
As they rounded a corner, everything stopped.
Jinji's jaw dropped. The men around her gasped.
It was a bloodbath.
The pristine white stone walls dripped maroon, were stained pink. Bodies lined the floor, writhing, moaning—not dead but wishing to be.
Men in the same uniform Jinji now wore stood surrounded, circling, keeping men in fine clothes at bay.
And then Jinji gasped too.
These men were not Ourthuri. They were newworlders. They were just like Rhen, pale skinned and rich, dripping in sparkling fine clothes.
She looked closer, unable to tell friend from foe. Lords stood with the guards against their equals, fighting their peers.
What had happened here?
But Jinji's question would go unanswered as the men around her jumped into action, leaping over the bodies littering the floor to confront the rebellious lords now turning in dismay—having just realized they were outnumbered once the fresh round of guards appeared.
"To the king! To the king!" Men shouted around her in confusion.
"The door!" More answered.
Jinji searched, eyes widenin
g as they landed on two towering doors at least four times her height.
Her heart sunk.
Hoping it wasn't true, she searched the crowd, through gleaming swords and lunging bodies, through swinging arms, looking for his face.
Please, she thought, please don't be just out of reach.
But he was.
Rhen was nowhere to be seen.
Jinji glanced back up at the door, eyes following the middle seam all the way to the ceiling. There was no way that would break down. No way to open it unless it wanted to be opened.
Still, ignoring the fight around her, Jinji ran as fast as she could and slammed her shoulder into the thick wood, not at all surprised at the pain that shot up her arm and the cry that escaped her lips.
Cutting off her senses, refusing to acknowledge her hurt, Jinji charged again, willing the wood to bend at least a little under her might. But it didn’t. Hard as stone, it remained strong, immobile. Undefeatable. But still, Jinji threw her body against it, again and again, until her side went numb and she could no longer command her muscles.
Her mind urged her body forward, but her legs would not listen. Instead, they crumpled and she collapsed at the base of the door, even smaller than before, as though submitting to its greatness.
After all of this, after coming so far, this could not be the end.
Sluggishly, she knocked her head back, still refusing to give in, welcoming the headache that invaded her senses because it meant that she was still fighting.
The shadow would not beat her.
Not this time.
Her life was defined by being too slow—too slow to wake and find Janu, too slow to dress and save her village, too slow to run and save Leoa, too slow to act and save Maniuk—to tear the knife from his hands before he made one fateful final kill.
Now this.
Too slow to leave the castle, too slow to return, too slow in a world where everything happened far too fast.
Flipping over, Jinji struggled, bending her knees and raising her fists so her hands at least could still beat against the door—softly, but with all the strength she had left.
Other men appeared around her, thinking she was wounded, dying or bleeding out, but they didn't offer to help. They stood with her, beating the door, trusting their companions would protect their backs as they fought to reach their king.
The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons) Page 23
