Body stooped and twisted with age, the same holy man who’d made Rhaekhar Khul, married him to Shannari, and then oversaw their co-mate’s funeral now shuffled over and laid a gnarled hand on her shoulder.
“Your Lady weeps with you, child,” Kae’Shaman whispered, his voice shaking. “Your sorrow creeps across the Plains in a killing frost. We shall suffer the bitter cold of your grief in a miserable Winter unmatched in generations. As your heart suffers, so will we. Winter will break only when your heart warms once more.”
“Leesha wants me to go back,” she replied dully, staring down at Rhaekhar’s face. He’d died in horrible pain—she knew firsthand, because she’d felt every blow. While a holy horse had pummeled him into the ground and he broke her heart as many times as those hooves broke his body, he’d worn a smile. She didn’t have to ask to know that dying by one of Vulkar’s most holy children was surely a very great honor.
Yet in that moment, she hated him. She hated that he’d died in such blissful peace, leaving her to suffer alone.
:Never alone,: Dharman reminded her. He and Sal both stood pressed against her, holding her firmly as though they still feared she would slip from their grasp and breathe her last.
“Aye.” Kae’Shaman squeezed her shoulder, his aged fingers digging into her so hard that she made a little sound of pain. It shook her out of her dulled, frozen state, and she looked into his eyes. “The Dark Mare needs you to return to Shanhasson. You must wear the Rose Crown, a constant symbol of love. We need you to shine, Shannari dal’Dainari, Last Daughter, because something darker than the night comes to your Green Lands. The Endless Night is coming. He’s coming for you.”
Bruised and broken her heart may be, his words still managed to stir dread. “Lygon is imprisoned beneath the Palace in Shanhasson. As long as I live—”
“You were Chosen,” he interrupted, his voice shaking with urgency. “As the Dark Mare, you loved Khul, our Great Wind Stallion’s son, on the Sea of Grass as testimony for the Sha’Kae al’dan. You each walked in the flesh, but carried the stamp and powers of your Gods. Think you that the Endless Night does not also have flesh? Did He not walk in your Shadowed Blood? You won that kae’don. Gregar was saved by your love. Yet there are other kae’don, child, other Shadows who want to corrupt your love and destroy you.”
Kae’Shaman shivered so hard he stumbled and sagged against her. She grabbed him, concerned when she realized how fragile the holy man had become. How old. With Khul’s passing, it seems as though all Kae’Shaman’s vitality had leaked away, leaving only paper-thin skin and sorrowed eyes behind.
“Wings,” he gasped, shivering. “He flies. Oh, dear child, I wish the Gods could spare you this trial, but if not you, then all the world is lost. The greatest, darkest challenge of your life looms on the horizon like great black wings in the night. If you fall, the Endless Night swallows us all.”
Her throat ached but no tears would come. Lady above, she was so tired, so cold and lost. All her life, she’d borne this great duty, the endless responsibility, and now, on the day she wished to simply curl into a ball and die from grief, she could only be reminded that she had no life at all.
“I never had a choice,” she whispered bitterly. “Khul said choose; Dharman said choose; but Leesha never let me have any life of my own.”
“Nay, you always had a choice.” Kae’Shaman’s voice was so faint and breathy she strained to hear him. “For generations, others have walked as the Trinity. They have lived in the flesh, loved whom they chose, suffered for that choice whether right or wrong, and the world continued to slip farther into Shadow day by day. Many times, the end has come, only to be averted by the greatest sacrifice of all. Gregar could have ended it for all time. You could have allowed the cold waves of Khul’s death to carry you away, but you didn’t, Khul’lanna. You didn’t.”
“I’m so weary.” She squeezed his hands and couldn’t feel her fingers. Numb from the cold, but it had nothing to do with the outer temperature. “It’s all in vain. Even when I win, the costs are too great. I can’t keep carrying the world on my shoulders, this pain in my heart, and not end up as bitter and filled with hatred as Shadow.”
“Hang on,” he gasped. “The fragile threads holding you in this world have nearly snapped. If we lose you to Shadow, it won’t matter how many descendants of your Lady still live. The Endless Night will rule us all.”
“My babies!” A massive echoing roll of thunder crashed in her head and she swayed, nearly dropping the old man. “He can’t have my babies.”
“They won’t matter if you die. This time could be the end. Forever.”
Evermore.
Shivering, she remembered the Black Dragon’s amusement, his perfectly worded insults and platitudes. He knew her well, this blackheart. He knew exactly what to say to ensure she fought to stay alive. Why, exactly, would her greatest enemy want her to live? Only to corrupt her and kill her himself?
Run, brightheart. Run to death. Run to me.
* * *
WHEN KHUL’S NEAREST BLOOD APPROACHED the pyre bearing the one he was supposed to protect above his own life, Dharman could not look upon Varne for fear his disgust and hatred would be all too visible. How could one who called himself Blood stand by and do nothing while Khul died? Yet that’s exactly what all nine had done.
They had not a single scratch. It had never occurred to them to do naught but stand by and watch as Khul surrendered his life to the sangral na’kindre.
A blast of frigid winds through the bond told him the moment Khul’lanna noticed the warrior pausing before her. Varne had the audacity to lay his rahke on the ground before her and kneel, bowing his head, as though he could offer some atonement for the suffering he’d allowed.
“Forgive me, Khul’lanna. There was nothing I could do.”
At her silence, Varne raised his head warily. She stared back at him, her lovely face as pale and cold as the snow blowing in the air.
“It was the greatest honor of all. A warrior hasn’t been called home to Vulkar’s Clouds in such a manner for countless years. He died as the greatest Khul we have ever known.”
“Dharman.”
Anticipation surged within him. She’d often sworn to take the Blood’s head if anything happened to Khul. Perhaps she’d assign him to the task. “Aye, Khul’lanna?”
“If I had been standing in Khul’s place and a horse—no matter how holy and magnificent—had galloped at me, what would you do?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “I would wrap you in my arms and cover you with my body. The sangral na’kindre must take me first before he could carry you to Vulkar’s Clouds.”
“And what would Sal do?”
At Dharman’s nod, Sal answered in an uncharacteristically hard voice. “I would cover Dharman’s body with my own. We would each shield you, Khul’lanna, and ride at your side to Vulkar.”
“Khul never wanted us to fall upon him like fools,” Varne retorted, his face flushing. “He was a warrior and died like a warrior.”
“And that is why I challenge you,” Khul'lanna replied.
He spluttered and surged to his feet, looking from Dharman to Sal and the other Blood standing with hands on rahkes at her back. “You would send each of your Blood to fight me? So be it. I’ll kill them all, and then who will fall on you, Khul’lanna, when the next assassin strikes?”
Dharman quivered with fury. He took at step toward Varne, his teeth aching, jaws straining to keep from bellowing. Lightly, Khul’lanna dropped her hand to his forearm, and he stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t drop eye contact with the other warrior. Challenge had been declared. To look away would be to lose the first part of the challenge, and by Vulkar, he would never lose a challenge for her sake.
“Not my Blood,” she said pleasantly. “Just me.”
Dharman whipped his head around so hard his own hair stung his cheeks. He stared down into her face, letting his fury and concern flare through their bond, but he didn’t say a word.
Not before their enemies. :Varne is not to be trusted. Even Gregar would refuse you.:
: I was taught by the very best, and it’s well past time that I taught Varne a lesson.:
She spoke truly, but Dharman still didn’t like her decision to fight Varne herself. He turned back to Varne and glared at him, deliberately flaring his eyes and nostrils wide, stiffening his shoulders, commanding his full presence as First Blood and proudly one of Khul’lanna’s warriors. He would have been co-mate if Vulkar had but waited another day.
But what he could he say? To threaten Varne with harm if he injured Khul’lanna would only diminish her own pride and honor. So Dharman said nothing, nothing at all, though he had to bite his tongue so hard he tasted blood.
She unsheathed the ivory rahke. “You’ve coveted this rahke for a very long time. If you win this challenge, I’ll give it to you.”
Varne sneered, “And if you win?”
“Then I’ll finally remove that perpetual glower off your face,” she replied, her voice still even, her manner calm and confident.
“Give the lad your other blade.”
She arched a brow at him, slowly unsheathing the black rahke Rhaekhar had given her as a claiming gift.
Dharman’s fingers knew every carefully carved rose and thorn by memory. It had taken him months to finish it. The Camp’s master bladesmith had taken as much care with the steel. Blaine had told him he’d have an apprentice position if he wanted, but there was only one thing Dharman had ever wanted, and she stood beside him. He’d made the hilt with her in mind, hoping beyond hope that it might catch Khul’s eye if he finished it in time.
“Why? Are you afraid of what I’ll do if I have two blades?”
“The black one isn’t part of our challenge, only Gregar’s rahke. That’s the one I want.”
She handed the rahke to Dharman, and the darkness in her eyes sent a shock of worry through him. “Very well.”
So cold, so hard, so fragile. He feared she might shatter beneath the strain, or worse, slip to Shadow. As unobtrusively as possible, he drifted through her mind, seeking any hint of Shadow or corruption that might strike her unawares, but he found nothing but endless snowy fields and sweeping drifts against her Shining Walls, that pride and self control that she used as a weapon.
Taken aback, Varne was slow to unsheathe his own rahke. “You want to challenge me now? While Khul lies on his funeral pyre?”
She smiled so widely that Dharman’s scalp crawled. “Absolutely.”
Kae’Shaman made no move to approach and make the challenge formal. Instead, he slowly and painfully lowered himself to his knees beside the stacked wood and bowed his head. Dharman felt like doing the same. The sheer weight of her grief made his own heart stutter and die in his chest, yet her face might as well have been carved from ice.
She didn’t look at him or Sal, but simply said, “I need you to let go of me now.”
Words bubbled up within him. Her bond had sheeted over with thick snow laced with treacherous icicles. Instead of trying to change her mind, he gave her what little he knew of Varne’s fighting skills. :Beware his rahke shift. He likes to feint at the face and then toss the blade to his other hand.:
:He stole that move from Gregar.:
Relief filled Dharman enough that he dropped his hands and signaled the rest of the Blood to step back and form a ring about the two challengers. Gregar’s gift of Death had always felt like a cold frost spreading in the darkest night. If he were present, nothing would keep Khul’lanna from winning the challenge.
With her attention wholly centered on Varne and the coming challenge, Dharman used the Blood sign language to give them his commands.
Guard.
It was the highest level of protection short of a Death Rider alarm. Deliberately holding his hand unmoving several moments to emphasize a delay, he gave another command to her golden Blood only.
Kill.
Jorah grinned widely and nodded.
Varne would not leave this challenge breathing, unless Khul’lanna willed it.
* * *
STARING AT KHUL’S FORMIDABLE NEAREST Blood, Shannari tried to find some emotion; fear, perhaps, or at least relief that at last she could settle this long-endured hatred between them, but she felt nothing.
Rhaekhar had often commented that Varne and Gregar were the two best warriors he’d ever seen use a rahke. They had nearly come to blows at his Kae’Khul, yet Gregar, the wicked trickster, had joked his way out of the challenge. Some may have argued that he’d done so out of wary respect for Varne’s skills, but she didn’t think so.
She’d drilled against Gregar and nothing in this world had ever scared—or thrilled—her so much. At any moment, he could have killed her. She knew it by the cold Shadow of Death rolling from him, the glittering obsidian of his eyes, and the whispered promise in Dreams where he’d lain in wait, wrapped in Shadows, and killed her.
After such a teacher, how could Varne ever think to scare her?
Strategy, though, was another challenge entirely. What did he expect her to do? Cower away from his towering height and strength? Tremble at the threat of steel at her throat? Fall upon him weeping? She saw the sorrow in his eyes. In his own abrupt way, he’d loved Khul as a brother. He’d devoted his entire life to Rhaekhar’s welfare, and he’d failed.
She would ensure he knew it and paid dearly for that failure.
Varne inclined his head slightly. He might have meant it as a small gesture of respect, but with the faint curl to his lip, she could only see the same condescending bastard that he’d always been. She shifted the rahke in her palm, deliberately making it less comfortable and natural. He’d always hated her because she was an outlander.
So I’ll begin fighting like one.
Once, a short sword had been her weapon of choice, and Rhaekhar and Gregar both had worked very hard indeed to pry it from her reluctant fingers for a rahke instead. However, it’d been a very long time since she’d held such a weapon. Mentally, she ran through the old drills she’d learned as a child in Rashan. A crusty old one-eyed soldier missing several fingers had taught her every dirty trick he’d learned on the streets in every large city teeming with vermin across the world. He’d taught her the visualization trick too, how to pull up an image in her mind and push all her feelings and worry into the image so she could fight clear.
Yet the Silver Lake she’d always used was frozen solid. She felt it heavy and cold in the center of her chest where her heart used to reside. All her emotions were already there, the woman wailing, sobbing, screaming with fury and pain who’d lost her heart and soul. She had nothing left to push into the lake.
I’m already empty.
She lunged in a straightforward attack. Smoothly, Varne parried her blade away. Building the cadence of wooden practice swords thwacking in her mind, she gave him the simple strokes—right shoulder, left, solar plexus, throat—finishing with a sweeping arc toward Varne’s head.
Laughing, he merely leaned aside and her blade missed him entirely. “I thought Gregar taught you better than that, Khul’lanna.”
Letting the missed slash carry her arm in a full arc, she whirled with the stroke and flipped the rahke smoothly in her palm for the rear attack. Gregar had drilled her ceaselessly, both against himself and her Blood until the day she’d stabbed Sal in the abdomen and nearly killed him.
She didn’t try to gut Varne. Not yet. But his sharp exclamation told her she’d cut him deeply.
Finishing the full circle, she flipped the rahke back up in the traditional strike position and gave Varne the best wide-eyed foolish outlander look she could muster. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
His mouth fell open and shut, his jaws grinding, his face flushed. “You stabbed me, Khul’lanna!”
“Aye,” she drawled. “I gave you formal challenge.”
“Women—”
Before he could complete the insult, she slashed the rahke across his left shoulder. The wound gaped, a deep cut throug
h muscle that would definitely require stitches to heal appropriately. Hissing beneath his breath, he clamped a hand on the wound and growled. “This is not formal challenge. You don’t give honor with wounds such as this.”
“You’re absolutely correct.” This time she marked his right thigh right above his kneecap. He’d have trouble keeping his weight on that leg. Already, he’d lost enough blood that he must feel lightheaded.
Distantly, she thought she should probably feel something. Some regret, some shame for deliberately maiming and humiliating this warrior who’d dedicated his life to Khul. He wasn’t a bad man, evil like Stephan or Theo. He was simply stupid and arrogant, blind and prejudiced.
:Are you sure?: Dharman asked softly through their bond. :Gregar always suspected him.:
I am not the only Shadowed Blood, Gregar had once said.
Perhaps she should test that claim.
Dharman’s bond crackled with flames. :Nay!:
Not even Fire would melt her frozen heart of sorrow. Ignoring him, she arched a brow at Varne and gave him a smile as deliberately insulting as the many he’d shown her over the years. “I thought you were Khul’s most formidable Blood. No wonder he died.”
Lips a firm slash and his face dark, Varne growled and rushed her, limping on his badly injured leg. She sidestepped and blocked his blow with her left forearm. She felt the impact thud all the way down her arm and deep in her shoulder.
A small crack of concern appeared in her calm. He could flatten her on her ass with a single punch of his fist. She didn’t have the physical strength to grapple with a warrior a foot taller and outweighing her by ten stone. If he used his full strength against her, she’d have no choice but to kill him quickly and cleanly.
So much for my leisurely lesson in punishment, she thought wryly.
Using his strength against him, she let his momentum drive her arm down, turning her body away from his rahke. For a moment, he was face to face with her, his breath panting against her. His eyes raged, but not with the emotion she expected.
Shame and grief welled in his eyes. If he weren’t such an obstinate arrogant bastard, he’d fall on her and blubber like a baby, begging her forgiveness.
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