Page 29 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Cathrynne

S he stared at the sluggish brown current of the Bessamer River, thinking that she really ought to thank that beast for stepping in before she made the worst mistake of her life. She had kissed an angel and there was no point pretending it would have ended there.

How she missed the cold, haughty Lord Morningstar! At least he had been manageable. But Gavriel . . . The heat in his eyes when he looked at her stole her wits. Damn it all.

The consequence of such couplings had been drilled into her since the day she arrived at the chapter house in Arioch. If the angel’s seed took root in your womb, you could take a draught to induce abortion, but that wasn’t guaranteed to work.

Cyphers never survived the births. The Sinn clawed their way out. Their own mothers were the first to die—but not the last.

Gavriel Morningstar was no ordinary seraphim. He was an archangel. The seventh son of Valoriel, a god. What might their union produce?

A terrible thought came. What if the Dark-bringer was her own child ?

Cathrynne gripped the rail, swallowing bile. The seer had called her by name, had known exactly who she was. Every detail of that rainy night at the kloster was branded on her memory.

When he falls from grace, you must not interfere. You must let him serve his penance, even if it lasts forever.

A single day ago, Cathrynne could not have imagined Lord Morningstar falling from grace. He was the most devout of the angelic host. Rigorous, emotionless, and always correct. Yet at Red Dog Camp, she had glimpsed another man. One who came a hair’s breadth from breaking his vows.

The word penance lodged in her mind like a splinter of glass. Gavriel had used that word himself. The Rod of Penance. He said it opened a portal to the Plain of Contemplation, which sounded pleasant but wasn’t at all.

Cathrynne mulled over the vision she’d had in Felicity’s office. The Dark Rider. Stars. A pair of doves, their beaks touching. The Crossroads.

Yes, she saw it now. The Dark Rider brought a dire warning. If she fell in love with Gavriel Morningstar, it would alter the course of many things—and not for the better.

Cathrynne retreated into silence for the rest of the trip back to Kota Gelangi.

It wounded Gavriel. She saw it in the tightness of his jaw.

The man who had bantered about cheese, who had held her hand and sheltered her with a wing—who had kissed with utter abandon—disappeared.

In his place returned Lord Morningstar, high-handed and arrogant.

Thank the three gods.

“We arrive within the hour.” The voice behind her was clipped.

Cathrynne didn’t turn from the rail. “I know.”

She sensed him lingering, perhaps waiting for more, but she kept her eyes fixed on the churning water below. After a moment, he turned away, the cabin door closing with more force than necessary.

* * *

“I trust the journey to Pota Pras was eventful?” Yarl asked as he greeted them at the front door of the manor house.

You have no idea , Cathrynne thought, dropping her pack in the foyer.

“Partly,” Gavriel replied. “How were things in my absence?”

“Well, your return is timely,” Yarl continued, following them into the drawing room. “Barsal Casolaba’s funeral is scheduled for this afternoon. Your attendance is expected.”

Gavriel looked annoyed. “I suppose I have no choice. When?”

“The procession begins at three. You have been allocated a position of honor behind the immediate family.” He gestured to a stack of broadsheets on the table, all blaring headlines about the lavish funeral. “The city mourns.”

“As well they should for such a paragon of virtue,” Gavriel remarked in acid tones. “Where is Cypher Blackthorn?”

“She said she had an errand to run,” Yarl replied.

“Do you know when she plans to return?” Cathrynne asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

She cursed inwardly. She’d hoped Mercy could escort Morningstar to the funeral.

“Then I’ll freshen up and change,” she said, struggling for a neutral expression.

They parted ways without another word. In the Iskatar Room, Cathrynne stripped off her dusty clothes, washed her face, and donned a fresh uniform of silver bodice and jacket over snug black trousers. She combed the snarls from her hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

She emerged at a quarter of three to find Gavriel waiting in the foyer.

He wore his severe black magistrate’s robe, which only served to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders.

They joined the crowds filling the boulevard.

White bunting draped lampposts and balconies, the traditional color of mourning.

The funeral procession wound through the city center, led by an honor guard bearing Casolaba’s empty coffin on their shoulders.

Behind walked his widow and two grown children, carrying a silver urn that presumably contained the man’s ashes.

Witches and cyphers patrolled the streets, but since Cathrynne felt certain one—or more—of them was the culprit, she took little comfort in their presence. She divided her attention between the crowds surging against makeshift barriers and potential assassins on the rooftops.

By necessity, she had to keep Gavriel closer than she liked. He did not complain and actually seemed to be enjoying her discomfort, which annoyed her even more. She deployed a frosty stare to ensure that no one came within arm’s length, including the other dignitaries.

These included the ones with motives: the ambassador from Kievad Rus; Primo Roloa, head of the Freedom Party; and Luzia Bras, leader of the Miners’ Union, who caught Gavriel’s eye and gave him an approving nod.

Cathrynne guessed Bras was well aware he had visited Durian Padulski’s mother in Pota Pras.

“Where’s Levi Bottas?” she asked, craning her neck. “I’d expect him to be here.”

Gavriel looked around, but Casolaba’s aide was nowhere to be seen.

“My sister Haniel is absent as well,” Gavriel said, “but that is unremarkable. She disdains humans and Barsal Casolaba was no exception.”

The procession followed Rua Capitolana to Liberty Square, where a temporary stage had been erected. One by one, officials climbed the steps to deliver eulogies for the consul. They praised him as a devoted public servant, a loving family man, a champion of the people.

“What a remarkable transformation,” Gavriel murmured, his voice low but cutting. “Just days ago, those same people told me privately how much they loathed the man.”

After the speeches ended, they followed the procession to a cemetery where mausoleums housed generations of Kota’s luminaries. By the time they returned to the townhouse, Cathrynne was in such a foul mood that she wished someone would attack just so she could beat the tar out of them.

* * *

At dinner that evening, Mercy and Yarl continued their animated conversation about the Sinn, while Cathrynne pushed her food around the plate.

Every time she looked up, Gavriel was watching her, though he’d glance away the moment their eyes met.

Mercy took the first watch, and Cathrynne tumbled into bed, exhausted.

She dreamt of a featureless plain that stretched in all directions. It was a place of both scorching heat and dreadful cold. Frost glittered on the frozen earth, yet it was pocked with shallow pits in which hot ashes smoldered.

She walked and walked, until she perceived something on the horizon. When she drew closer, she saw it was a serpent coiled around a tower of black stone. The snake held a beating heart in its jaws. Red clouds streaked the sky, twisting into unnatural shapes.

Pain lanced through her chest as the snake’s jaws tightened. The heart burst between its fangs, spraying the stones of the tower with violet blood?—

Cathrynne jolted awake. Sweat drenched her nightshirt. She fumbled for the bedside lamp and switched it on. The clock on the bedside table read 3:33.

The middle of the thrice-damned night.

Around her, the house lay silent. Her racing pulse slowed and the nightmare faded, leaving vague unease. She switched off the lamp and lay back down. When she drifted off again, she didn’t dream.

The next morning, Cathrynne found Mercy in the kitchen buttering a sesame cake.

“You look tired,” Mercy said.

“And you’re the one who stayed up all night,” Cathrynne said wryly. “Have you seen him yet?”

Mercy shook her head. “He went to bed at around two. I kept a watch outside his door, but he hasn’t come out.” She patted her belly. “Got hungry, so I thought I’d grab something from the kitchen.”

It turned out that Gavriel did sleep, though it wasn’t very much. He’d taken the Sundland Room on the top floor.

Cathrynne bit into a cake. “I’ll take over.”

She climbed the stairs and sat down in the chair Mercy had stationed outside the Sundland Room. The hour grew later. The sun climbed in the sky. No sign of Gavriel.

Clearly, he was avoiding her. She didn’t relish discussing what had happened at Red Dog Camp, but they needed to clear the air. It would never happen again. With any luck, he would find Casolaba’s killer and they could go back to Arioch and never speak to each other again.

Cathrynne firmly ignored the traitorous ache in her heart at this prospect.

She knocked on his door. Gavriel didn’t answer, so she pushed it open.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. He lay atop the duvet, charcoal wings spread limply.

His skin was ashen, dark hair plastered against his forehead.

The nightshirt clung to his chest, damp with perspiration, yet when she touched his hand, it was cold.

“Cathrynne,” he croaked, hazel eyes flickering open.

She gripped his fingers. “I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong?”

He tried to speak but coughed instead, a dry, rattling sound.

“Yarl!” she shouted. “Come quickly!”

He appeared in the doorway, his face paling at the sight of his master. “I’ll send for the healers at the Angel Tower immediately,” he said, backing toward the door.

She helped Gavriel take a sip of water, then eased him back against the pillows. His wings trembled with the effort, the once glossy black feathers dull and lifeless.

The dream flashed through her mind again. She had assumed that Gavriel was the serpent, shredding her heart in his jaws. But the clouds meant deception. A hidden antagonist creating chaos, fogging minds to obscure the truth.

Cathrynne cursed herself. She had been so preoccupied with her own demons that she’d been blinded to the real threat.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his fingers tightening around hers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised.