by Anna Holmes
Rye turns. "Intriguing," he says, his eyes lighting on me.
Jori turns away from Alain and follows Rye's gaze all the way to me. She whirls back around and stares at Alain as though her eyes alone could produce the blue flame that desecrated this place. He nods his head once and takes a step back, standing among the Elyssian guard. She falters back as though she’s been struck, but just for a moment. She recovers and stalks behind Rye again and mutters something to him. He glances up to me. "No matter, your highness. It’s not you I’ve come for, but I’ll handle you in a moment." He turns his head to address the prisoners. "Those of you loyal to the Legion, come with us. Together, we'll return this nation to Rosalia."
No one moves, but plenty of the prisoners look at each other. "That's a declaration, Rye," I tell him.
"Then let it be so," he says.
"Join him and you find yourself an enemy of Elyssia," I say, not taking my eyes from Rye. "I will free you, as long as your crime was your allegiance and not your personal actions. Rye wishes to return us to war. I think we've had enough of it."
"That's easy enough for you to say," Rye says, smiling. "When you think you’ve won."
"Not only when you think you've won," Alain answers. "When you know you’ve lost, it sounds pretty good, too."
"Rosalia will be very interested in what's become of you, Northshore."
"Will they? Are they at all interested in what's become of you? Any of us?"
Silence settles over the crowd again, and with it, tension. Eyes dart in all directions. Fists clench around weapons. The wind throws ash everywhere, and everything else is still. Everyone is waiting for someone else to move first.
Jori leans over and speaks to someone behind Rye. I can’t see them, but it looks like Alain might. I turn to him and feel my heart lurch when I find his expression the same haunted mask he wore in the alley in Mountainside. I try to smile at him. And I hear the subtle thrip of a bowstring released.
I can’t turn fast enough, even though everything seems cruelly slow. It's a perfect shot. I don't see it coming nearly until the arrowhead grazes the steel of my partially open gorget and sinks into me where my neck meets my shoulder.
I've never been shot before. I'm thoroughly unprepared for how much force the fragile-looking arrow sends into my shoulder, how it whips my body back, and I fall. Alain's cry is all I hear, his face frozen in horror all I see. It doesn't even occur to me to feel pain until I am sprawled on the ground.
Around me, the clatter and shouts of the fight begin again, but I can't lift my head to look. Alain drops to my side in a few moments, pulling my upper body from the dirt. I can feel him shaking—or maybe that's me. His face is pallid, his eyes wide and distant. He's both here and there—the last time this happened. I reach for his hand. He grasps it. "Alain," I start, surprised by the pained whisper that comes out. "I'm sorry," I say.
His eyes squeeze shut. It's impossible to focus with the sounds of the fight all around us, the feet shuffling in the dirt. At long last, his eyes snap open, his upper body twists, and he lets go of something between a scream and a snarl.
All at once, the sound stops and the dust settles in the vacuous space and I realize something.
I am in pain. It’s splitting me in two, my hot flesh rent along the arrow’s path.
I’m burning.
Chapter Thirty
Alain
It's just like last time, but so very different.
This time, there's no ceremony. No prolonged shouts, no long, slow fall. Caelin's body just drops to the ground. There's nothing elegant and dreamlike about it.
My leg still screams as I drag myself over to where she lays.
There's still an arrow shaft in the neck of a woman I love.
This time, though, it's real.
I try to gather her up out of the dust as best as I can. Her chest flutters up and down, fighting the point stuck into her neck. She looks up at me, amber eyes wet. "Alain, I'm sorry."
She's sorry. She's sorry for being shot, not that I couldn't move fast enough, that I didn't see the same old trick, that I didn't tell her to refasten her armor. She's sorry that I'm not even strong enough to comfort her because my mind’s still stuck in a trick that happened on a battlefield far away too long ago. My eyes fall shut, but there's no peace even in the dark here because I can still hear it. I can still hear the war, being fought in one place or another.
I can't hold it. I let go of a cry, buried somewhere in my chest, and turn on every single person who's fighting. I need them to stop. I need peace enough for a moment. And at first I don’t realize that they have obliged. Swords hang still in the air. An arrow hovers, humming from the strength of the release from Tressa’s bow.
Everyone else, friend and enemy, Rebel and Legion and everyone in between—even the wind—is frozen. And it’s coming from me. I can feel the magic pouring out of me in tidal waves. I didn't know I could do any of that, but it doesn't matter.
Caelin stares up at me, and I turn back to her. "I'm sorry," she says again.
"Stop that," I manage, my voice thick and strange in the stillness.
"I am," she says. "For everything."
Something about this snaps something in my head, and I sit up, pulling her closer. I will not sit here and watch her die. This time will be different.
I can freeze an entire battle. I can save her.
The arrow is sunk deep. I can't even make out the top edge of the arrowhead. I force air in and out for a few seconds. It has to come out. But when and how? Should I carry her elsewhere?
"I don't have an heir," she says.
"You don't need one." I look around. My saddlebags are still on the horse. Damn.
Can I unfreeze someone selectively? I search the tangle of people and arms for Tressa. She’s in the process of dropping her bow, clutching a fistful of Cole’s shirt. I focus on her, will her back to movement. Unfortunately with her comes Cole. She drops him instantly and gallops over, and I look up at her. "Find Maribelle, quick."
For once, she doesn't question. She's off. Cole staggers away, wiping at his mouth. "Move and I'll kill you," I inform him summarily.
I don't need to follow through with that. By now, he's seen what I can do, and it seems he wants none of that. Caelin's hand grasps at the front of my shirt. "If I do—"
"Stop."
"The new Regnant will need you. I want you to help guide Elyssia out of this," she says.
I shake my head. "You don't—"
"It's yours. Please." She swallows hard, her eyes shutting. A fine layer of sweat has broken out over her forehead. "Promise me you'll take care of it."
"It doesn't need me when it's got you. Remember? You're going to be queen."
She laughs, a rasping sound which ends in a cough. "Not if Kelvin has anything to say about that."
I reach out and unfasten the remaining clasp on her armor, and the gorget slides aside, leaving her slender neck exposed. It's bloodied around the arrow, a narrow river of red winding its way into the white lawn of her shirt. "I'll talk with him myself," I tell her.
"I'd like to see that."
She coughs again, this time a deeper rattling sound. I draw back slightly, and she looks up at me. I force myself not to look alarmed for her sake, but I think the effort might be wasted. "Tressa!" I shout, my voice echoing in the stone halls and ringing up to her.
She appears somewhere above me, saddlebags in hand. I lay Caelin back down and reach up to catch them. My hands still shake as I fumble for the flap over the opening, but I clench my jaw and make them steady. Caelin grabs my arm and she starts to say something, but her words are consumed by a wet bubble. From the corner of her mouth, a trickle of red starts. "Don't talk," I tell her.
She doesn't have the energy to fight me, though her eyes flash. I laugh the tiniest bit. She still doesn't like being told what to do.
When my blind grasping in the bag yields nothing, I hold it out in front of me and bow my head to look into it. She’s pa
cked it neatly, so it’s not hard to find the medical supplies tucked in next to the rations. Damn. She used all of the bandages on my blasted leg. I need something to stem the flow of the blood. In the bottom of the bag is the blue dress I found her in our vain attempt to throw the bandits off our trail.
It'll have to do.
I tear a handful of the skirt away and wad it up around the base of the arrow in her neck. Her eyes open wide and she gasps. "Just—pull it out," she says.
"Caelin—"
"Alain, please," she wheezes.
I reach out for the arrow's shaft, and I stop midway there. I can't. I can't pull this out of her.
I feel something wrap around my hand. It's hers. I can't feel the warmth through her glove, but it's enough. She guides my hand to the arrow. "Help me take it out."
I nod, blinking quickly to clear the sting from my eyes. She gives one sharp tug on my hand, and I tighten my fingers around the smooth sanded wood of the shaft. Between the two of us, it slides out. At the same time, I bear down with the cloth from the skirt. Her body doubles up in pain, her back arching and falling back to the ground again. She doesn't have enough in her for a scream, though she does shout something unintelligible and decidedly profane. I toss the arrow away in disgust.
It's only then that I notice the blue lines beginning to crawl away from her wounds. I seize the arrow again. It's poisoned.
Of course it is. Legion. Shit. I remember the dagger Caelin took from Cole and scramble in the bag for the vial that accompanied it. There's no knowing if it's the same poison, but I can't not try. Meanwhile, Caelin's breaths begin to shudder, and her light starts to fade. My fingers brush glass and metal, but I don't want to take my eyes from her, so it dances away from me somewhere in the depths of the pouch again.
Tressa comes thundering down the ramp, and I throw the bag to her. "Find me the vial," I say, choking.
"Alain, she's—"
She can't be allowed to finish that sentence. I know what the fading means, but hearing it would make it real. I snap, "The vial!"
Caelin's eyes open wide. The poison is taking hold. I remember Marsh's voice during training. Very painful, though not immediately lethal. Antidote must be administered within five minutes. Her limbs begin to shake. Tressa looks at me, panicking. "Alain!"
"Do not get hysterical on me," I tell her, my voice cold. "I need that vial." I lean forward and brush Caelin's hair from her clammy forehead. To her, I say, "I can help you. But you need to let me in. Like at the camp when we were invisible. Do you remember?"
The smallest bob of her head lets me know she's heard. I reach out with my mind, trying to feel for her. It's not difficult. What makes her her is so weak, there's almost nothing left to resist. Except, of course, that great block, the impassable wall of her birthright. Come on, I plead with her silently. Let it down.
Finally, Tressa has the vial in my hand. I leave off trying to cast for a moment long enough to uncork it. From the side, Cole leans forward. Tressa rounds on him with the dagger from the bag. "Don't even think about it," she says.
The antidote saturates the new strip of cloth I tear in a matter of seconds, and I jam it into Caelin's wound. She gasps and gags again. "It's not the right antidote," Cole says, his voice quiet.
I drop the cloth, my body sagging. Tressa isn't ready to go sallow yet. She jabs the dagger in his direction again. "Then make it."
"I don't have the materials," he answers.
"Then find them!" she shouts. "They had alchemists imprisoned here. They must have had stores."
He shakes his head, his eyes hollow. "Even—even if I could, I couldn't make it in time. She has minutes."
I look at her, but she doesn't seem to register the information. I don't know if she can hear at all. I call her name gently, then again urgently. She makes no response. I touch her face, and she blinks. She can feel. I trace the contour of her cheek, trying again.
The cloth is red with blood. If the poison doesn't kill her, the wound will, and I am running out of time.
Tressa starts to search the crowd again and again, as though this will somehow yield someone or something new. "It's no use," Cole tells her.
"I'll bloody well decide when it's no use, understand?" she yells at him.
I pull the cloth away. The blue has spread. I pull down the shoulder of her shirt, and I find that the lines flare all the way down her arm now. I shut my eyes. Please, let me in.
Please.
Please.
Maybe it is no use.
My eyes burn again, tears mixing with ash. I wipe at my face and look at her again, her eyes staring upward blindly. Only the shallow rush of her breaths gives any indication of her movement. Tressa eases up behind me. "Do something," she says, her voice small, like a child's.
"I wish I could," I say.
"You told her you could help."
"I—thought I'd be able to help the antidote spread, but now…"
I reach for her shoulder and close my eyes again. I can feel her fading as the light does from her skin. I grab her hand and hold tightly, squeezing as she had yesterday. Her fingers clench around mine for the briefest of moments.
And then the wall comes down.
My eyes fly open, and I search her features. She's still with us. I'd feared that it meant the worst, but now I'm not sure. I grasp her shoulder again, and some of the warmth returns to her hand. When I pull away, she grows cold again.
Slowly, tentatively, I take hold of her shoulder. Her arm warms up. Could this possibly—?
The magic is tugging at me. I've felt it every so often, but never like this. Never this strongly. It's like floating, wrapped in warmth—the kind of warmth you feel at the periphery of a fire. You can tell that there's a source nearby, even if you can't see it.
It shouldn't be possible. And yet, it's pulling me. I have to try.
I think hard about transforming her shoulder, about the poison dissipating, about making her neck whole again. I focus every little bit of energy in every part of my body on it. It's nowhere near as simple as disguising her face or sending her to sleep. It's harder than immobilizing the fighters. I feel my muscles going slack, like my bones themselves bow under the effort.
I don't think that I can keep this up.
Please, I beg magic, the gods, Caelin, whoever's listening. Let it work.
Her arm goes colder.
Please.
I feel the magic start to release me. No, I think. Saltwater runs down my face. No.
But something—something is happening. I open my eyes in time to see the blue lines retreating, shriveling into the wound from which they'd come. Tressa peers over my shoulder, flabbergasted. "Alain, you're doing something."
"But that's…" Cole begins.
Impossible. No magic can heal. It's something mothers tell their children when they've hurt themselves recklessly to keep them from trying to fly or hit each other or whatever stupid thing they've done this time. A reminder that no matter how we study, how we pray, how we test our boundaries, we can't stop death. But staring at her shoulder, that's all that I can think is happening. The blue is gone now, leaving only the hole in her skin. It seems to be closing over, though it's still deep, the blood dissolving. Her breathing steadies, and bit by bit, the light returns to her skin.
Tressa's hand grips my shoulder, and she cries out. "You've done it!"
I'm not so sure. If even a trace of this poison remains in her body, it could wreak havoc on her. I won't be certain of anything until Caelin gets up, until the bloodstains have been wiped away. I feel dizzy, as though I've held my breath for as long as I possibly can. Caelin's fingers close around mine, stronger than before. Her grip tightens as mine begins to slip. Tressa stoops to look at me. "Alain?"
"I think I'm going to—" I start to tell her.
Sound fades in and out. She says something that sort of looks like "whoa, hey, don’t," and her hands fumble to catch me as I sag. My head still hits the dirt, and just past her hoof, past the
haze of my own vision, I see movement. My spell has given way. Just before my sight does too, a cloud of dust kicks up, and I catch flashes of green, spurts of red, the thrash of chains as the prisoners finally break loose.
What do you know, Caelin? You freed the slave camp after all.
Chapter Thirty-One
Caelin
Everything is kind of blurry. I remember the arrow, I remember lying on the ground, and I remember Alain's scream. I remember the arrow coming out, but between that and watching him fall to the ground next to me, I don't remember much.
Alain. I bolt up and immediately regret it. A stabbing pain runs from my shoulder down into my chest. Tressa materializes in the dim light next to me and grabs hold of me, and I try to fight her off. I'm not much good at it. "You're hurt," she says.
"Obviously!" My arm is bound to my chest in a white cloth sling. Hateful thing. I just want to pull free of it, but my shoulder tells me why it's a bad idea. "Where's Alain?"
She gestures to a chair next to my cot. Cot. I blink and take in my surroundings. I'm not outside at all. I'm in a small, darkened room on a cot. From the open window, I can still smell charred dirt. Still at the prison. Tressa moves to stand next to the foot of it, and Alain sits at the head, asleep and leaned against the wall for support. "You lot," she says, "have got to quit this."
"Is he—"
"He's fine. Just worn out. You, on the other hand, were shot, poisoned, and very nearly dead before he got to you."
Oh. I blink. So that's why it hurts so much. I peel away my borrowed shirt to look at my shoulder. My neck doesn't like twisting enough to let me see. I catch a hint of bandage. My fingers probe the area. "It's not that deep," I say in surprise.
"Anymore," she tells me, folding her arms.
"How long have I…"
"A day."
I frown at her. "That’s not possible. This wound…a week of healing, at least." And if that’s true, I’ve missed All Kings’ Day, the wedding my chance at fixing things
She shakes her head. "The fight was yesterday afternoon."
