Wilder had disappeared, perhaps some time ago. How long had she been gone? Alexei hit his knees and crawled, one handed, to where Zara lay. He had promised she wouldn’t die alone and he meant to keep that promise, even if it meant dying beside her.
Malichai appeared to be losing, both his blood and the battle, but the effort to wrestle him to the floor seemed to have distracted Rowan enough that he could no longer direct Gulver. The healer’s grappling match with Silvay ended when he suddenly went limp, placed his hands over his eyes and began to wail, an incredibly high-pitched sound of denial and despair.
“Stop!” Silvay slapped him full across the face and the sound cut off abruptly.
Into the silence, as Rowan and Malichai continued their struggle for dominance, a new voice, low and harsh, intruded with an imperious demand:
“What have you done with my daughter?”
All struggle ceased. Even Rowan and Malichai froze, still locked together, as Alexei lifted bleary and pain-dimmed eyes to consider the newcomer. Who really ought not be there. However did he get in? He hadn’t come through the front door.
“Zara,” the man gasped and dashed to her side. “My Dezarae! Am I too late?”
He was gray and worn, but he had been handsome once. The ravages of time and dissipation had taken their toll, but in his proud bone structure, Alexei could see an echo of Zara’s own. She had believed her father cared for nothing but treasure, but once Alexei restored the Rose, he could not have entered the castle with avarice in his heart.
He loved her. And he was too late to save her.
“Who has done this?” Tears ran down the man’s cheeks, soaking his short gray beard.
Wilder, who had appeared as if by magic behind Zara’s father announced, “He did,” and pointed to Rowan.
The older man rose, pulled the short sword from his belt, and started forward. “Then he’ll pay with his life.”
“Be careful, old man,” Rowan said softly. “I know you. You’re one of my army, though I’m not certain why. Now you’re out of your depth, and meddling with powers you don’t understand. I wouldn’t wish to send you to join your daughter.”
But Zara’s father laughed and a hint of iron entered his voice. “You ridiculous young puppy.” He held up the sword to the light. “This hilt is silver-chased. I know well enough why your men follow you like sheep without half a brain between them, and it’s no fault of mine that you never questioned my loyalty.”
Even in the midst of pain, Alexei found that he could smile. Zara had more of her stubbornness from her father than she realized.
“Silver or no,” Rowan said dangerously. “You would surely not challenge me while I remain unarmed, and you stand no chance against me with a sword in my hand.”
The stone swirled again near Athven’s feet, and to everyone’s surprise, spat a sword into her hand. She tossed it to Rowan. “Say on, my champion.”
Alexei would have protested, but he did not have the strength. He hoped Athven knew what she was doing.
Rowan lifted the blade and shook his head. “I am gracious enough to give you a chance to rescind your threats, old man.”
The old man stood loose, sword point angled down, seemingly at ease with the taller, more muscular opponent who threatened him. There was a pride in his bearing that had not been there before, as if his daughter’s death had awakened a dormant fire in his heart. Or perhaps stripped away something he had chosen to hide behind.
“I realize you have no way of knowing what this is”—he waved the sword again—“but it seems only fair to tell you. This is a Vidori ceremonial blade.”
Rowan looked puzzled. “And why should that affect my intention to run you through?”
“Because these are only granted to young warriors who have drawn first blood in combat with a Master of the Blade,” Zara’s father stated flatly. “You might not think it to see me now, but I was born and raised a warrior. No one hands you one of these for playing at swords. They are a rite of passage and a sign of strength.”
Alexei had heard of some of the more violent Vidori customs and rather thought Zara’s father was downplaying the truth. A man who carried a ceremonial blade had to have proven himself in their brutal school of war. A man who carried one with a silver-chased hilt and rubies in the pommel…
Was either a prince of Vidor or had robbed a prince of Vidor’s tomb. Considering who he was dealing with… The only chance Zara’s father had was for Rowan to believe his bluff.
But it seemed the Andari prince had been thwarted too many times that day. He did not pause to verbally take up the challenge, but lifted his sword and, with a vicious shout, thrust straight for the old man’s heart.
Alexei’s own heart nearly stopped. He could not bear to see Zara lose her father, even if she would never know what had happened.
But the old man moved, faster than anyone would have thought possible. He did not shift his feet, or duck, or even try to guard, merely brought his sword up and slapped Rowan’s aside.
The former prince stumbled, then recovered, and whirled to face his adversary. His immaculate golden hair appeared a trifle awry. “You were lucky. I won’t be granting any last requests, so if you have anything you want to say before you die, say it now.”
“You’re a lousy swordsman?” Zara’s father quipped. “You should have paid more attention to your instructor? Or, better yet: your footwork stinks. A Vidori child with a wooden blade could have executed that thrust better than you.”
A hand on his shoulder interrupted Alexei’s appreciation of the man’s nerve. Swordsman or not, he knew how to put on a show.
“Gulver is going to heal your wound,” Silvay whispered in his ear. “Quick, while they are distracted.”
Alexei turned, and saw Gulver hovering three strides away, quivering and hiding his face in his hands.
“I can’t,” he said softly. “I have broken my vow, and I can no longer be a healer.”
A clang of metal drew Alexei’s attention back to the fight. Swords crossed, the two men stood eye to eye and toe to toe, but neither would give ground.
“You can, and you will!” Silvay snapped quietly. “You were under Rowan’s control, and if you think we don’t know that, you’re a bigger fool than… than him!” She flung a hand out to point at Rowan. “Now get over here and do what you are called to do!”
Gulver lacked both the conviction and the strength of will to resist her. He stumbled over, and laid his hands on Alexei’s shoulder, wincing as he drew out the dagger he had placed there himself. “I am so sorry,” he babbled. “I never meant to hurt anyone…”
The heat of his magic seared through skin and muscle and bone, and Alexei hissed as it knit his flesh back together.
There was a shout as the swordsmen broke apart. Zara’s father still stood in the exact spot he had begun, sword point low, not even breathing hard.
“I grow tired of your posturing,” he complained. “Are you going to kill me or not? Because I am certainly going to kill you if you don’t.”
Rowan struck for a third time, and it was over almost before it began. A blur of the older man’s weapon, and Rowan’s sword went flying out of his hand to spin across the floor until it hit the bottom of the stairs with a clunk. Rowan himself was abruptly leveled by an ankle sweep, which snapped his head hard enough onto the stone floor that he fell instantly unconscious. The ceremonial sword, the one Zara’s father had most emphatically not stolen from anyone, rested at the defeated prince’s throat.
Wilder clapped enthusiastically. “Could you do it again?” she begged.
“Not after he’s dead,” the older man growled, shifting forward as if to lean into the hilt of his weapon.
“No,” Alexei gasped hoarsely, scrambling to his feet, holding his newly healed arm. “You deserve your revenge, but please do not kill him.”
“Did he or did he not kill my daughter?” Zara’s father demanded.
“No,” Alexei was forced to admit. “She is not yet dead.”
Her father threw his sword aside and dropped to the ground by Zara’s head. “Then why is she lying here? Why has no one helped her? I saw what that man just did to your shoulder. Can he not do the same for her?”
“I am sorry.” Athven interjected, moving at last to place herself across Zara’s body from her questioner. “Her fate must be laid to my account. When I ejected you from my halls, I thought only to preserve my life, and in doing so have sacrificed hers. It was never my intention that she be harmed. She should have lived a long and peaceful life, and her loss is my greatest regret.”
“You? Eject me? Who are you?” Zara’s father demanded.
“I am Athven,” she replied serenely. “These are my walls, and even this floor is a part of me. What you see is my human form, but I am ancient and powerful and the castle is my true self.”
The old treasure hunter went ashen. “That was you?” He turned slightly red, no doubt with the memory of why he had first entered that valley. “And even you can do nothing? How was she harmed?”
“She entered into a magical bond with me. Or rather, a magical bond that I forced upon her,” the avatar confessed. “That bond was severed, and its severing created a tear, of sorts, in Zara’s magic, which is bleeding out. When it is gone…” She lowered her head.
Silence reigned, broken only by a ragged sigh from Zara’s father. “I did not know…” he began, pausing to brush a lock of white hair from his daughter’s forehead. “She must have had her magic from her mother,” he admitted, to Alexei’s surprise. “We never spoke of it. Leandra chose to lay it aside along with her past, so I had no idea Zara had it too.”
Alexei looked down at Zara’s face, still peaceful and undisturbed by the violence that had played itself out around her. Somehow, though the rest of her body was limp, she still held the piece of crystal, her fingers curled around it as though she would never let go.
Never let go.
“Athven.” Alexei whirled to face the avatar. “If there is a… a gap, where your bond used to be, what if it could be filled with something? Could she use a talisman, as you have, to block that hole and give her magic back?”
“She is human, Son of Nar,” Athven said sadly. “She cannot absorb the crystal as I did. She can only absorb another’s magic, and it would simply bleed out as her own has…” Athven broke off and looked thoughtful.
“There is one thing.”
“What?” Alexei almost screamed in his frustration at her hesitance. “Athven, if there is any way to save her, you must tell us. We cannot simply let her die if there is a chance.”
Zara’s father fixed him with a burning, still-wet gaze. “And what is my daughter to you?” he demanded.
Alexei drew in a breath to answer and held it. What was she? “Everything,” he said.
“Then take her hand,” Athven said.
“Why?” he asked, even as he did so. Her cool fingers rested lightly in his.
“Do you love her?” Athven asked shrewdly.
“Yes.” He did not even hesitate.
“Then marry her.”
“What!?” Shock struck him. “Athven, that is not a thing to be done without her consent. And you are asking me to…”
“Yes,” Athven acknowledged with a solemn nod. “I am asking you to risk your life to save hers. I believe there is a chance that if you bond with her, it may heal the place where our bond was torn. If I am wrong, and she dies, you will very likely die with her.”
“Alexei, wait.” Silvay appeared pale and shaken as she rose to her feet after knotting a cord securely around Rowan’s wrists and ankles. “You must be sure. I, too, wish to save Zara if it can be done, but Erath needs you as well. How will we rebuild without a Nar to lead the way?” She took his arm and looked deeply into his eyes. “I have not been able to See past this moment. Athven is lost to us now, and if we lose you as well, we lose hope. Do not do this unless you are fully convinced it can work.”
Malichai struggled to his feet, shaking off Gulver who had just finished healing the deep gash in his arm. “And I say, it is the right thing to do.” The big man was crying again. “I knew this would be a tale for the ages, and I was right. You can save her. The story couldn’t end any other way.”
Wilder appeared by Zara’s father’s shoulder. “It is for you to choose,” she said.
“I want to be worthy of her,” Alexei said softly. “She was willing to sacrifice everything to save a people she had never met. I would do no less to give her a chance at the one thing she wanted most.” He looked at her father. “But this is not a thing that can be undone. I fear that even if she lives, she will be angry to find that I have tied her to me forever. I cannot imagine that she cares for me. I was…” He grimaced. “Arrogant. Unbearably so.”
“She followed me on countless roads when all she wanted was a home,” Zara’s father acknowledged. “And she still loved me. I can’t imagine why. But her heart is big, and I believe she will forgive you.”
“She has a crown,” Wilder added. “In her aura. And it looks just like yours.”
A crown? Alexei didn’t care about crowns. He cared about Zara. About setting her free and seeing her scowl at him one more time. Was it selfish of him to want this? Or did he owe her every possible chance at life?
“If you’re quite finished being noble,” Athven said dryly, “I shared her mind for some time and I have reason to believe that your attempt to save her life would not be unwelcome.”
Alexei’s eyes locked with hers. “You mean…”
“I mean only that you should get on with it,” she snapped. “How many times does a girl have to propose for you to say yes?”
He caught himself midway between a laugh and a sob. “I wish it had been once more,” he said. “But perhaps I will still be able to say it.”
He heard a brief gasp from Gulver, but it disappeared into the background as he took Zara’s hand between both of his and focused intently on his gift. He knew, in theory, how the marriage bond should work. It was a braid, of sorts, composed of her magic and his, tied together with the strand of their unique history together, composed of trust, respect, and mutual affection. He would have to supply the memories, and manipulate the three strands without her help.
Perhaps, had he been anyone else, the task would have been over before it began. But Alexei had spent years in the punishing school of his craft, and he was driven by a desperate desire to save the woman he loved.
Strand by strand, he grasped at the delicate lavender tendrils of her magic and plaited them together with the shimmering bronze of his own. And between them he placed the cord of his memories of her—her strength, her determination, her courage, her sharp-edged humor and her refusal to give up. He wove them with his love and his admiration and his determination to see her well and happy once more. And when the strands tried to slip away, he bound them by sheer will.
Bit by bit, the bond formed and gained in strength. Strand by strand, it began to glow with the love and magic he poured into it as he worked. And when at last he reached the end and knotted the cord, sealing his work in place, it shone with an inner fire that filled him with awe even as he released it and pulled back.
He had done it. But there was no way yet to know whether his desperate attempt would save Zara’s life or doom his own.
Chapter 18
Zara could feel nothing but her own breathing. The air in her lungs seemed to have a life of its own, and it was loud as it rasped and rushed, in and out. She could hear voices, but those were as distant as a dream, and almost as unlikely. She heard Alexei say that he loved her, and Athven say she was sorry, and she even heard her father threatening to kill someone. Those might happen in her dreams, but never when she was awake.
Then she felt something new, a warmth and life that filled the cold darkness at her core and spread, from her heart to the very tips of her fingers. She flexed them experimentally and opened her eyes.
She was lying on the floor. It was cold and hard and
her head hurt. There were faces above her, but they were blurry and no one spoke.
“Am I dead?” she asked.
“No, love,” her father said. “I came back for you.”
Her father? She must be dead. He wasn’t at the castle. But that would mean he was dead too, and that would make her sad. She blinked a few times to clear her eyes and the faces grew more distinct.
It certainly looked like her father. And Athven. But Athven was gone.
“You aren’t there anymore,” Zara said to the avatar, a bit plaintively. “That means I died. You said when you were gone, I would die.”
“You nearly did,” Athven said, and though the avatars of enchanted castles probably did not stoop to tears, neither did she sound entirely unmoved.
Zara’s gaze shifted once more and landed on… Alexei. He looked as if a wind could have knocked him over, even though the wind outside had ceased to buffet the walls and the rain no longer fell and you could have heard a whisper from across the hall.
He looked terrified.
“Alexei,” she said, “will you tell me the truth?” He would, she knew. He always had.
“You’re alive,” he said softly, one tear trailing slowly down his cheek, and Zara realized the warm pressure against her fingers was him. His thumb stroked the back of her hand slowly, gently, as though it were precious and fragile, and the caress felt nothing like Rowan’s.
“Well there’s no need to look so upset about it,” she told him, trying to smile. What could he be terrified of, if she wasn’t dead?
“How do you feel?” Her father’s face appeared once again on the other side of her.
Zara considered the question. There was a spot on the back of her head that felt as if it were bruised, and a matching spot on her hip. She wiggled her fingers and toes and then sat up. A collective gasp surrounded her, as though she actually had been dead and risen again. Silvay, Gulver, Wilder and Malichai stood around, gazing at her with wary excitement.
“It’s never been done before,” Gulver said in an awed whisper. “We didn’t even know it was possible.”
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