Page 38 of Angel in Absentia (Light Locked #2)
DEAL OF THE DEAD
LEA DID NOT know if her decision would be the right one.
Maybe Virday had been a mistake. Maybe everything had been a mistake.
Maybe humanity had been destined all along to simply hide and survive, and she’d been led astray by fanciful ideas that selfishly allowed her to live in this world that might otherwise have been unlivable.
But now it was less about right and wrong.
It was about what was next, and Clea was increasingly prepared to open any of those doors.
Ryson had told her once that the choice was between truth and survival, and maybe all this time she’d chosen survival, unable to face the reality of what was to come.
Maybe Javelin de Gal would have simply let them be had she allowed her father to die.
Maybe this was her punishment for wanting to relinquish her duties.
Maybe being queen of such a world was what she had earned for her mistakes.
Nevertheless. It was done.
The king was dead. The heir and child vanished into the woods.
Their childless, unmarried queen now ruled in his place. The Belgears and Iscads were vanquished. The Insednians still remained, and one last force still lingered beyond it all: the Ashanas, led by Javelin de Gal, who at any moment might attack again.
Clea had one card left to play, and the people were so distraught in the aftermath, they didn’t question when she told them not to burn the bodies of their own people.
No one objected, following the orders, no matter how strange, until Clea was there in the dead of night, the corpses of the battle lying around her, a vast field of them. She remained among the corpses with a row of torches, waiting as an encroaching storm thundered across the horizon.
She didn’t know if the attempt would work or what the result would be, but she willed with her soul as she sat in the grass among the corpses, her legs folded beneath her as if she were meditating.
She forced herself to stay awake as the night deepened, almost into the early hours of dawn, before she heard movement.
Corpses shifted around her. Clea jolted awake and jumped to her feet just as a mask materialized in the darkness.
It was the pale visage of a human face with thin slits for the eyes and mouth, and distinct markings painted down the cheeks.
She watched the face sternly, her voice feeling raw as she said the word in greeting. “Prince.”
Her heart drummed in anticipation.
Clea Hart. The voice drifted, giving her familiar chills. He was more haunting now than he’d been, even in memory. Dare I say, you offer such a delicious tragedy and yet I do not like to see such unhappiness on your face.
“Javelin,” she said. “He did this. His people. You know of him? You are an Insednian, aren’t you?”
Prince’s mask was now fully visible, his spindly body landing silently on the ground as if unfolding from behind the mask. He was high above her, limbs like tree branches reaching down and losing all permanence before touching the grass.
Javelin de Gal, The Breathless Eater. Yes. I recognize the work of his ilk.
Prince’s hand reached for her face, and though his fingers faded to nothing, she felt a coolness against her tear-stained cheek.
You have brought me this offering in exchange for a request. Yes? How might I be of service?
Clea swallowed, feeling raw. Her skin chafed against mismatched armor she’d worn all day. Her heart chafed against her grief. Her voice was as ragged as her soul.
“You,” she said, “you once fought Javelin’s kingdom. You all did, but not any longer.”
No. Not any longer.
“Then I have a request.”
A request? Why, of course. Prince’s mask lowered as if he were kneeling enough to level his mask with her face. You have been withholding such need, dear Princess, but you should know I would have welcomed a request much sooner if I’d known what you would offer.
Tears bloomed as she said the words. “I would like to invoke my debt. The Insednians are said to be devout in their own laws. Years ago, I healed one of their own.”
I recall , Prince said, his mask tilting before it swirled completely with an enlightened, Ah. I see.
Clea stood there and waited for his answer as he straightened.
“So?” she asked.
The bodies around her riled and rustled, standing as if he accepted her request. Clea glanced down worriedly as she saw Yvan’s corpse shift near her, the sunken form lifting.
“So?” she pushed.
I would give you our aid in a heartbeat, and I am certain you will have it , he said. But there is a formality that I must oblige. You must have known, dear Princess. There is someone I must ask before granting you aid of any kind.
“Who?” she asked.
You very well have already heard the rumors and yet you believe not.
“So, it is true?” she started.
Alkerrai al Shambelin.
Clea stifled a visible response, cursing inwardly as she looked away. She wasn’t consulting with a restless tribe of Insednians. Her request was going to the Warlord of Shambelin.
“That’s not possible,” Clea said. “The title is a formality. You have someone who has taken the title?”
No, dear girl. I’m afraid not. He is awake again.
He almost sounded sympathetic. She’d been unable to hide her distress.
By Cien, that wasn’t possible was it? The Warlord of Shambelin? The actual Warlord of Shambelin. The warlord of the land of light, a rumored Venennin often compared to a god of death.
Her hands curled into fists, her eyes scanning back and forth in front of her as if reading the declarations off an invisible page.
She wasn’t requesting aid from a symbol.
No. She was requesting aid from a legend that had haunted history.
She was requesting aid not just from the enemy of her people, but the enemy of the world.
A ruthless warlord said to be one of the most powerful Venennin in history, a figure so often represented as a beast.
Did that change things?
No. It didn’t. Not really. Her people’s chances couldn’t get much worse than they already were.
That is all I can answer for now. Is there anyone else you want to ask me about?
Prince continued, as if trying to rescue her from her own spiraling thoughts.
The world felt so dark around her and she felt alone in it.
Clea swallowed, stifling anything akin to questions, knowing who she wanted to ask about.
The silence lingered between them for a moment.
“Ryson,” she said, and saying the word out loud sounded like sharing a secret. “Is he—” she started to ask.
Well? Alive?
She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Why do you not ask?
Why not?
Because if she asked, if she knew where he was, she was certain she’d ask him to take her back into the woods, away from this place of restraint and suffering.
She’d ask to return to the forest, to a place of authenticity and honesty, like a secret space reserved for them both.
She’d ask for that while the world collapsed around them.
She exhaled, wiping her face as she looked out at the darkness.
“Thank you, Prince.”
The silence lingered longer.
I will promptly deliver your message.
“Very well,” she said, and the bodies began to walk off.
She watched Yvan’s body saunter away and grabbed the arm. Yvan’s corpse turned back toward her, and it tortured Clea to see her leave.
She felt like she was abandoning her.
“She died for me,” Clea said, knowing Yvan had died for a greater cause, but unable to resist the sentiment.
What makes her precious to you also makes her precious to me, Prince said, and she jolted as his face swelled and whipped in front of her.
Unless you want to withdraw our deal? he asked, a razor in his voice as if he’d been possessed. She witnessed the depth of his addiction to death, drawing an animal out of him when threatened. She felt the air grow cold around her.
Lighting lit the horizon in patches. Her eyes widened as she saw miles of towering ghostly limbs, expanding out as far as the eye could see.
Prince’s mask was now only a small portion of his body, his expansive form revealed as the lighting lit up massive columns of limbs in one direction and then the other.
She swallowed down the terror of the sight, knowing the deal she was making had already been made.
“No,” she said.
Prince’s mask fluttered, and his entire form seemed to soften and withdraw. Lightning flashed again in the distance, and the world was now free of those ghostly, spidering columns.
You will hear from us soon , Prince’s voice echoed as the army of corpses marched into the storming darkness.
Clea eased down into the grass, staring out at the night as it began to rain, thinking of how to explain the missing bodies, and knowing she would have to refuse to.
If her plan didn’t succeed, the questions wouldn’t matter, and neither would the answers.
Clea returned wordlessly to the castle, and restlessly, at last, she slept.