by Aaron Hodges
But it had not been enough. Where the Tsar had stood, a great bubble hung in the air, its surface opaque, swirling with the last remnants of the combined attack. Now it grew clearer, until it seemed a sphere of glass hung in the centre of the throne room. Within, the Tsar stood unmoved, his face tight and jaw clenched hard, but unharmed.
The last of Devon’s hope fell away then. Looking at Eric and Enala, he considered joining them. Perhaps with kanker in hand, he might prove the difference…
He shook his head. If the power he’d just witnessed could not kill the man, the spell imbued inside kanker would be overwhelmed in an instant. No, he needed to escape, to carry the fight on for another day. He could make no difference here.
Silently, he headed for the exit, but a voice, weak and in pain, brought him up short.
“Devon, help me, please.”
Devon saw Alana on the floor then, the steel sword the Tsar had brought to life still wrapped tightly around her neck. She lay helpless amongst the chaos, her fingers gripped around the blade, blood streaming down her neck where the sharp edge had bit her.
His heart pounding hard in his chest, Devon watched her. Their eyes met, and he heard her silent beseechment, her pleas for his help. In a rush, he saw the night they’d spent in the spring south of Fort Fall, felt again the quiet companionship, the beginnings of…something, that had begun in his heart.
He stepped towards her, but another image came rushing forward before he could reach her. He saw again Alana in the bedroom of the citadel, her dark eyes filled with scorn, her laughter as she set Kellian against him with her magic. He heard again her words, her confession that everything he’d felt for her had been from some spell she’d cast over him.
And he saw Kellian falling, the dagger in his stomach, the Tsar’s sword descending.
Hate rose to drown the warmth in his chest. An icy cold replaced it as he studied the helpless woman.
“No,” he said, his voice trembling. “Help yourself.”
Chapter 39
Alana found herself sobbing as Devon strode from the throne room. She tried to summon the strength to call him back, to beg, to use her magic even, but her will had abandoned her. Gasping, she fumbled at the blade around her neck, seeking to bend it back, to allow herself a complete breath. It felt as though the life was slowly being strangled from her, each inhalation barely enough to keep her from blacking out.
Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision, threatening to engulf her. She fought it, knowing if it won she might never wake again. And that if she did, it would not be as herself. Her father had unlimited power now—even her own magic could be his if he wished. He would have no trouble tearing her fractured consciousness from her skull, and remaking her in his own twisted image.
It was why she had wiped her own memory in the first place, to keep him from seeking her out, from tracking her thoughts across the endless miles of the Empire.
Her mouth went dry at the thought of losing herself again. Seeing the disgust in Devon’s eyes, the full weight of her actions had come crashing down on her. With the Goddess’s vision, her two personalities had merged, and while there was still a disjointedness about them, she knew now how wrong she’d been. She should never have used her power against Devon and Kellian, against her friends.
Krista’s face swelled in her thoughts, and her guilt redoubled. The woman had been innocent, only wanting to defend her students from the brutal teachings of the Tsar’s daughter. And Alana had washed her away for it, banishing her to a life with no memory, left her alone to wander the streets of Ardath in squalor.
Alana’s hands fell from the blade. Her fingers were sticky with blood where the edge had cut them. She struggled for another breath, knowing that one wrong movement, and the blade would slice through the arteries in her neck. It would be over in moments. Swallowing, she closed her eyes.
You don’t deserve to live.
A sob tore from Alana, but she couldn’t bring herself to end it all. Screams came from all around, but there was no telling now who they belonged too. Smoke billowed across the throne room, lit by eerie flashes of lights. She sensed movement from somewhere, and rolling onto her side, she saw a figure appear through the smoke. Quinn appeared, limping now, with a lump on his forehead already turning purple. His eyes had a slightly distracted look, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was, but they cleared when he saw her. Stumbling forward, he crouched beside her.
“Alana…are you okay?”
Alana saw the concern in his eyes, but also the suspicion. He knew now she had used her power against him. And he had seen her earlier, defying the Tsar, defending his rival. Yet even so, they had known each other for decades, had been the closest of friends long before she’d taken him as a lover…
“Get me out of this, Quinn,” she gasped, thinking quickly of a lie that would convince him she was on the Tsar’s side again. “Please, the old Magicker, he helped free the girl, the other Alana, but I have her under control. My father needs my help!”
Seeing him dither, she drew on the memories of her crueller self.
“Now!” she snapped, with all the force she could muster.
He rocked back on his heels. “I’m not sure how…”
“Figure it out,” she snapped. With the last of her strength, Alana pushed herself to a sitting position.
The hesitation left him and he closed his eyes. An electric tingling shot down Alana’s spine as she sensed his magic building, though it was like a candle to the inferno of magic already bubbling around them. She shivered as a cold breath passed across her neck. Staring into his face, she saw his eyelids flickering, and prayed to the Goddess he knew what he was doing.
The temperature around her plummeted as a freezing wind whirled around her. Slowly it contracted, focusing in on her neck. Within seconds, her teeth were chattering, the metal burning where it touched her flesh. Her breath misted in the air as she wrapped her arms around herself, trying and failing to keep the heat from being sucked from her.
She began to sway where she sat, her skull aching with the change in temperature. Even the small breaths she took now no longer seemed enough, as though the air itself had been drained of oxygen. Her vision faded and all feeling had left her throat now. Pain flared in her chest, a desperate need to lurch upright, to gasp and cough and tear at the sword until she could breathe; but seeing the concentration etched across Quinn’s face, she fought the instinct. She had no idea what he was doing, but she had to trust him, had to believe he knew what he was doing.
And if he failed, well, at least she would not become the monster her father wanted her to be.
Her final thought as the darkness rose to claim her was of her brother, running across the gardens, free.
Quinn could feel his magic fading quickly, its energies burning low. He should have held back against Kellian and Devon earlier, but the two men had a habit of testing him. A habit he was glad had at least been halfway dealt with. If only he hadn’t allowed Devon to take him by surprise, he might have finished the job.
His head still ached where the giant had struck him, and in truth he had been surprised to find himself alive a few minutes later, when the darkness had faded. After everything they’d been through that day, he would have killed the hammerman at the slightest opportunity. And with the loss of his friend, Devon had no reason to be offering mercy.
But then, Quinn supposed, the man was weak.
He forced his attention back to his magic, redoubling his efforts to draw the icy winds down from far above the citadel. The task required immense concentration to reach so far outside himself, almost to the bounds of his ability. Where Eric had found the howling winds that were now filling the throne room, Quinn didn’t know, but apparently the ancient Magicker’s abilities far exceeded his own. It was galling—though ultimately it would mean nothing.
The Tsar would kill him all the same.
Drawing the cold air miles down through the sky, and concentrating it on th
e sword around Alana’s neck, was proving far harder than he had anticipated. The plan had come to him from nowhere, and without time to think, he had set it into motion. He still had no idea if it would work, and if he succeeded, whether Alana would survive the attempt.
Ice had begun to form on the steel blade. Before him, Alana swayed on her knees and started to fall. He caught her and hugged her to his chest, though the winds still flowed around her. She was cold to the touch, the skin around her face blue, her lips quickly turning grey. Her eyes flickered closed, and he knew she didn’t have long.
Despite the confusing torment of the last few days, Quinn’s heart clenched at the thought of losing her. His only consolation was that he would not be long in following her if he failed—the Tsar would not be pleased if he killed his daughter.
Remembering her rescue of Devon, Quinn felt a pang of jealousy. What was it about the man that inspired such devotion from those around him? And while the glint in Alana’s eyes and anger in her voice earlier had been that of the girl he knew, Quinn still found himself wondering what was going on inside her mind…
But it was too late to turn back now. Alana’s breathing had all but ceased, and with the sword still clenched around her throat, she was mere moments from death. She needed to breathe, fully and unconstrained. He gritted his teeth as the last drops of magic left him, the wind dying, leaving the ice-covered blade before him.
Lying Alana down, Quinn drew his dagger and held it up before her. He took a breath, readying himself, then brought its hilt down on the ice-encrusted blade with all his strength.
A sharp, shrieking crack followed as the frigid steel shattered. Quinn dropped the knife and pulled the broken shards from Alana’s neck, cursing as the freezing metal bit his flesh. Throwing it aside, he placed his fingers to Alana’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“Come on, Alana!” he whispered, but there was no movement beneath his fingers. Her skin was like ice.
Cursing, he placed his palm against her chest, the other over the top. Shifting so he was crouched over her, he pushed down with all his weight. Again and again he pounded her chest, settling into the rapid rhythm of a drumbeat. Alana’s lifeless body jerked like a ragdoll with each compression, but still there were no signs of life.
“Come on!” he screamed.
Leaving the compressions, Quinn leaned over her, holding her nose and pressing his mouth to hers. He exhaled hard, watching her chest rise as his breath filled her lungs. Withdrawing, he waited half an instant to see if she would respond, then leaned in to start the whole manoeuvre again.
Alana jerked beneath him. Her eyes flickered open and she gasped in a fresh breath. Immediately, she started to cough. Quinn helped her onto her side as she groaned. Her tiny body shook beneath his hands as she sucked in great, life-restoring breaths.
When he was sure she was stable, Quinn sat back, his own heart pounding. Relieved of his task, exhaustion swept through him. For a moment, he felt overwhelmed, the terror and relief crashing together inside him. Without thinking, he rubbed Alana’s back, feeling the warmth coming back into her body.
“Thank you.”
He opened his eyes as she spoke, hearing the raw, unbridled emotion behind her words.
Nodding, he offered a smile. “It’s good to have you back, Alana.”
She lowered her eyes. Her lips were still blue, but the colour was rapidly returning to her face. An awful bruise and shallow cuts ringed her neck, but she was alive, and that was all that mattered. He reached out a hand and lifted her chin to look at him. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers.
For a moment she did nothing, and a trace of doubt entered him. He started to pull away, when suddenly she was kissing him back, hard and fast, her tongue darting out to meet his. Despite his exhaustion and his worry for her condition, he moaned, drawing her to him, feeling the icy touch of her skin against his. Her fingers were in his hair, but then she was pulling away, shaking her head. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she whispered.
“What–?”
Before Quinn could finish his sentence, her fingers tightened in his hair. He tried to jerk away, but a fiery heat rushed into his mind, a green light filling his inner-eye—then all was darkness.
Chapter 40
Lightning streamed from Eric’s fingers and rushed across the room, joining with his sister’s flames to strike at the Tsar, only to shatter uselessly a few feet from their foe. Through the flickering blue and red, Eric watched him laughing, the protective barrier flashing with each impact. The Tsar’s familiar blue eyes, so like his own, watched them, waiting for the attack to cease. The man knew they could not outlast him.
Already Eric could feel his strength fading, the energy Enala had poured into him consumed by the relentless assault. He fought on anyway, pushing himself beyond all limits, knowing he would soon be consuming his own lifeforce. He no longer hoped to defeat the man, only to stall him as long as they could, so that the others might escape and fight on another day. The future of the Three Nations no longer rested in their hands, but in those of Enala’s grandchildren.
His heart warmed at the thought of them, and at the sight of his sister fighting alongside him. He’d given up hope long ago of ever seeing her again. It had been so long now, decades since Eric had set out upon learning of his son’s murder. He hadn’t known the truth then, that it was his nephew, Theo, who’d been behind it. In fact, it had been his nephew, the newly crowned king of Plorsea, who he’d turned to for help. The man had sent Eric on a wild goose chase. It had taken a long time for Eric to realise his mistake—and by then, it had already been too late.
Maybe Enala was right, maybe they could have defeated him together, even then. But knowing the agony it would have caused her, Eric had kept his sister in the dark. He hadn’t realized how much magic Theo had consumed, how much he had learned and studied, readying himself for the moment Eric came for him.
His heart filled with rage, Eric had returned to Ardath to confront his son’s killer. But in his arrogance, he had underestimated the man. After all, this was no Archon, with dark magic to rival the Gods. This was his magicless nephew Theo, who had grown up alongside his only son, who he and his wife Inken had helped to raise.
But when he’d reached the shores of Ardath, Theo had been waiting. And he was no longer the boy Eric had once known, but a master of a dozen magics. Eric had been humbled, his body broken, his magic shackled.
And the endless days of darkness had begun.
He would have preferred death. At least death would have been a release. While he had long outlived her, he knew Inken and their son waited for him somewhere out in the void. Through the long years, he had yearned to join them. Instead, time had crept by, marked only by the slow dwindling of his soul, the corruption of his magic, the withering of his body.
Now, he was far too weak to challenge the man.
But he would not be shackled again.
He glanced at Enala, seeing the strain on her face as she continued the fight. But her power was finite, and the little she’d given Eric had drained her as well. She would not last much longer.
She couldn’t be here when the end came. Eric didn’t want her to see what he would become, when he unleashed the darkness.
Slim though it was, there was still one possibility of defeating the Tsar now, one chance of striking through his shield and tearing the magic from the man.
If Eric unleashed the demon within.
“Enala!” he called over the raging magic.
She flicked him a look. The fire in her eyes was fading, the red giving way again to blue, and he saw the desperation there. He smiled, attempting to convey all his love and warmth in that one gesture, a final farewell. Surprise registered on her face, but he was already moving, not giving her a chance to respond.
“I’m sorry, sis,” he whispered.
Lightning still streaming from one hand, he raised the other, and sent a blast
of wind rushing across the room to catch Enala. It picked her up, almost gently, and carried her backwards to where her grandson waited. Collecting him as well, the wind threw them both from the throne room. The door slammed closed behind them, a breath of wind settling in to hold it shut.
Turning back to the Tsar, Eric saw they were alone but for the fallen. Devon and Alana were gone, the Tsar’s soldiers and Stalkers lying in piles around the room. Silently, he sent a prayer up to Antonia that Devon would make it out of the citadel alive. In the chaos, there was a chance he could pass unnoticed out into the city.
Eric let out a long breath and lowered his arm, drawing the winds and lightning back to himself. Clenching his fists, he watched the flickering light dance across his skin, then begin to fade into his flesh itself. It was a trick he’d learned a long time ago, one few Magickers could replicate. When he was done, the winds and lightning had vanished, but he could sense them still, lurking within, in the void alongside his magic.
The Tsar moved forward, his leather boots carrying him lightly across the scorched marble.
“You don’t think you’ve saved them, do you?” he asked.
Eric shrugged. “I can only hope.”
The Tsar chuckled. “I would have thought you’d learned your lesson by now.”
Smiling sadly, Eric shook his head. “It doesn’t matter that I cannot defeat you, Theo,” he replied. “I don’t matter at all, not here, not now.” Eric gestured around him. “A mortal has rebelled against you, and lived. Your own children have turned on you. How long do you think it will be before your people follow? Before they learn you are no true God?”
The Tsar sneered. “Then they will die.”
“Ay, many will. But you stand alone. You cannot kill them all.”
“Time will tell the truth of that, but you will not be around to see it, Eric,” he snapped. “I am tired of your company. Goodbye.”
