Page 12 of No Greater Sorrow (Our Lady of Fire #2)

Where the hell were they? Nicolas searched the darkness for two heads of red hair—one bright, the other dark.

A Principality that’d stumbled out of the shadows with a bleeding gash in his neck lay at Nicolas’s feet. He’d nearly forgotten how easily killing came to him until he sent an army of shadows down the man’s throat to tear him apart from the inside. Since the Principality’s gurgling scream had faded, the lone sound was the clamor of the Astraelis armies. They scrambled to contain an Authority that’d veered into the tents and was using its great wings to send them flying off the stakes holding them to the ground.

A loud crash slammed into him with an almost physical force, snapping his attention back toward the camp’s center. Two Authorities were now airborne. Nicolas crouched for cover as the gaping mouth of the one tore an enormous chunk out of a wing of the other; blood rained into the darkness, absorbed by shadow before it could visibly hit the ground.

Violet wasn’t luring them. She was confusing them. Possibly even controlling them.

At that moment, Nicolas didn’t know whether this would be their salvation or damnation. But there was no time to question her while Aleja and Orla were in danger, and Merit was probably still in chains.

A Throne pawed at the dirt to Nicolas’s left, disoriented. He knew he should kill it, lest it get its bearings, but he wasn’t sure how much magic he had left in him—or how much he would need to get his soldiers out of here. Dammit, his chest hurt so much already.

It had been centuries since he’d tugged on the bond between Aleja and himself. Lately, it’d felt too much like an invasion of her privacy, but now there was no choice. After a moment, he felt something weak pull back. The effort of someone responding on instinct alone.

“Garm, keep Violet safe,” Nicolas snapped. “You have my permission to kill Val if needed.”

Nicolas ran into the darkness, encountering little resistance. The black monoliths of smithing equipment appeared around him, then something else moved. The figure was too tall to be one of his Saints, and its head was wreathed in a halo of wings, more numerous than the six-winged masks the other Principalities wore. The Messenger raised her arms, and before Nicolas could send a wave of shadows down her throat, a flare of light chased his darkness away.

Not just in the immediate vicinity.

Everywhere.

He saw Merit, wrapped in iron chains, and flanked by Aleja and Orla. Deep blue bruises bloomed around Aleja’s scarred throat, but she seemed steady. Nicolas did not miss the look the Messenger shot his wife.

“Nicolas,” said the Messenger. She seemed unconcerned about being surrounded by three Dark Saints and the Knowing One, nor about the two Authorities clashing overhead, their blood coming in waves like the spits of a rainstorm.

“You should have given us advanced notice. I would have prepared a proper delegation to meet you. It’s a clever trick with the Authorities, I’ll give you that. How did you manage it?” the Messenger went on cordially. Her mask hid her expression, but not how her fists clenched at the sight of him. Nor the way her left foot dropped back in case she needed to spring into a fighting stance.

Aleja took a step forward, but Nicolas tugged on the bond, hoping she would understand the message. It was too late for any sort of ruse. Their only remaining advantage was the Authorities distracting the rest of the camp. Get Merit out of here. I can handle her , he wanted to scream.

As he drew his sword, the Messenger merely watched Nicolas through her hypnotic mask. She gave a soft laugh. “It’s almost a shame. All this time I’ve looked forward to killing you, and here you’ve done it for me.”

Nicolas turned the sword hilt in his hands; black flames flickered to life around it. Still, neither of them moved. “You’re surrounded, Messenger. Let me walk away with my Dark Saints and we won’t have to fight. None of your Principalities have come to your rescue, and you know one-on-one, I’ll win.”

“I’ve asked them not to,” she said. Quietly. Politely. As if Nicolas had requested this meeting be them alone, and she was gently reminding him that she’d obliged. “I wanted the chance to speak with you myself. Besides, I can sense that poison in your chest. Have you told your Saints or are you hoping to win the war before the Second’s magic kills you?”

“The only thing I’m interested in discussing is your surrender.”

“As stubborn as ever, Knowing One. I am going to give you one more chance. Put your weapons down and walk away with all your Saints but Merit. I’ll send him on his way to you once his work is done.”

Nicolas snarled. “Why would I do that when you’re the one in trouble? You’ve lost control of your Authorities.”

“We have no interest in killing you or your Otherlanders; at least, not unprovoked. But this is an act of aggression on your part and will be treated as such unless you take my offer now.”

One of the Authorities finally lost enough wings to tumble to the ground, collapsing several more of the tents with a crash. Feathers joined the bloody rain, falling in shades of pink and gold, but Nicolas didn’t dare take his eyes off the Messenger.

“Wait!” someone called.

Violet had blood splattered across her face, too viscous and dark to be hers. Nor did it belong to the Principality that she pushed to the ground in front of her. Val’s robes were soaked with mud and gore. A fully grown hellhound stood behind them, with blazing eyes, pawing at the ground as if he could hardly contain his instinct to attack the Messenger on sight.

“Let them go, or I’ll kill him. I know how to do it,” Violet shouted, pressing an Astraelis dagger into the gap of skin between Val’s jaw and the neckline of his jacket. Val hadn’t carried a weapon; Nicolas had made sure of it. They must have picked it up from the dead Principality at the shadows’ edge.

The Messenger watched the scene, motionless aside from the subtle ripples of her mask. If she was shocked to see her son pushed into the mud by a human woman with an Astraelis dagger, all she showed for it was a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Nicolas saw his chance. And, apparently, so did Orla.

There were several gifts the Second could bestow on Dark Saints; fire, shadow, and influence might be the most common, and some Saints—like Taddeas and Merit—were able to channel magic through physical objects. But when Orla emerged from the Second’s cave after her last Trial and displayed her new ability, Nicolas couldn’t deny he’d felt a heap of jealousy.

Void. One of the rarest of the Second’s blessings.

A hole opened beneath the Messenger’s feet, pitch-black and seemingly endless. Jumping back, her left foot tumbled into the darkness. It was enough to throw her off-balance, and she missed her chance to strike as gold flames roared to life around her sword.

“Idiots,” the Messenger hissed, scrambling away from Orla’s abyss. The Dark Saint of Envy would need time to summon another, but Nicolas hadn’t been the one to lose his footing. He struck at the Messenger’s neck—like the Thrones, her most vulnerable body part—but this wasn’t the first time he and the Messenger had come to blows. Yet even as she dodged, anticipating the move, the strike lobbed off a piece of her mask, releasing a new flurry of feathers.

But in the end, it wasn’t the Messenger that forced him to retreat.

It was the second Authority, barreling out of the sky toward them. Its eyes swiveled frantically as it seemed to realize it had lost control.

“Run!” he shouted at Violet and Val, as a wave of mud rose from the impact of the Authority’s body like a tidal wave.

“The Messenger has the key! We can’t get Merit out,” Aleja shouted.

A few nearby Principalities looked eager to disobey the Messenger’s orders, but they were wary to approach the Authority struggling to pull one of its wings out of the mud with the Messenger crushed somewhere underneath.

“I know what to do,” Val yelled back.

Nicolas palmed the Umbramare stone in his free hand as he chased Val and Violet toward the forge. He had the strength to summon them one more time, but the intense pain accompanying each breath told him whatever defense he was able to muster against the approaching enemies would be lacking. And he was right. The darkness he called up was weak—thin as a morning fog.

Orla had recovered, at least partially; the voids she summoned this time were small and numerous. With a wave of her hand, she sent them scattering across the darkness like a minefield. One of the Principalities trying to pull the Messenger out from under the Authority lost a chunk of his shoulder to a spot of pure oblivion.

“Oh. Hey, Nic,” Merit said flatly, as if he wasn’t bound by chains in an increasingly chaotic Astraelis camp. “I already told them, the?—”

“The Messenger’s key isn’t literal. It’s magic. Magic I invented.” Val’s words were nearly slurred from the speed with which he’d gasped them out. His hands shook as he reached for the chains. “I’ll just need a moment. Aleja, your sickle, please.”

“We don’t have a moment,” Orla began before fire rose around them in a massive ring almost engulfing their party. The air filled with the stench of burning feathers. Nicolas and Orla may have exhausted their gifts, but Our Lady of Wrath had not. A Throne passed over them, but with the flames licking its stomach, it didn’t dare descend.

“Take the sickle off my belt. I won’t be able to hold this for long,” Aleja said through gritted teeth as Garm barked, his voice rough and monstrous.

“Another second, please,” Val replied. “I just need to find…”

“There’s a weak spot. The third link from my right wrist. I can sense it, but I haven’t been able to break through,” Merit told him.

Nicolas’s eyes shot to Aleja again. Her palms were raised, a sheen of sweat on her brow. When his chest hurt then, it had nothing to do with the poisoned tattoo seeping into his blood. His High General. His consort. His wife. She may not have had her memories, but she was still entirely herself, even when they were surrounded by danger. It ached to look at her.

“Got it,” Val said. There came a sound of chains hitting the ground, but Nicolas was too busy searching the sky to look.

“Everyone, get your Umbramares ready. When Aleja’s fire drops, we need to get out of here as fast as we can,” Nicolas said.

“They’re going to chase us,” Orla muttered. The dark surface of her Umbramare stone flashed red as fire reflected off of it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Orla said, voice sharp. She knew his limits as well as he did.

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Aleja?”

“Sorry, I can’t?—”

Nicolas threw the Umbramare stone against the scorched ground, his arms flying to Aleja’s waist as her flames extinguished. She smelled of cloves and citrus, as she always had, even in their nameless kingdom by the sea.

The Umbramares were not alone as they tore across the landscape. With the fire gone, the Throne was no longer anxious about flying low to the ground. The Umbramares were faster, but the Throne kept at their heels until Garm turned his massive head and snapped, taking a chunk out of the Throne’s leg. It screeched in pain and banked up.

But that was not the only danger left.

The earth cracked and one of the Umbramares stumbled, sending Val and Violet tumbling. Aleja reached for Violet as they passed, but the ground shifted again. Nicolas’s last thought before he hit the soil was that the damned Principalities always fought from a distance. His second was that if Aleja was hurt, he wasn’t going to leave this place until he had the Messenger’s blood on his sword.

He turned, spat dirt from his mouth, and summoned his wings.

Keep running, you fools , he thought, but for all the simmering resentment between himself and Orla, he knew she would never leave a wounded soldier behind on the battlefield. “Aleja, get the others and go,” he growled.

“No fucking way,” she said, wiping mud from her brow. The flames engulfing her hands were a weak yellow and pale blue; her magic would be useless against the row of Principalities that appeared on the ridge, but the Throne must have remembered the pain of her fire and kept away.

“What are we going to do, Nic?” Aleja said, sounding truly afraid for the first time since they’d left the Hiding Place.

Somewhere, the Messenger shouted, but her words were muffled—incoherent.

The Principalities raised their hands in unison. He’d seen this technique on the battlefield before; in a moment, spires of rock would rise to impale them, and any who were spared the initial onslaught would be separated from each other by a labyrinth of stone. If Nicolas wanted to stop it, he had no choice but to use the last ounce of magic left in him.

There wasn’t time to raise his full power. He gathered what darkness he could, willing it to solidify, and pushed . But this wave of magic was not the only one that went out. A flash of pale feathers came from Nicolas’s right. For a dreadful moment, he believed one of the Principalities had flanked them from the rear.

Val.

Val’s magic made the world tremble. Shimmering streaks of gold rushed toward the Principalities alongside Nicolas’s shadows, joining the swathe of darkness.

Astraelis and Otherlander magic, used together for the first time in millennia. He’d never known a time when their peoples were one, but for all that Nicolas wanted to marvel at how well they worked together, the stab of pain in his chest almost made him double over. His vision swam with red, and he realized it was Aleja’s hair, pulled out of its braids in the chaos.

Someone took hold of his shoulders, their hands larger than Aleja’s. Soft feathers brushed against Nicolas’s face as the person forced him to straighten. “The Umbramares are gone. Summon them. The Principalities won’t hold back for long,” Val urged.

Nicolas called the last bit of magic from inside of himself, feeling like it was being wrenched directly from his chest. There was a jostle. Nicolas was barely aware of the way he slumped against Aleja’s back as she took hold of the Umbramare’s mane and shouted for them to move.

In the last moment before blackness overtook his vision entirely, Nicolas realized Aleja was right. The Messenger’s hesitance had saved their lives. And, if he died here, at least his people would have their Lady of Wrath to lead them.