I yearned to go into detail, explaining how he’d done it and the many levels on which it was a terrible idea. But everyone else’s speeches had been quite short. I had best come to a conclusion if I didn’t want the Yew Lord to cut me off. “Ask yourselves,” I said, dropping my voice to the greatest depth and power I could muster, “whether this is what you want for the future of Vaskandar. Ask yourselves if you wish to feed this monster and let it grow unchecked on your borders.”
Silence followed my words. My bootheels clipped holes in it as I walked back to my place, staring straight ahead, hands trembling. I could feel all their eyes still on me.
For a moment, everything was still. The silence hung dread in my heart—would not one single Witch Lord move their candle?
Then Ruven’s laugh rang through the hall. “My dear lady, come now. That was a pretty speech, but I am hardly a monster.”
From the back of the hall, like a miracle of the Graces, a young voice rang out: “Yes, you are!”
Everyone turned and stared. Emmand stood there, his thin chest heaving as if he’d run all the way there. Dirt streaked his face, and he held his fists clenched at his sides.
Terrible knowledge haunted his eyes, and his face seemed green in the unearthly light. He must have listened to Zaira and found the bones. Hope lifted its tired head in my heart.
“Ah, young Emmand,” Ruven said, flashing brilliant teeth. “You are lost, perhaps. You have no place in the Conclave.”
The Yew Lord struck his staff against the stones, and silence fell over the hall with the weight of ten years of snow.
“The boy bears the mage mark,” he said into that silence. “He may speak, if any Witch Lord will vouch that they wish to hear what he has to say.”
The Lady of Eagles lifted two fingers, like the lazy stirring of a wing to catch the breeze. “I am curious. Speak, boy.”
Emmand bowed, trembling so violently I could see him shaking from across the room. He wouldn’t meet Ruven’s eyes. “My lords and ladies. I beg you, forgive me, but I must tell you what my Lord Ruven has done.”
I would never have thought I could admire this boy, who had made a potion used to rob my friends of their free will. But it took an uncommon courage to stand before the people you respected most and admit you’d been wrong. I held my breath, silently urging him on.
“Emmand,” Ruven said, the picture of blithe unconcern save for the daggers in his eyes, “what nonsense is this, foolish boy?”
“It is forbidden to interrupt,” the Yew Lord said, his voice rolling through the room with the force of thunder. Ruven bowed and said no more, but there was murderous intent in every line of him.
Emmand fell to his knees, as if he couldn’t bear to stand in the presence of all seventeen Witch Lords anymore. With his head bowed, in a faltering voice, he began, “Lord Ruven has been capturing mage-marked and using a mix of alchemy and his own Skinwitch powers to force them under his dominion. He collects and uses them like toys, and if they resist, he—”
Emmand made a choking sound. His hands went to his throat.
“Yes?” the Elk Lord prompted. “Go on.”
But Emmand clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging, and shook his head. He pointed an urgent, trembling finger at Ruven.
Hells. He couldn’t breathe. Ruven was killing him.
I whirled to face Ruven. “Release him!” I demanded.
Ruven’s eyes narrowed with lazy malice. “My dear lady, he’s mine. Part of my domain. Why should I?”
“Because,” the Elk Lord said sternly, “he is no common serf. He is mage-marked.”
“And he’s just a boy,” the Lady of Otters added, shaking her chestnut hair indignantly. “If this is how you treat a mage-marked child who is your own ward, Kazerath, I shudder to think how you would treat an ally.”
Ruven shrugged. “If you insist.” He sliced his hand through the air. Emmand gasped in a ragged breath and collapsed on the floor, chest heaving. His fingers clawed the stones as he pulled breath after breath into his starving lungs.
It was the only sound. Aside from Emmand’s labored breathing, no whisper broke the silence. I held my own breath, barely daring to hope for the outrage that surely even Witch Lords must feel at this. Only firefly lights marked the time, flickering in the air.
Then the Elk Lord swept into the center of the room. His eyes flashed, and the antlers in his crown spread menacing shadows against the walls. Glowing moths and fireflies danced around him, turning him into something from a prophetic dream.
“You have transgressed against the laws of nature,” he told Ruven, seeming to swell until he loomed above the rest of us, his presence filling the hall. “To claim noble mage-marked as slaves through a corruption of alchemy is a base trick that undermines our most sacred and ancient traditions. You must blood and mark a domain to claim the life within it. And you must respect the power that the mage-marked bear, for it is what places you above your own people.”
Ruven’s lip curled in a furious sneer. But with a glance at the Yew Lord, standing ancient and watchful with his hands about his staff, he refrained from saying anything.
“I had planned to back this war, as a necessary outlet for the pressures that drive our cycle of expansion,” the Elk Lord said. “But the Lady Amalia is correct. I cannot condone any war that stands to advance this Skinwitch’s power. War I may deem necessary, but this I cannot support.” He gestured toward Emmand where the boy lay curled on the floor, softly weeping.
The Elk Lord strode to his candle and picked it up with careful reverence. Maintaining an aura of grace and ceremony, he placed it on the opposing pedestal, joining its light to the three slender flames already there.
As he returned to his place, I held my breath. The Lady of Otters came forward at once, moving her candle to stand beside her father’s, with a glare at Ruven. The Willow Lord followed suit, with less enthusiasm and without the glare.
And then the Fox Lord stepped to the center of the room. “I am disgusted,” he said simply, with a scornful glance at Ruven. Turning his back on the Lady of Bears, he, too, moved his candle to stand for peace.
When he left the center of the room, instead of returning to his former place, he came to stand by my side. “So,” he whispered, out of the corner of his mouth, “what you said earlier, about the Empire helping its friends.”
I gave him my most brilliant smile. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Seven candles now shone for peace. It was far better than three—but still not enough. The hope that had swelled in my chest began to fade.
Ruven stood straight and still, staring at the candles. A menace gathered around him, pooling like poison, an animosity fit to wither the light from the air.
He laughed, but it held a bitter edge. “Do you truly place so much stock in the words of an excitable child and a foreign woman with no magic? And why should any of you care what I do in my own domain?”
“Perhaps we should not.” The Lady of Eagles’ voice filled the room with the relentless and unanswerable force of rising floodwaters. “But I care what you do in my domain, Lord of Kazerath.”
Ruven went still. The Lady of Eagles crossed the hall and stood before him, her mantle billowing behind her in the breeze of her passage. Her golden eyes bored into his, until he looked away.
“I have one last grievance to claim,” she said.
Chapter Forty
The Lady of Eagles’ voice went soft as wings bent to stoop for the kill. “You trespassed on my mountain, Skin Lord.”
“I am sorry, my lady.” Ruven bowed his head. “I acknowledge your grievance. I will make amends.”
“You will.” She held out her hand. Red stones rained from it, striking at his feet with a great cacophonous clatter. “In recompense for your insolent trespass, I claim my price from your domain itself. Kazerath will cede to Atruin its half of Mount Whitecrown, so the mountain in its entirety is mine and mine alone. I will blood this claim tomorrow under the morning sun
, and you will give up all right to it.”
A hissing murmur ran through the room. For a Witch Lord, this must be the steepest price one could exact for a grievance—their domain was their power, their life. And it wasn’t a small area; Mount Whitecrown’s ridges and shoulders spread for miles.
Ruven’s jaw worked and clenched. But then he forced his teeth into a smile. “As you will it, Lady of Eagles. Your grievance is true. I do not contest this claim. Tomorrow morning, Mount Whitecrown is yours.”
A chill pierced deep into my chest at those words. He’d given up too easily. He must think that by tomorrow, he wouldn’t need it.
The Lady of Eagles turned to face the rest of the Witch Lords, apparently satisfied. “I take no stance in this war,” she declared. “My candle remains dark. But I suggest you listen to my descendant, and think carefully before binding your fates too closely to this transgressor.”
Unexpected pride leaped in my chest at the words my descendant. She paced back to the edge of the room. Murmurs rose in her wake.
One by one, Witch Lords came forth and snuffed the candles that stood on the pedestal of war. Soon, only four remained: those of the Lady of Bears, the Serpent Lord, the Lady of Thorns, and Ruven himself. The ones whose intent to invade had never been in doubt.
A giddy euphoria swelled in my belly. The Conclave had gained Ruven no allies whatsoever and had likely made him some enemies. I would have to thank Zaira for convincing Emmand and make certain the boy was all right; it was Ruven’s treatment of him that had turned the tide.
Kathe seemed to read my mind. “That boy will need protection,” he murmured. “I think I’ll offer to take him in.”
“Oh, good.” I let out a relieved sigh. “I don’t want to leave him to Ruven’s mercy.”
“Speaking of Ruven, I think you’ve finished him, politically.” Kathe rubbed his hands gleefully. “The bear and the serpent may use him as a distraction while they wage their own war on the Empire, but afterward they’ll drop him like a dirty boot. With both the Elk Lord and the Lady of Eagles taking a stance against him, he might as well be carrying plague.”
The Yew Lord raised a hand, and the clamor of conversation fell silent. “Does anyone else have words to speak before I call an end to the Kindling?”
Ruven took a step forward. “Only that I will remember who stayed with me,” he said. “And as to those of you who deserted me—it hardly matters.” Satisfaction narrowed his eyes. “I never needed you.”
Apprehension twisted my gut. “He’s talking about the volcano,” I whispered.
Kathe frowned. “I think you’re right. Can you stop him from triggering the eruption?”
“Only if I get to the master circle before he does.”
“Go, then.” He angled to block me from Ruven’s view, his movements casual. “The Yew Lord will call an end to the Kindling soon. You need to hurry if you want a chance to beat him there.”
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Kathe.”
He flashed a grin at me. “Save your thanks for when I’ve done you a favor. This is all for my personal amusement.”
Feeling bold, I blew him a kiss before I turned to slip out of the hall. He laughed and pretended to catch it.
Before I left the throne hall, I cast one last glance over my shoulder, but Kathe wasn’t there anymore. I scanned the gathering; most of them were focused on the Serpent Lord, who was giving some final speech. Kathe, however, was talking to someone, and pointing in my direction.
He was speaking to the Lady of Thorns.
She looked straight at me and smiled.
I raced across the darkened garden, my heart aching with each rapid pulse. The full moon washed the grass in silver but made the tree line into a flat black mass of jagged shadow. The air felt cold and alive on my skin.
Surely Kathe couldn’t have just betrayed me to the Lady of Thorns. He hated her. Never mind that I only had his word for that. But this was one of his games, for certain—and he might not hesitate to sacrifice a piece to win.
It didn’t matter. Just like it didn’t matter that it was madness to be out here, ready to plunge into Ruven’s own forest alone at night. If I didn’t destroy that control circle before Ruven activated it, Mount Whitecrown would erupt, and even a small eruption could wipe out our border defenses in a critical pass, kill thousands of people, and cover vast swaths of the Empire with ash carrying Ruven’s claim of dominion. There was no time to wait for Zaira to return. The Kindling could be over in minutes, and I had no doubt he intended to trigger the eruption tonight.
Still, I paused before the forest’s edge. The trees towered above me, blotting out the paler sky and its scattered stars. The remaining snow had melted during the day, and the path seemed to disappear immediately into absolute darkness.
If Ruven realized what I was doing, those trees could wake into violent motion and kill me with the casual ease of a courtier spearing a cream puff with a dessert fork.
There was no sense in agonizing about it. I was the only one here, and this had to be done. I took a breath and plunged into the forest as if it were a deep, black pool.
Layers of darkness and light shifted around me. Moonlight streamed down through gaps in the branches, bright enough to read by, but it only made the shadows gathered beneath the trees darker. I stumbled on a tree root, barely catching myself on the smooth bole of a young sapling.
“Last time, I asked what you were doing in the forest,” came the rich, lovely voice of the Lady of Thorns. “This time, I frankly don’t care. All that matters is that you’re alone.”
Hell of Disaster. I spun, pulling off one of my rings. The band of skin-warmed metal dug into my palm. “Isn’t your presence required at the Kindling?”
“This is more important.” She stepped closer, the dappled light falling over her as she moved between shadows. “My daughter cannot claim Callamorne while you live. For her to survive, little Lochaver, you must die.”
She brushed a hand along the trunk of a towering pine that loomed over us both. There came a great crack, and I barely jumped out of the way before a branch crashed to the ground where I’d just been standing.
I threw my ring at her. Despite my sloppy, panicked throw, it left my hand with astounding speed and force, as if I’d fired it from a musket. It traced a hot, glowing path through the air, missing the Lady of Thorns by mere inches. She jerked back in alarm from the ember-edged hole it punched in the tree beside her.
“So the little mouse bites,” she purred. “Very well; I am warned.”
She seized a bramble bush by the path’s edge. Dozens of thorny tendrils stretched toward me, lashing and coiling. With a yelp of alarm, I yanked off another ring and tossed it at the writhing mass that reached for me.
The ring bounced off one of the whipping vines. Frost crystals puffed from it, like the flurry of a snowball’s impact; a blue glow flared in its runes, then fizzled out. Like a pistol with damp powder.
I scrambled away from the grabbing thorns, then closed my eyes and opened my flare locket. My eyelids reddened from the blinding flash, and the Lady of Thorns cried out in anger. I turned and ran, shadows sliding over me. But I didn’t make it far before I tripped on a root and fell sprawling on the path, my hands skidding on the pine needles under me.
I staggered to my feet, shins smarting, heart bursting with fear, and tried to keep running. But my ankle was still stuck in the root.
I twisted around to see the problem, and more roots buckled and burst up from the path all around me. I shrieked and reached for another ring, but a root caught my arm, yanking it away. More coiled around me, painfully tight, until I could hardly move at all.
The Lady of Thorns stood down the path, rubbing her eyes fiercely with one hand. Her other hand rested on the trunk of a great, ancient tree.
“This may not be my domain,” she said, “but I am still more than a match for your little toys in this forest. Life is all around you, city girl—even in the ground beneath your feet.�
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I struggled to get a hand free, to twist out of the crushing grip of the roots that held me, but they tightened further against every move I made. Panic clawed inside me, a frenzy to escape, giving me strength, but the tree was far stronger.
Graces help me. I had no way left to fight her. If I couldn’t somehow convince her not to kill me, I was going to die.
“I’m still under Kathe’s protection!” I called. “If you kill me, you’ll have to answer to him.”
The Lady of Thorns laughed. “Really! Is that true, Crow Lord?”
An oddly shaped patch of shadow detached from a tree behind her and stepped forward into the moonlight. Silver gleams caught in Kathe’s eyes, and the hint of a breeze ruffled the feathers on his shoulders. He crossed his arms on his chest and unfolded a slow, wide grin.
“I’m here to fulfill my promise to you, my Lady of Thorns,” he said, his voice light and casual. “Carry on.”
Chapter Forty-One
My heart plunged as if he’d chucked it off a cliff into Ruven’s boneyard. “I trusted you, Kathe.”
“A wise man once said to trust your enemies, if you have enough of a hold over them, but never your friends.” Kathe shrugged, rustling feathers. “It seems he may have been right.”
“Now that we’ve settled that …” The Lady of Thorns closed her fist against the tree trunk.
The roots that held me clenched tight around me, with crushing force. I cried out as my limbs twisted; then the breath drove from my lungs, taking my voice with it. Sharp pain flared through my chest as a rib cracked.
The Lady of Thorns screamed.
I fell to the ground in a tangle of suddenly brittle roots, gaping in astonished confusion. She doubled over as if in agony, clutching at her own body: chest, stomach, and arms, as if everything hurt. The Lady of Thorns slumped against her tree and let out another horrible scream, while Kathe watched with narrowed eyes and a satisfied smile.
The Defiant Heir Page 43
