The Elder Blood Chronicles Book 3 From the Ashes

by Melissa Myers

  Jala nodded slowly, her eyes moving back to the shadows. It was too still there. There wasn’t even the sound of Finn’s voice. “What did you do, Vaze?” she whispered as she began to move toward the receding shadows. Vaze remained silent behind her as she moved with faltering steps toward the empty place where Finn had been moments before. “No,” she gasped, her eyes searching for any sign of him. “No, no, no!” Jala wailed, dropping to her knees. Her hands scrambled futilely over the wood searching for any trace of the magic Vaze had used. “Finn.” The single word broke from her lips in a sob that shook her. “What did you do, Vaze?” Jala screamed as more sobs shook her body. Her wounds throbbed with protest but she no longer cared.

  Footsteps sounded softly behind her and Vaze knelt in front of her. His dark eyes forced her to meet his gaze and he carefully placed one hand under her chin, holding her steady. “I’ve saved your life. Hate me if you must, but know this, Jala. That was a Divine, not Finn. Valor would have died and you would have died and the only one in this room that might have had a chance at facing Death and winning was too wounded to fight. Without you at full strength, we had no hope of winning. There was nothing else I could do to stop it and you did scream for me to make them stop.” He spoke calmly but there was a tone of sadness to his voice. He watched her cautiously as if he expected her to pull away or slap him.

  Jala stared at him for a long while and then slowly nodded. “My fault then,” she whispered, more tears coursing down her face. “I should have listened to you and allowed the healing. Then I could have fought.” Her eyes fell from his face and her body slumped as another wave of agony ripped through her stomach. “My fault,” she repeated. This time speaking for the child that was coming too early.

  Chapter 10

  Sanctuary

  The eyes of the dead woman seemed to follow him as he paced in the small circle his chains allowed. Havoc glared back at her and then past her to the countless others in the room. Each bore marks of flame upon them in some fashion. From scorched skin to smoke blackened clothes. It was obvious what had killed them. His breath fogged in the cold air as he let out a disgusted sigh and kicked a rock toward the corpse with the accusing eyes.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have huddled like a rat. Maybe you should have fought! You might have lived had you not been such a damned coward,” Havoc called and kicked another piece of rubble toward the dead woman.

  If Lutheron had meant to teach him remorse with this ordeal, he had failed miserably. The only emotion that stirred inside him was anger, and a lot of it. Had these pathetic dead things been Firym they would have died in the streets with blades in hand, not huddled inside buildings cringing in fear. It wasn’t murder he had committed, as Lutheron said, it was a cleansing of the weak. In Firym the weak died, either in training or in the Scarlet Jungle, and no one mourned their loss.

  With a faint snarl he pulled on the chains once more as he paced another small circle in the freezing warehouse. His fires coiled inside him, keeping his body warm, but that was the best that they could do. The wards on the chains prevented him from actually unleashing any of his fire or he would have burned the bloody place down within his first day of captivity.

  “You remind me of a caged tiger,” Charm’s voice echoed softly from the shadows.

  “What in the hell do you want?” Havoc snapped. He had nothing personal against the rogue, beyond his profession. That was more than enough to earn scathing words, however. His Aunt had died to a shadow hopper and then Finn had met the same death. He had no use for any of them, rogues or assassins. They were all the same, clinging to the shadows, afraid to stand and fight.

  Charm dropped lightly down from the rafters and landed in a crouch without as much as a thump of his boots on the wooden floor. Slowly the rogue stood upright and dusted his dark leathers. He straightened his shoulders once and adjusted his long blond braid to where it fell straight down his lean back. “Jala lives. I thought you would want to know. She returned from the Darklands yesterday.” Charm’s voice was hushed and his eyes flicked to the door as he spoke.

  “And they told you to not tell me,” Havoc surmised in a low growling voice.

  “You are in penance,” Charm pointed out with a faint shrug. Glancing over his shoulder, the rogue let his gaze trail down the corpse that lined the wall and then turned back to Havoc. “I told Lutheron that remorse is not a word that is found in the Firym language,” he offered quietly.

  “Flames devour the weak,” Havoc said, quoting a Firym proverb. To his people, fire was a lifeline and a test of power. If you could not control it, you died. It was better that way at any rate. For a Firym to be burned and not die would be worse than death. The shame and scorn his people would show would be unbearable.

  “They weren’t Firym,” Charm reminded him gently.

  “And they were devoured. You expect me to feel pity for them? I have no use for any of them and I refuse to mourn their loss. They were a waste of air,” Havoc snapped, his anger twisted inside him just long enough for guilt to press him. He had thought he was past that. He had let his temper rage for days to keep that other emotion at bay. “They should have fought,” he added, his voice cracking a bit on the last words.

  “Were you any other Firym, I might think you truly believed that, Ki’jani. Not you, though. Not the one that washed ashes from a child’s face and promised her safety despite the fact that she was Merrodin, a sworn enemy of your people.” Charm’s voice was soothing and Havoc despised him for it.

  Havoc felt his temper cooling further and snapped the chains in frustration. The use of his true name had caught him off guard. Only a few people even knew that name. “Jala is strong. She fought. I heard her spells tearing the Justicars apart. Jala doesn’t cower and hide,” Havoc snarled. His gaze rose once again to the line of corpses and he spat on the floor in disgust. “They should have fought,” he repeated in a lower voice that held a quaver that sickened him. If his people saw him now they would swear he was not of the ruling house. His own father would walk away in disgust. “What the hell do you want Charm? You’ve given your news, now leave!” Havoc snapped the chains again and turned his back on the rogue as well as the dead staring eyes.

  “Jala is strong but I’m afraid she isn’t strong enough,” Charm began cautiously.

  “Explain that!” Havoc demanded as he whirled to face the rogue once more.

  “She fought Death and it is said that she is dying now. The wounds she took were grievous. Vaze did all he could for her, but there was nothing he could do against a Divine’s raw power. I’m sorry, Havoc, I wish that I brought better news, but Jala failed and now she is going to suffer the full extent of her folly. Finn was raised, but Death possessed his body. Vaze had no choice but to send him back to the Darklands in an attempt to soothe Death,” Charm continued, his eyes searching Havoc’s face as he spoke.

  Swallowing heavily, Havoc allowed himself to fall back against the wall. His throat grew tight and he bowed his head as he considered the rogues words. Finn was truly dead, then, and the little ragged girl they had found in the ashes of Merro would be soon. He inhaled again and tried to fight back the emotions that were swiftly drowning his anger.

  “Victory is waiting for you. He says the two of you buried Badger and it is only fitting that the two of you bury his child. He wanted to tell you himself but getting in here is a bit tricky,” Charm said softly.

  “Damn you,” Havoc gasped as he felt the first tear trail down his face. His grief was silenced as the chains fell away from his wrists and clattered loudly to the floor beside him. In complete shock he stared down at his chafed wrists and then up to Charm who was rapidly backing away from him.

  “A tear, a single tear. That’s what Lutheron set the penance at. Let the Firym brood in darkness until he can manage a single tear for what he has done,” Charm whispered. “Victory didn’t actually say any of that by the way. He did mention that you would never cry no matter what and that you would rot in this place f
or the rest of the war. Vaze also said that since Jala survived the initial fight she does in fact stand a chance,” the rogue added as he jumped upwards and nimbly grabbed a rafter. With a slight twist of his nimble body he disappeared into the shadows above.

  “You son of a bitch!” Havoc bellowed as he unleashed a torrent of flame after the rogue. White hot fire washed over the ceiling and the building began to fill with smoke. “I am going to gut you, rogue!” Havoc screamed as he turned toward the sealed doors of the warehouse. Drawing his hands back he summoned the fire once more and unleashed it in a blast. The wooden doors exploded with the violence of the flames and Havoc stalked through them, his fury fueling his every step.

  “By Fortune’s grace did he actually manage it then?” Victory gasped. The Fae stood leaning against his warhorse and was staring with shock written clearly on his features. Slowly he leaned and looked past Havoc to the burning warehouse. “Damn it, Havoc, you were locked up for burning a building down,” he sighed.

  “Where is Charm?” Havoc demanded ignoring the raging flames at his back completely.

  “In hiding for a while, I don’t doubt. I can’t believe he managed to get you to cry,” Victory replied with a shrug.

  Havoc’s hand snapped up and he pointed a finger at Victory threateningly. “You didn’t just say that and it didn’t happen!” he growled, his eyes scanning for anyone that might have overheard those damning words. Everyone in the area seemed far more interested in the burning building however. Lowering his hand slowly he straightened his shoulders and then slowly began to notice Victory’s appearance. The knight was dressed for cold weather and wore his battle armor rather than the fancy plate he usually favored. His horse was geared fully as well with bags bursting with provisions tied behind the saddle.

  “Delvay is marching in force,” Victory explained quietly. “You have friends there don’t you?” he asked as he pushed gently on Avalanche’s chest. The massive white horse backed up revealing the smaller red one that stood behind it.

  Havoc smiled at the sight of his flame steed and then looked back to Victory with a questioning look. “You hate the mountains of Delvay,” he reminded the Fae.

  “I hate my friend being locked away even more, and I think if I leave you in the same city as Lutheron you will end up in chains again,” Victory said with a shrug and tossed Havoc his reins. “Honestly, I didn’t think Charm could get you out and I thought I was wasting time here. Glad to be wrong on this one occasion.”

  “You are wrong far more often than this one occasion,” Havoc muttered as he wrapped his reins around his hand. His horse stepped closer and pushed its nose against his stomach. With a faint smile Havoc ran his hand down Razor’s neck and looked back to Victory. “Did Charm speak the truth on any of it? Is Jala truly lying near death? Did the spell to raise Finn really fail?” he asked cautiously unsure if he truly wanted to hear the answer.

  “Both are true,” Victory admitted with a frown. “Vaze says if we travel to Merro we will draw attention to her. He believes we have a traitor in the Fionaveir and says the best way to protect her is to pretend she is dying and we don’t care. He says if we ignore the value of her life they will as well.”

  “And what do you think?” Havoc asked watching his friends face for any indication of his emotions.

  “I think no matter how much I hate the mountains and the rudeness of the Delvay that the battles there will likely keep my mind occupied. I think that if I remain in this city one more day feeling as though my hands are tied, I might turn into a lesser image of you. I do hate the thought of cursing like a madman while hurling magic about carelessly,” Victory replied with a sigh. His green eyes shifted toward the Merro district and then returned to Havoc. “I feel as though we have failed to protect her at all. I wonder often if we should have ignored orders and kept her with us rather than leave her at the temple. Every time she stumbles, I feel as though it is my fault for not teaching her how to walk in this bloody world. I need something to focus on, Havoc.”

  “I need something to kill,” Havoc growled softly. The Fae’s words were a mirror of his own feelings, though spoken more eloquently than he ever could have managed. It wasn’t just Jala the words applied to, however. For him, they hit home in two places. He had watched Finn stumble and had never once managed to help him. “So Delvay, then,” Havoc agreed as he swung onto his horse and settled in the saddle.

  “It must be a birthright of the Firym that allows them to bottle everything so deeply inside,” Victory mused as he climbed onto his own horse.

  “It’s what fuels our fire, Vic. Every burnt building is a Firym teardrop. Just remember that,” Havoc said quietly as he glanced back at the warehouse one last time. Mages had arrived by now to quench the flames and the fires had died down to embers.

  “Then I almost feel pity for the Rivasans. Had I suffered the same losses you have in the past few weeks, I think I would be sobbing. If you express pain through flames there won’t be anything left of Rivana,” Victory replied as he moved his horse closer to Havoc’s and began the spell to transport them to Delvay. “We should take Spell hawk rather than magic you know. With everything in turmoil, traveling like this is risky.”

  “Let them pull us out of the transport spell. I hope they do. I’ll cry a river for the bastards,” Havoc growled.

  Chapter 11

  Merro

  “I’ve done what I can for her but it isn’t enough. She is going to lose the child and if she lives she will never have full use of that hand again.”

  The words echoed out of the dark fog surrounding her and Jala struggled to recognize the voice. It was a man speaking, though she couldn’t place who. Her eyelids were heavy and it seemed too much effort to force them open. She felt the child move inside her once more and turned her attention fully to him. It didn’t matter who was speaking, they were wrong. Carefully she drew on the scant magic she had managed to rebuild and wrapped it protectively around the child. Be strong. Grow, she urged him, her words sent directly to him with no need to be spoken aloud.

  “She is too feverish. Can you do nothing about that?” Another voice, this time Vaze. She felt a hand brush her cheek and it felt like ice against her skin.

  “The wound on her side is corrupt and I can’t get the infection out no matter how many times I heal it. That is causing the fever and that will be what kills her if she dies. The hand is maimed but healed and this wound on her neck is clean,” the first voice spoke again filled with frustration.

  “If we remove the child now does she have a chance of recovery?” Vaze asked, his tone cautious.

  Jala felt panic rising and retreated further into herself wrapping everything she had around her child as if simply her spirit would be enough to protect him.

  “We won’t do that. Let her fight,” Valor broke in, his voice firm. She felt another touch light on her face as hair was brushed back from her cheek.

  “She isn’t bloody fighting, Valor, she is unconscious. If that would save her it is something we should consider,” Neph snapped.

  Fight for me, Valor, Jala urged silently. She didn’t have the strength to spare to fight for herself with words. She could feel the corruption growing in her flesh like tiny little daggers stabbing toward her child. Everything she had, every ounce of magic, every drop of will had to go to him right now.

  “You don’t know Jala like I do, and you will not take that child while I draw breath,” Valor spoke with cold promise written in his voice.

  “It’s not the child that threatens her at any rate. It’s the wound. Removing the child would only weaken her more at this point, and if we weaken her anymore we might as well start digging the grave,” the unknown speaker uttered in a voice filled with disgust. “I’ve never seen anything like that wound. When I heal, it seems to improve for a breath and then grows worse.”

  “If it grows worse when you heal it, then why in bloody hell have you tried to heal it multiple times?” Neph snarled. A weight pressed down
heavily on her bed as someone sat beside her and she felt the blankets pulled more tightly around her. “Is Valor right, Jala? Are you fighting? I wish there was something I could do for you,” Neph said softly in a voice pitched for her ears alone.

  “Maybe we should fetch Rose from Sanctuary. She has been a healer for as long as I can remember. Perhaps she has seen a wound like this before,” Wisp suggested and Jala could hear the sound of the Fae’s misery in each word.

  Keep fighting. Block them out and focus. I will not let them take your child and I will guard you while you fight. Marrow’s words in her mind drowned all the voices in the room and she nodded faintly. Take some of my strength until your own returns. You need magic and you are as dry as sand. That’s her magic working on your wound. I can sense it, though I don’t know why the fools around you can’t.

  I can’t let him die, Marrow. I can’t lose them both, Jala whispered back to the Bendazzi. The effort of the mind link pulled her back from the child for only the barest moment and in that breath she felt the corruption spread farther.

  Cursing herself for a fool, she drew on Marrow’s strength and wrapped more protections around the child. The threads of Anthe’s broken wards wavered faintly before her and she began to repair them as well. Be strong, she urged the child once more as she worked. Anthe’s magic grew clearer in her mind as she focused upon the individual threads until each ward appeared as a delicate silver web in her mind. Most of the magic still held and she knew without a doubt that was the only thing that had saved her child’s life until now. With her mind made agile once more by Marrow’s gift she worked quickly, retying the broken strands until each ward was whole once more. Never before had she had such clarity with her magic. Sovann had spoken of threads and strands before but she had always assumed it was simply terminology for the craft. Not literally strands of magic forming each spell.