“Oenghus thought we could sneak through,” Acacia said, eyes darting around the room. “We are in the Spine.”
Marsais’ fingers flashed, and as he prepared a complicated web of runes Isiilde squeezed through the gate. Should she not be able to open it, the others would be trapped.
The end of the throne room was shrouded in mist. Pillars rose from the fitful ground like ancient trees, their tops lost in darkness. Isiilde hurried to the first column, ears alert, senses stretching. A tendril touched her hand, and another twinned around her leg. The fog left a foul touch on her flesh. With a murmur, she wove an armor weave, and added her fire. Her skin glowed faintly, and the mist hissed against her body, retreating like a wounded animal.
She glanced back at the gate. The ice had nearly melted. She could see Marsais and the others, and beyond, her father racing towards the Nameless with a glacier on his heels. Isiilde cursed under her breath, and rounded the column, sprinting for the obsidian throne. Only the nymph did not get very far. She hit something solid, bounced off, and fell on her backside.
“Pardon me,” said a voice like a dream.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A man stood in the mist. He was not alone. Isiilde called to her fire, and it flared with intent.
“Shall I calm the old one?” the man asked.
Isiilde hesitated. He was a tall, angular man. Snowy hair brushed past his slim shoulders, and he reminded her of Marsais in so many ways. But not the eyes. No emotion touched the pinprick of silver that gleamed coldly inside. She stood, and glanced over her shoulder. Marsais kept the raging elemental at bay with a Barrier. Her friends were trapped between a gate and looming death.
“Yes,” she said, nodding, and then added, “Please.”
“So polite.” He walked towards her, and she tensed, backing up, but he did not look her way, only stepped up to the gate. He was beautiful and ethereal, and he moved like water over the ground. Her mind reeled.
“Ulfhidhin,” the man purred.
When Oenghus caught sight of him, he gripped the bars of the gate, not in anger but to hold himself upright. Knuckles whitened on the steel, and veins throbbed along his temple. Marsais glanced back and the color drained from his face. He nearly dropped his weave.
“Whatever you are doing to him, stop it,” she said. The nymph was in no position to make demands, but her father was in pain.
“I’m not doing a thing,” the man said. “Names take on a power of their own.”
“And what is your name?” she asked.
“He’s Pyrderi Har’Feydd,” Marsais answered. There was strain in his voice, and his arm shook with the effort it took to keep the elemental from freezing the air in their lungs. The name knocked her back a step. How was that possible?
The man bowed, and when he rose, there was a smile on his long lips. “I’ve longed to meet you Isiilde Jaal’Yasine.” He drew out her mother’s name, tasting every syllable. “I’m at your service.”
She glanced at the other Fey standing in the fog, hundreds of beautiful warriors, all like this pale man. She could not tell man from woman, or even if they possessed a sex, but their stillness unnerved her. “Then call off your elemental.”
Pyrderi stepped forward, so fluid that he seemed a dream—not an actual part of this realm. Isiilde wondered if that was how humans saw her. The man spoke in an old tongue. It was a soft song, a gentle lullaby, and the sound of his voice nearly made her weep.
The elemental ceased its barrage and retreated with a scrape of ice. It shifted, moving to the center of the great hall, and stilled, solidifying into a quiet mountain of crystal. A deep, blue glow emanated from the elemental’s core, and when light touched the slumbering creature, its multitude of facets threw off prisms, bathing the cold chamber in beauty.
Marsais lowered his arm, but did not let his Barrier unravel. With his gaze fixed on the Fey, he moved slowly to the gate, until the two men stood at arm’s length.
“Now open the gate,” she said to Pyrderi’s back. Fire flickered around her fists. Unfortunately, Pyrderi now stood between her and the exit. The other Fey surrounded her, not crowding, but waiting. For what, she did not know.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Pyrderi admitted. He stepped away, and turned to face her. “Humans need cages to stop their butchery. As soon as that gate opens, what do you imagine Ulfhidhin will do?”
The name was like a dagger in her father’s temple. Pain blossomed on his face, and he shook the gate with a growing growl. Acacia put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged off her touch.
Isiilde did not know why Pyrderi used that name—the name of the Wild God who abducted the Sylph, or why a Fey, a faerie three thousands years dead, now stood before her. At the moment, she wasn’t sure any of it mattered, only that she was surrounded and a slice marred Pyrderi’s flawless skin. He bled. That was enough to know.
“What have you done with the other residents?” she asked, stepping slightly to the side, so she’d have a better view of Marsais. She knew that gleam in his eyes. She had seen it every time they played King’s Folly as he worked through strategies and considered his next move.
Pyrderi gestured towards his stomach. “I gave them three days to leave my Isle. The humans refused and attacked us. We had no choice but to drive them out like the rats that they are. It is mine, you know. Humans took this isle from the faerie long ago. They take and they take, and when you think they have finally quenched their thirst, they demand more.”
The words stilled her. It was as if he had plucked her very thoughts from her mind and given them a voice. And what a beautiful voice. A part of the nymph ached to hear more.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” He gestured towards the resting elemental. “That spirit is as old as this realm. Humans—the first Wise Ones—entrapped it, bound it to a flask to guard the key to my prison. That poor, beautiful creature has spent thirty-five hundred years in a prison. Now it is free, and what do humans do but torment it again? Humans never think to talk. And that is what I desire, Isiilde—to speak with you without a raging beast frothing at the mouth.” He gestured at her father, who currently looked every bit the beast.
“Speaking of cages,” Marsais said in a casual tone. “How did you find your way back?”
“I never left.”
“We killed you,” Oenghus growled.
“I lingered until someone was kind enough to release me.”
“And where is Tharios now?” Marsais asked.
“Tharios is dead,” Pyrderi stated. “I did not care for his treatment of you, Isiilde.” His gaze settled on her, and in that coldness, she saw a glimmer of heat. “We faerie must look out for one another.”
“If you cared about me, then you would open the gate.”
“Your friends would try to kill me, and I would be forced to defend myself, as you yourself have when humans threaten.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Want? Nothing. To talk, if you like.”
“What could we possibly talk about?” she asked.
“Ah—I see. Your friends have filled your head with horrors of the Fey. Told you that I tortured humans and gave myself over to obscene rituals.” He stepped towards her, slowly, casually, without threat.
“Stay away from her,” Oenghus snarled.
“I will not hurt her, Ulfhidhin.” He gave a dismissive gesture. Those hands were so like Marsais’: long and fine and so very eloquent. What was more, she believed him. Isiilde let her fire fall, and the sparks bounced on the floor, sputtering out. A thin line of black smoke rose between the two faerie.
“You didn’t do those things?” she asked.
“Oh, I did,” Pyrderi admitted without guile. “But what no human ever tells is the why of it. Isn’t that what you always ache to know, Isiilde? The why of everything?”
“Does it matter? I’ve seen your creations—the Fomorri. They are twisted and foul.”
“If I had not been stopped, then I could have shaped my child
ren. That is what happens when you slaughter parents. Children grow into monsters.”
“He twists everything, Isiilde. Do not listen to him,” Acacia said from behind the gate.
“Aah, the noble paladin.” Pyrderi smiled, sadly. “The essence of everything wrong with humanity. Lies, hypocrisy, and atrocities committed in the name of good. I do not defend my answers, Paladin. I simply state truth.”
“Truth has many facets,” Acacia retorted. “Depending on the angle, each is unique.”
“She speaks philosophy with a mere animal. Is that not what your Blessed Order has declared faeries?”
Silence answered this question.
“You see, Isiilde,” Pyrderi continued, turning to her. “Those humans are not in a cage. They can leave; I cannot.”
“I can’t either.”
“You are free.” He held out his hand towards the gate. “Go, crawl back through, and stare at the animals that we are. I had hoped that the humans had not tamed you yet, but it seems I was mistaken.”
He started to walk away. The other Fey seemed to meld into the Fog, but curiosity burned in her breast, and it could not be denied. “Why?” she asked. Even if she survived this day, she would wonder the rest of her life.
Pyrderi stopped and turned. “Tell her what humans did to our people, Marsais.”
Marsais lifted a shoulder. “I’ve told you some, Isiilde. Humans did what you might expect. Some murdered, raped, and pillaged the Lindale.”
“They wanted our forests, our lands, and after they burned our trees to the ground, their hearts were filled with fear. Humans slaughtered my family. It was not enough to slit their throats. Do you see these scars?” Pyrderi thrust out his arms, palms up. There were thick, scarred circles in the center of those palms. “They nailed me to a tree and raped and tortured my mate, my daughters, and my young sons in front of my eyes.” There was no emotion, no pain, or hate. Only coldness. A raw truth that was like ice scraping against her skin.
“Is it true, Marsais?”
“Monsters and gods are molded by humans,” he replied without hesitation.
Pyrderi took another step towards her; she did not retreat. “I did everything humans have said of me. And more. Hate creates the very thing it fears. But what I ask you, Isiilde, is what would you do if Stievin stood before you now in the flesh?”
His question hit her like a punch to the gut. She took a hasty step back, fists flexing.
“I am so sorry. I could not stop him—my spirit has drifted through this cold stone for millennia, watching but never acting.”
The throne room spun. Having a witness, knowing another had watched her assault unseen, shook her to the core. It made it more real, and for a moment, she was there again, with the stone biting at her back and the grunting in her ears.
“Look,” he said, inclining his head towards the gate. “Even now, they plot and conspire to slaughter the animal in its cage.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Oenghus had his ear bent towards Marsais, and Acacia listened in. The berserker looked up, and with a growl, he and Acacia left. Pyrderi looked to his warriors, and through some unspoken command a large number faded back into the mists.
“What purpose does this serve, Pyrderi?” Marsais called.
“I want her to know the truth. I want her to understand our history.” He snapped his fingers and the Fey split ranks in perfect unison. Not a step out of place. Two Fey emerged from the fog, marching a horribly scarred woman between them. It took a moment for recognition to pierce her nightmare. Zianna.
Pyrderi leaned in close, his lips whispering in Isiilde’s ear. His breath was cold. “I cannot bring you Stievin, but I can bring you her. She insulted and mocked your every move. Her words sparked the disastrous chain of events that sent you to that washroom. This human has shown you nothing but spite. And now look at her.” Pyrderi straightened, circling the woman like a slinking panther. “She should be groveling before you—asking forgiveness.”
“I will never grovel in front of this creature,” Zianna said, eyes glittering with hate.
“Of course she won’t,” Pyrderi purred. “She’s human. Vengeance burns in her heart. What can you do in the face of such hatred?”
At a gesture from Pyrderi, the Fey let Zianna go, and she walked into the circle, facing the nymph. “You have ruined me. Your friends killed my master, and now, I only want one thing.”
The nymph’s hands flexed.
“Isiilde,” Marsais called, gently.
She looked at him. That moment nearly killed her. Zianna drew a blade and charged with dagger raised, the very same that Isek had once held to her throat. The screech that erupted from Zianna’s scorched throat tore at her ears. With a shout, Isiilde called to her fire, blasting the woman off her feet. The blade flew from her hand, and there she writhed and screamed, batting at the flames.
“That is how humans repay faerie,” Pyrderi said. “Now here she lies in agony. Will you show her mercy, or watch her suffer?”
Isiilde felt rooted to the spot. She watched, still as a statue, mind reeling, thoughts all aflutter with confusion. A small part of her relished that suffering. Repayment for all the pain Zianna had caused. And yet another part curled back with revulsion. She grasped at Marsais’ question. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded.
“So you know the choices I was faced with.”
“I would help her.” Even as she said it, her words felt empty of conviction. It was a lie.
“Then do so. And know that she will try to kill you again, or given the chance, your friends. Your choice could mean a dagger through Marsais’ heart.”
Indecision roiled in her gut. It made her sick.
“Now who is the torturer?” Pyrderi asked.
Zianna’s whimpers filled her ears. She could take it no more. Isiilde drew her sword and plunged the tip through the dying woman’s breast. Zianna stilled, her whimpers fell silent, and a coldness crept over Isiilde’s own heart, as if her very spirit had fled a body it no longer wanted. The sword fell from her limp fingertips.
“Now you see,” Pyrderi whispered.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Ulfhidhin ran over the ice. Heart pumping, blood rushing, muscles stretching, he raced through halls of stone. Each beat of his heart taunted, and he knew every breath his daughter took might be her last. That thought was more potent than the Brimgrog burning through his veins. The Wild God ran towards the King’s Walk.
A knot of soldiers stood in his path. The berserker roared, scattering them like hens. Soldiers scrambled over each other to give him room as he barreled down the last corridor, and met a locked gate.
The god bellowed, driving his fist into the metal. Pain lanced up his arm and he shook the stone with his rage. A woman stood beside him, doubled over, hands on knees, gulping in air.
“Oenghus!” she gasped. “By the Sylph, stop it.”
More stone rained on his head. He did not care. He brought his fist back, and the woman put herself between flesh and gate. He paused, eyes burning into her.
“It’s sealed. Is there another way?” The question sparked thought. And he remembered who he was. Now.
Oenghus blinked, focusing on the paladin. Acacia. He lowered his fist. There were others in the chamber. Battered soldiers with wide eyes, and numerous dead, including Fey. Oenghus stomped over to the closest Fey and took his frustration out on the corpse.
“There is another way,” a terse voice interrupted. “If that idiot would calm down.”
Oenghus glared at the source. “Thira.” The last they had seen of the woman, she had thrown in with Tharios.
Acacia drew her sword.
The Wise One raised her blood-covered hands. “I’m on your side, and by the gods I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to see you.”
This gave him pause.
“Pyrderi Har’Feydd—”
“Killed Tharios. Yes, we know,” he growled. “The bastard is in the throne room with Isiilde.”
“Listen to me,” Thira snapped. “There’s a gap in the shield, in the King’s Walk; Pyrderi and the Fey wanted to get out that way. We fought, and had to fall back. Morigan pushed me through and dropped the gates to keep the Fey from escaping.”
His head snapped towards the barrier, envisioning the long line of barriers after the first. Oenghus’ heart thundered in his ears.
“I can’t weave another transformation.” Blood streaked the sides of her neck, seeped from her mouth, and her claw-like fingers trembled. The woman remained on her feet through sheer willpower. “I doubt you still have access to the Archlord’s teleportation runes, but you can try. If that fails, Tulipin may be able to levitate you to the top of the tower. You can enter through the rookery.”
“You won’t leave me behind,” a woman with a bow stepped forward. Her dark eyes blazed. “Good to see you, Acacia.”
“Evie,” Acacia breathed in recognition. “Where’s Bram?”
The Valkyrie looked at the gate. “In there.”
“I have another idea,” Oenghus grunted.
“Wonders never cease,” Thira muttered.
He ignored the Vulture, turned, and with a growl hoisted Acacia over his shoulder. The Knight Captain gave a startled yelp. Keeping a firm hand on his struggling prisoner, he pressed his palm to the stone, and whispered to the earth. The stone welcomed the Wild God home.
The stone spit its brethren into a chamber of carnage. Blast marks scorched what remained of the walls, and the first gate had been rendered to shards. Bodies, both human and Fey, littered the rubble.
Oenghus set Acacia down. She swayed on her feet, trying to regain her bearings. The source of the blast was apparent. A barbed stave lay in the center of the wreckage. One end was splintered and ash lay at its top. The remains of Soisskeli’s Stave.
“Morigan!” he bellowed. When no reply came, he raced towards the bodies, shifting through rock and flesh. “Mori!”
“We need to help Isiilde and Marsais,” the paladin reminded. She crouched next to the body of a male gnome. Her voice was tight with grief. “No one is alive here.”
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 37
