“What … have … you … done?!” she cried, her voice raw and breaking.
“I?” Kathe placed a hand innocently on his chest. “Oh, hardly anything. Only moved the Truce Stones a little further out beyond the garden.”
The Lady of Thorns clawed at herself. “My blood! It’s burning!”
“It’s turned against you.” Kathe put a friendly hand on her shoulder, as if to comfort her. “Because you broke the truce and harmed the blood of the Lady of Eagles.”
I kicked the withered roots off and dragged myself to my feet. Every breath sent a stab of pain through my side, and my limbs ached with strains and bruises. But whatever the Lady of Thorns felt was clearly far, far worse. Another scream tore its way out of her throat, and she dropped to her knees.
“And you know what that means,” Kathe sighed. “While your blood rebels against you, I’m afraid it can’t serve as a conduit to draw life from your domain.”
She bared her teeth at him, with the desperate snarl of a wounded animal, and gripped the bark of the tree that supported her. Its branches lurched toward him, jerky and erratic. But Kathe shifted his toe to casually touch one of the roots, and the tree froze in place.
“Why are you doing this?” the Lady of Thorns demanded. “We had an agreement! You promised!”
“I’m keeping my promise.” Kathe drew a long bone knife from his belt. “And as for why I’m doing this, do you remember a man named Jathan?”
“No,” she gasped, folding in on herself in a fresh wave of pain.
“Good,” Kathe said. “He didn’t understand why he died, either.”
His knife flashed down, white in the moonlight. With a sickening thud, he buried it in the Lady of Thorns’ back.
She sprawled in the path, twitching weakly, as a dark stain spread across her gown. Beneath her, the ground parted, roots pushing the dirt away and leaving a shallow, crumbling ditch.
She clawed at the roots, her fingers digging into the earth, and some began to writhe in random desperation. But a thousand tiny rootlets sprouted up and rushed over her like the tide, pulling her down into her own grave. She let out a choked, despairing cry as they dragged her under.
Kathe fingered the leaf of a vine and watched impassively as it spread rapidly along the ground, leafing and branching to cover the last traces of where the Lady of Thorns had lain. In seconds, only the hilt of his knife stuck up from the vine-covered ground.
He set his boot on it, expressionless, grinding it further in.
I stared at him, balanced between horror and awe, my breath frozen in my throat. Grace of Mercy. He’d killed her, murdered her, gotten his vengeance at last.
And used me as bait to do it.
“You scoundrel,” I gasped. I put a hand to my rib; pain flashed under the light pressure, and I dropped it again. “She almost killed me!”
“I watched very closely to make sure she didn’t.” Kathe yanked his bloody knife from the earth, wiped the blade clean on a patch of tree moss, and walked over to me. His mage mark gleamed yellow in the darkness. “How badly are you hurt?”
I scrambled back a step, holding up a hand like a shield between us. “Don’t come any closer! Your trap could have gotten me murdered.”
Kathe stopped and bowed, with no trace of mockery. “I acknowledge your grievance. I am deep in your debt, Lady Amalia.”
“What did you promise her?” I demanded. “To finish me off?”
“No.” He laughed, the sound setting the leaves to quivering. “I promised to help make certain her daughter got her own domain. And now she has her mother’s, and can escape the doom of old age at last.”
“Was your plan to use me against her from the start?” Fury strained my voice raw. “Did you court me only to lure me here as bait for your enemy?”
“Of course not. Any more than you courted me only to threaten your enemies. I’m fond of accomplishing multiple purposes at the same time.” He glanced up the path. “I owe you a better apology, but we need to hurry. I sent a crow with a message for Zaira letting her know you might need help, and it’s leading her to you now. But Ruven will take the most direct route to the control circle; this is his domain, and he needs no path.”
“Wait.” I steadied myself against a tree. Graces, everything hurt, but there was no time to think about that. “If you want to prove you’re not my enemy, send a message for me.”
“Certainly.” He lifted an arm, and a crow fluttered to it at once, its dark wings spread for balance. “Where?”
“To Jerith Antelles, at the border. I need him to summon a wind.”
Kathe tilted his head. “A wind?”
“In case we can’t stop Mount Whitecrown from erupting. To blow all the ash back into Kazerath.”
Kathe nodded. “That I can do.” He gazed into the crow’s eyes a moment, then flung it back into the air. It cawed a protest, but flew off into the night.
“Good.” That was as close as I was willing to come to thanking him. I started hobbling up the path, moving stiffly as I worked to settle all my new aches and pains. I needed to get to that control circle as quickly as possible. Even if Jerith got my message in time and was able to turn back the ashes, an eruption would at minimum clear Ruven a smoldering path into the heart of the Empire and kill thousands.
“Will you let me help you?” Kathe asked, falling in behind me. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, almost humble. Did he feel honestly guilty? Or was he just trying to win his way back into my good graces?
I wasn’t certain I cared. “No,” I said shortly. My cracked rib flared with pain each time I took a breath.
The trees tossed their limbs, then, as if a wind shuddered through them. A great tramping and rustling came on the path behind us, followed by shouts and howling. A chill settled over me, deeper than the night air alone.
“Ruven knows,” I breathed. “He’s sending forces after us.”
Kathe stopped in the path. “I’ll hold them off. You keep going.”
The approaching racket grew louder. I hesitated. “It sounds like a lot of guards, and chimeras as well. This isn’t your domain. Can you handle them?”
He laughed. “Of course I can.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Because you owe me?”
“No.” His voice went soft, and a little sad. He looked away. “Because I like you. Sometimes, it’s all right to do something for a person you like, and to not want anything in return.”
I stared at him. My fingers curled around the claws at my throat. “You’re a strange and infuriating man, Kathe.”
He grinned. “I know. Now, go. The crow I sent to get Zaira is close; she’ll catch up to you in a moment and can see you safely the rest of the way.”
I couldn’t help but remember Braegan, and all the other brave soldiers who had given their lives to hold off the whiphounds so Zaira and I could escape. No matter what Kathe had done, I didn’t want to leave him to guard my back alone.
But he was a Witch Lord. If he said he could handle Ruven’s guards, I had to believe him. “All right.”
I hurried along the path. The trees around me swayed and rustled but kept their branches to themselves. Perhaps Ruven didn’t realize Kathe and I had split up; he must be distracted, racing to reach the control circle before me, and Kathe certainly had a more noticeable magical presence.
The shouts and howls intensified, far behind me, and took on the sound of desperation and terror. I swallowed and kept going, uncertain whether the fear in my heart was for Kathe, or for what he was doing to Ruven’s guards to make them scream that way.
A figure stood in the road ahead, a deeper shadow standing sentinel in the moon-splashed path. I slowed, wary. “Who’s there?”
“Demons have mercy, I can’t leave you alone for one hour, can I?”
“Zaira!” It was all I could do not to run up and hug her. “Thank the Graces. We have to hurry; Ruven’s on his way to the control circle.”
“I know. This feathery little Demon of Mad
ness told me.” Zaira gestured into a tree; a mocking caw answered her. “And let me tell you, it’s creepy as the Hell of Nightmares to have some bird swoop down in your face at night and start speaking in words.”
The crow cawed again. Zaira pointed a menacing finger at it. “Shut up, you. It’s not funny.”
I caught up to her and kept huffing along. She fell in by my side. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Kathe stayed behind to hold off Ruven’s guards and chimeras, but I can’t guarantee some won’t slip around him.”
Zaira grunted. “I guess I was wrong about him.”
“No, you were right.” The admission hurt almost worse than my cracked rib. “He used me as bait to kill the Lady of Thorns.”
“Huh. Well, no loss there. Maybe we were both right.” For a moment there was only the sound of my labored breath as we hurried along the trail. Then, “Are you two still courting?”
Good Graces. I’d just been betrayed and almost murdered, and we were running to save the Empire from a horrific volcanic eruption, and she asked that?
Of course she did. “Technically, yes.”
She laughed. “He might be pretty, but you know what? I’ll still take Terika.”
“How is she?”
“Everything went smoothly. Marcello took over at the meeting point, and the road seemed clear. Ruven’s got other things on his mind.”
“Like us,” I said grimly, and pushed faster.
We broke out at last onto the open hilltop where Namira’s map had marked the control circle, under a thick scattering of crystal-dust stars. A cold wind swept across the rocky dome, whipping my hair off my neck.
A man stood at the far end, on the hill’s highest point, arms upraised. The wind caught in his long coat, billowing it around him. Ruven. He’d beaten us here.
And between him and us stood perhaps two dozen backlit human figures, pointing swords and spears at us. The moon behind them cast their sharp-edged shadows toward us across the stone.
“Right, then.” Zaira raised her hands, and balefire blossomed on them, beautiful and hungry.
The blue flame lit the features of the forces arrayed against us, and Zaira swore.
They weren’t soldiers. They were the old and the young and the infirm: Ruven’s own people, gathered from the villages and farms below, those who had been passed over for the army. Their eyes stretched with fear, and they held their weapons uncertainly. Tears streaked some of their faces.
The old innkeeper who’d taken care of the babies in his common room stood among them, grimacing apologetically. So did the barkeep with the scar on her face, from down the hill, and the serving boy she’d sent away to keep him from falling afoul of a Witch Lord. One girl couldn’t have been more than twelve, though she held her spear better than most of them, her mouth set in a determined line.
At the end of the row stood Emmand, a fresh hand-shaped burn on his cheek, as if Ruven had slapped him for speaking against him. His face twisted in bitter misery as he pointed a dagger at us.
“Demon piss,” Zaira swore, dropping her hands. “I can’t fight these brats.”
“Stand aside,” I called. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
“We don’t want to fight, either, my lady,” the innkeeper replied, his voice breaking with fear.
“We have no choice,” Emmand said, wincing in pain as his words pulled at his burn. “If you try to get past us, we’re going to attack you.”
“Ruven, you coward!” Zaira roared. “Lining up children and grandfathers to protect you? You’re lower than a plague-ridden sewer rat!”
Ruven didn’t respond. Around his feet, an elaborate artifice circle flared with scarlet light.
“We don’t have time!” I pulled off the ring on my right middle finger—the one that was supposed to incapacitate without killing. Istrella had said it might take out one or two people, but we needed it to do more than that. But it didn’t have enough power.
Luckily, we were standing on a massive outcropping of volcanic rock. Power was easy to come by.
I desperately scanned the rocky ground in the dim light and bent and seized a chip of dark rock. Obsidian. I jammed it through the ring, wedging it as far as it would go, pressing the rock up against the runes.
And then I threw it.
The old innkeeper dodged, and it struck the stone between him and the twelve-year-old girl. But as it bounced and settled on the rock, its runes blazed to life. A webwork of glowing lines shot out from the ring, spreading and branching and connecting under the villagers’ feet. They cried out and tried to scramble away, but their feet stayed rooted to the rock, caught in the shining web. Zaira and I had to back away quickly so the lines of light wouldn’t catch us, too.
“Impressive,” Zaira said. “That Istrella is crazy as a kitten on catmint, but she’s good.”
“Obsidian is an excellent power source,” I said. “This should hold them for a while.”
The controlled people strained toward us as we passed by them, but Istrella’s enchantment held them fast. The little girl threw her spear; it clattered to the stone behind us.
“Stop Lord Ruven,” Emmand called. “Hurry! Don’t let him finish!”
We raced across the hilltop. As we approached, Ruven dropped his arms, turned to face us, and stepped out of his circle. A smile of pure pleasure curled his lips.
“Too late,” he said. “It’s already done.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Beneath my feet, I felt the undeniable hum of magic. My bruised legs wavered under me, and a cold, dread certainty settled in my stomach.
Too late. Thousands of people in the border fortresses and the villages below, already dead and not even knowing it. All our border defenses, fortifications, and carefully laid artifice traps, doomed to fall. Mount Whitecrown loomed above us, a serene black outline against the starry sky; no one could guess the magical forces Ruven had unleashed upon it, set irrevocably in motion, ready to rain ash and ruin upon us all.
“No,” I breathed. “There must be some way to stop it.”
Ruven spread his hands. “My lady, you are the expert on artifice here. But I have been assured that there is none. I’m afraid your efforts have been in vain.”
“Not quite in vain,” Zaira said. Cold fury suffused her voice. “I get to do something I’ve always wanted.”
Fire blazed up in her eyes all at once, blindingly bright, filling them end to end. And without any further warning, a wave of flame roared from her—all the anger at Ruven she’d kept pent up all this time, unleashed at last in a devouring inferno. All her rage for Terika, for the servants with burn marks on their skin, for the children whose bones he’d fed to wolves. It exploded from her at last in a terrible blast of light and fury, and it swallowed him whole.
Or it seemed to. A tower of blue-white flame raged where he had stood, clawing up higher and higher, toward the belly of the sky itself. It washed the entire hilltop in light; the villagers cried out in fear and tried to shrink from it, but Istrella’s binding still held them fast. Heat seared my face, and I threw up a sleeve to shield myself as best I could.
“Die,” Zaira ground through her teeth. “Die, die, die, damn you.”
A shrill, agonized cry came from the flames, and I flinched at the sound. But then it descended down through a wild howl to something far more chilling.
Graces protect us. That was laughter.
It was the sound of madness. A sharp-edged laugh, true and free, full of surprised mirth.
And then he stepped out of the column of balefire, trailing flames and still laughing. Blue fire wreathed him, clawing at him with unanswerable power and hunger; smoke rose off him, and his flesh rippled as it kept trying to sear and shrivel, but he kept repairing it even faster.
“So this is how my father died.” He held out his hands and stared at them. Fire leaped up from his arms, charring away the leather of his coat, but he remade that, too. “Alas for him, he was not a Skinwitch. It would seem I do not shar
e his weakness.”
“Burn,” Zaira hissed. “Burn, you cursed demon.” Blue tendrils of flame danced all along her hair, her shoulders, her back and arms; it poured from her eyes and her hands and raged all around Ruven. But he stood there, undaunted.
“I must thank you,” he said. “You have given me proof that what I hoped is true. With all the life in Kazerath to fuel my power, I can strengthen and rebuild my own body even beyond the capacity of balefire to destroy it. I alone, in all this world, am truly, unequivocally immortal.”
My stomach twisted. This was our doing. He was right; if balefire couldn’t kill him, nothing could. Graces protect us all.
“My fire will never go out, so long as you have life left to fuel it,” Zaira rasped. Her voice was harsh, wicked, and beautiful, speaking with the tongue of the flame itself. “Let it eat all the life in Kazerath, then, until you have nothing left to feed it but your own.”
Ruven shrugged. “If you wish. We can start with these.”
Behind us, someone screamed.
I whirled in time to see the talkative innkeeper drop, convulsing in a brief moment’s agony before he went still. A bent old woman followed.
“Stop!” I cried. “Stop killing them, you monster!”
“It’s not I who’s killing them,” Ruven said. “It’s you, warlock.”
Zaira didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on him; her eyes were fire. She was lost to her flames.
Emmand crumpled to the ground next. His final wail, a lost and broken sound, tore at my heart. Tears started in my eyes, but the heat of the balefire sucked them dry before they could fall.
Graces curse it. All we were doing was killing innocent people.
“Revincio!” I cried.
The night went dark. Zaira tumbled to the hard rock, like a puppet with its strings cut. Sounds of fear and grief came from behind me, and the terrible stench of burned human meat lingered in the air.
The breeze stirred Ruven’s coat. A ripple shook down the length of it, and it was smooth and whole again, minus the embroidery. His ponytail streamed on the wind, growing back to its full length. He smiled at me.
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