by Jenna Rhodes
“Deal with them.” She nodded at the two Undead who had begun to feast on Rufus’s still warm body. He let Nutmeg off and the two of them waded through, blades flashing, to give the old Bolger peace and honor.
Then Lara looked to the doorway and the bridge, and weighed the hammer in her hand as if uncertain what course to take.
Nutmeg began to read, to recite, her gentle voice gaining strength, stumbling now and then over a word in Vaelinaran that she seemed uncertain of pronouncing but continuing stubbornly despite the troops being thrown off the top of the bridge like boulders in a catapult, Rivergrace and Sevryn unable to stop the flow even as they advanced on the being that was both Quendius and Cerat. She felt a presence join her, bolstering her, augmenting the working she’d begun and looked up for a moment, and then behind her. A boy and girl sat near a fallen figure on the ground, Bistane perhaps in stained leathers, the fighting between ild Fallyn and Returnists and Larandaril troops all about them, as if they sat on an island in the middle of a raging river. The boy raised his hand and her eyes brimmed, she could feel the hot tears stirring, as she thought, but dared not think: Evar? And the curly-headed girl next to him. Merri? Not her babes, her toddlers, but children, long-limbed and straight and fearless as they stood to wave to her. A blur near them moved, and she saw, she thought she saw, for a flicker of a moment, Lord Bistel with his brilliant blue eyes and shocking white hair, plain as anything could be seen on that horrific day. Dayne fought his way to them all, lopping off heads as quickly as he could, building a wall of fallen bodies in front of them.
Nutmeg put her shaking hand to her mouth and tasted the tang of blood as she did, before returning to the sentences she’d read and waited to feel something, anything, stirring in her blood. But she was not, after all, Vaelinar.
Only then did Lara look to her. She smiled faintly as if having made a decision and raised the hammer high above her head with two steady hands.
A fiery figure ducked under Cerat/Quendius, emerging onto the bridge. She burst into the air of Kerith, Trevilara, her ink-black hair, singed and in patches upon her head, her ivory gown so besmirched with soot it could hardly be called pale anymore, her flames licking along her body so eagerly they appeared to be devouring her. She raised her hands and flung herself at Rivergrace.
• • •
Grace saw the wreck of the woman hurtling at her and dodged, one foot slipping over the edge, nearly taking her off the bridge as she danced backward. She pulled for water. Hesitation slowed her resolve. She could smell the burning, the crisping of flesh, the stink of scorched hair and clothing, the desperation as Trevilara flew through the air at her. She could feel the purity of Kerith coming down on her shoulders like a cloak, and pulled it to her with a deep breath. This, then, was hers. Hers to save from the corruption that dripped from Trevilara’s every pore. Grace would not surrender her world. Her land, her loves, her people. Hers to give her life and her soul to.
Rivergrace opened up and claimed what she had feared more and more, not understanding it, not wanting it, but oh, by the Gods, needing it. Now, more than ever. She thrust her hands into the air, and called on the Storm fury buried deep within her. Reached down and down and down, past her thought, past her flesh, past her soul and that of her River Goddess, past her intense love for Sevryn and Nutmeg, Tolby, Lily and her brothers, and all else. She delved deep into Kerith itself, felt it welcome and answer her—stone, fire, water, and air—answer her as if she’d drilled for it and the well fountained up to fill her. It surged within her until she couldn’t contain it and shouted, letting the Storm out. Lightning flashed. Clouds roiled up overhead, heavy and ominous and thunder clashed. The lightning leaped from billow to billow and the air stank of ozone. She reveled in it, owning it, giving it liberty to fill the skies.
Then she closed her fist and pulled all the moisture she could grasp, taking all of it back into her. Trevilara screamed as the conflagration exploded about her. Nothing answered her as she fought to put out her own flames. She raged at Grace, toppling to the bridge in absolute, unapproachable flame that took her in a flash as if she were nothing more than dried bone and rags, tinder for the Storm’s fury. Then and only then did Rivergrace take control of the Storm and brought it back to her, bit by bit, swallowing its power within her own till the skies calmed into a gray mist. Just as she had claimed the Storm’s power, now she claimed regret for the damage wrought, for the sorrow rained down.
• • •
The portal shook as it sucked back in the debris, still on fire, the Gods of Trevalka reclaiming their own. Cerat howled and came after them.
Sevryn thrust his arm out and pushed Rivergrace off the side of the bridge, and set himself against the demon. As Cerat towered over him, Sevryn moved, suddenly, swiftly, and instead of aiming upward, went for the ankles in an attempt to sweep the demon’s legs from under him. He was her coin to spend, and he took it upon himself to answer that responsibility. The demon snarled at him, the face of Quendius within his jowls, and that took Sevryn aback for a moment.
All the hesitation the demon needed.
Cerat moved, his great sword swooping down, to nail Sevryn, stuck all the way through him and into the bridge. He gave a satisfied purr as he leaned over.
The pain hit him so hard, Sevryn thought he would vomit before he realized he could not move, not without tearing his body wide open, not without Cerat pulling the sword free. He could not make a sound though the cords of his throat strained for expression. He tried to raise his head, to see if he could find Rivergrace below, if she’d fallen safely, if she’d gained her feet, if he sent her to friends. He could not. Tears of agony filled his eyes so that he could hardly see, even as Cerat leered over him.
The demon put out a finger and dabbed it on the blood swelling up slowly from the base of the sword.
“I could pull it free,” it said in Quendius’ voice. “But you would bleed to death all the quicker.”
Sevryn fought to breathe, to talk, but his throat stayed rigid and unresponsive. He glared upward, unafraid even as the torture curled into paroxysm. He managed a hand gesture that even a demon would know and take offense at.
Cerat responded by reaching down and wiggling the sword the tiniest bit. Sevryn’s body spasmed and his heels drummed under him, sound finally escaping his convulsed throat in a high-pitched whine.
The demon laughed. “I would linger, but I have a hundred hundred men at my heels, waiting to be loosed upon their promised land.”
It pulled the sword free with such force that Sevryn felt himself rise off the ground with it before falling limp off the blade as the last of it left him. Cerat kicked him out of the way as he began to lumber down toward Kerith.
Sevryn never saw Lara step forward and raise the hammer.
• • •
Lara looked to Nutmeg. She saw Rivergrace fall from the arch ahead, landing in a rather undignified but not dead pile. She heard Sevryn’s keening moan as the demon drove his sword deep, and she winced at the mortal blow. She caught a glimpse of a boy child weaving through the fight, to reach Nutmeg’s side and slide his hand into hers as Nutmeg’s voice rose and fell in cadence. The air shivered about Lara, pressing upon her senses as the others wove power and magic unfamiliar to them both. It cloaked her and fed her strength and spoke to her in voices she did not recognize save that they were Vaelinar and ancient. The force wove itself about Lara and Rakka, needing a tool to wield it. She wanted to fight it off, this alien strength, this summoning that tried to take possession of her even as Cerat had obviously taken Quendius. Above it all, the boy’s voice rose soprano, strong and determined, light with his age.
The hammer spoke to her in a low, growling voice of authority, stern as she resisted, and then within it, she heard another note, a note of promise and clarity. It almost—but how could it—sounded as Warlord Bistel had whenever ordering a charge.
An undertone ca
me to Lara, a woman’s voice, with grace and gentleness. It sounded to her like her mother’s tones, a voice she had not heard in centuries. It spoke to her of love. She had not courted love, not counted it among her blessings or desires, had never hoped to hold it out or be given it in return, without obligation or obedience attached. She had love now, unexpected but most wanted, and Lara realized that Bistane had not only given her himself, but a raft of friends and peoples that she valued and held dear, not merely as a ruler but within her heart.
And this thing that encircled her, that Nutmeg and the boy had called up, wanted to be used, but only in the best of ways, in defending those she loved.
She raised the hammer high and dug into the strength and magic being offered. She twirled Rakka for momentum and pounded it onto the bridge just in front of Cerat as he charged her. Her soul ripped out of her and struck with it.
• • •
There are those who say Kerith ended that day, in the blink of an eye, and was remade in the following blink. The shrieks of a hundred hundred men struck down beyond the portal, never to see the light of any day again, peeled through the air. The Way to Trevalka collapsed on itself with a great sucking in of air and light, became an ebony blight in the sky that shrank and shrank until it winked out of sight.
Lara, bent in two, straightened and saw the demon Cerat also shrink and shrink until it was little more than a mote on the air, before it zipped away, born off by one of the Gods of wind. It was, after all, one of the elementals of Kerith, all but unmade but still entitled to be part of the world.
She took in a great breath and backed away from the falling debris of rock and rainbow, stone and blood, fire and rain. She saw Rivergrace take up Sevryn’s form, her hands pressing over his in futile attempt to stop the free flow of blood, and they traded looks before Grace lowered her gaze to her love again.
Lara turned slowly, looking for Bistane. She thought she saw him, but it was not him—it was the lean, white-haired form of his father who stood and backed away from a figure lying face down in the trampled grass. Bistel grew more and more transparent as she neared. A girl walked slowly away from the ghost, a girl with an unruly mop of hair and blue-button intense eyes as Lara went to the figure. She stood on watch as if she thought she might be needed. Bistel inclined his head to her and faded away to nothingness as Bistane groaned and rolled to his side.
She cupped his face.
His eyelids twitched open. His mouth twisted a little to one side, swollen and cut, and he managed, “You live.”
“I do. But if you ever use the king’s rest on me again, there will be cold hell to pay.”
He laughed, coughed in pain, and reached up to pull her down on the grass with him.
• • •
Nutmeg knelt by Rivergrace, bracing her as she tried to tend Sevryn. The boy stayed with her and called to be joined, and it wasn’t until they both accosted her, that she realized who the two were. Heedless of Grace, she began to sob, unbelieving, as she pulled them tighter into her embrace. “Merri! Evar! Oh Gods.” And she lost her ability to talk coherently as she hugged them and cried happily, looking up long enough to see Dayne, and put her hand up to draw him to her as well.
Merri pulled back long enough to say, “I can help.”
Nutmeg blinked. Merri struggled past her to put her hand on Rivergrace. “I can help,” she repeated firmly.
Grace shook her head, but Merri leaned closer in determination. She closed her eyes, and her brother Evarton took her other hand and closed his eyes.
At first nothing happened but that the flesh of her hand grew warm under the other’s touch. Sevryn fought to breathe, his chest gurgling and wheezing with every spent attempt. Grace shook her head again.
“Kinder to let him go.”
“No.”
Rivergrace looked and saw only a child looking back, a child with a dirty face streaked with spent tears, a child with dark gold curling hair and eyes that reminded her of someone, and then looked to the boy, and saw an echo of Jeredon. “You don’t understand,” she said to them, to Nutmeg’s children. “We’ve been here before, both of us. We know what death is. We’re not afraid.”
“But do you know what life is?” the girl countered. And she squeezed her hand over Rivergrace’s.
Grace realized suddenly that the blood had stopped welling up, that her hold on Sevryn which had been slippery wet began to dry. He took an easier breath. His body relaxed in her hold. She knew that Merri was bringing him back.
She caught Nutmeg’s gaze. “I hope you know you’ve raised some very cheeky children.”
• • •
And so it was that Tolby Farbranch came late to the fight for the first time in his life, to be greeted by his daughters and grandchildren, covered in blood but very much alive.
Chapter
Sixty-Three
THE ARYN TREE planted as a memorial for the fallen by Tolby Farbranch in the courtyard of his home grew beyond his wildest dreams. It gained even more fame than his wondrous cider and spirited wines. There were those who were astonished, as aryns did not flourish this far south of their first plantings by the infamous Vaelinars, but this tree did. It grew so tall that it dwarfed the old farmhouse and even the cider barn, and could be seen from the farthest corner of the vast vineyards on one side and the great city on the other. When the wind blew through it, it sounded as if it held the Great Sea in its branches. There were those who vowed it could even be seen leagues away by riders approaching the Calcort city gates. Although more were planted here and there in hopes of the same success, most did not grow so tall or beautifully. They said it was because Tolby’s tears had not watered them as his own tree had been. Or perhaps it had been the addition of Rufus’ ashes among its early roots. No one knew for certain. Dwellers could grow near anything, if they put their mind to it. Heal most anything. Survive most anything, even the Gods.
Tolby lived to see the tree in its youth, reaching outward with green and leafy eagerness, to be a canopy over the wedding vows of Dayne and Nutmeg, followed by his son Keldan and his horse-trading bride who were only the first of many to be married under its arching branches, and not the only of Kerith’s many races to enjoy its blessing.
Glossary
aderro: (Vaelinar corruption of the Dweller greeting, Derro). An endearment, meaning little one
alna: (dweller) a fishing bird
alphistol: a garden flower
astiri: (Vaelinar) true path
avandara: (Vaelinar) verifier, truth-finder
Aymar: (Vaelinar) elemental God of the wind and air
Banh: (Vaelinar) elemental God of earth
Cerat: (Vaelinar) souldrinker
Calcort: a major trading city
Daran: (Vaelinar) the God of Dark, God of the Three
defer: (Kernan) a hot drink with spices and milk
Dhuriel: (Vaelinar) elemental God of Fire
emeraldbark: (Dweller) a long-lived, tall, insect and fire resistant evergreen
forkhorn: (Kernan) a beast of burden, with wide, heavy horns
Hawthorne: capital of the free provinces
kedant: (Kernan) a potent poison from the kedant viper
klah: (Kernan) a strong, caffeine-laced drink from ground and stewed beans
Lina: (Vaelinar) elemental Goddess of water
Nar: (Vaelinar) God of the Three, the God of War
neriarad: a flowering, drought-resistant shrub that is highly toxic in stem, seed, and flower
Nylara: (Kernan) a treacherous, vital river
Nevinaya aliora: (Vaelinar) You must remember the soul
quinberry: a tart yet sweet berry fruit
qynch oil: a pressed oil used as a base for many purposes, including cooking
Rakka: (Kernan) elemental Demon, he who follows in the wake of the earth mover, doing damage
&nb
sp; rockeater: a venomous, dry country serpent
skraw: (Kernan) a carrion eating bird
staghorns: elklike creatures
stinkdog: a beslimed, unpleasant porcine critter
Stonesend: a Dweller trading village
tashya: (Vaelinar) a hot-blooded breed of horse
teah: (Kernan) a hot drink brewed from leaves
ukalla: (Bolgish) a large hunting dog
Vae: (Vaelinar) Goddess of Light, God of the Three
vantane: (Vaelinar) war falcon
velvethorn: a lithe deerlike creature
winterberry: a cherrylike fruit
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