Page 140 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

Chapter 30

Something comes loose within me.

A flood. Part sick horror like moth wings beating in my lungs, part black misery like an icy oil slick sliding down the back of my throat and pooling in my gut, part dark fury that turns my blood into shards of glass that tear my veins raw. This deluge tastes like fate; all my choices brought me here to drown in something I can only call pain, but it’s a sick, hungry thing that feeds upon itself, devouring, aching.

The ikonshield flickers, telling us all that the ceiling of the world has been made dark and low. The Storm bears down from above on the city, and the whisper of the Queen’s power—her curse—thrashes me from within. A wrathful tornado, remaking my insides in its image. As it batters the city, it batters me, flooding me with its pain even as it draws upon mine. We feed each other, growing stronger.

The Queen’s curse is a conduit, tying me to the Storm and the Storm to me. I taste the Storm on my lips, salt-sweet, the flavor of tears.

The Queen can cry, but my eyes are dry. I’ll cry when I’m dead.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I scream at Dalca on his spotless throne, at the watchers in the stands, to the Great Queen hiding, haunted, within the Storm. “That’s it?”

My blood is aflame.

“Let us begin the Third Trial.” Dalca’s voice echoes, punctuated only by thunder, as he stands with his white feather cloak billowing behind him. He steps off the edge of the platform, falling. His cloak catches the wind and spreads wide in an arc of stark white made blinding against the black sky. None of the thousands of people watching us matter. It’s just him and me.

My heart pounds in my ears.

The air is thick and simmering with the echo of another moment, another descent. I meet his gaze. This time, I have nothing to hide. Let him see every dark thought. Let him see what he has done to me. Let him see that I come to make war.

In his eyes lives a matching tornado. He’s prepared for battle. The tightness in his jaw, the downwards curl to his lips, the red rimming his once-bright eyes—this is his war paint.

My heartbeat, a thunder crash.

Only one of us is walking out of this. I don’t care if I survive. I only care that I make him pay.

Dalca touches down, holding my gaze. Not a speck of dust on him, just gleaming white and gold. All the glory of the sun, all light, no darkness.

What a disguise.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch flashes of black and blood-red, as several Wardana and Regia’s Guard form a loose, wide circle around me. Two heads of pale hair are among them—Cas and Ragno both stand sentinel as if to ensure a fair fight. All lies.

Gray-robed attendants approach me with armor and a sword. An awful laugh rises in my throat. What am I supposed to do with a sword?

“Do you mock our mercy?” Dalca asks.

“What mercy?” I struggle to lift the sword, my arm trembling with the weight of it. “This is an execution.”

“What an honor this is, then,” he says, flinging his arms wide. “Your Regia himself comes to carry out your sentence.”

“You’re not the Regia. Not yet.”

“No.” Dalca lifts his eyes to mine, and there’s no trace of the Great King’s blinding presence. “Not yet.”

So this is his choice. His last choice. I’m honored. A wretched amusement blends with the anger in my blood. “Your last act as a free man is to kill me.”

He looks at me with a dark smile in his eyes, one that saysI was never free.“This is what happens to traitors.” He swings at me, and I heave my sword up just in time—the blow hits the sword instead of me, but I’m still knocked back. The metal rings in my hands, sending vibrations all the way to my teeth.

I drop the tip of the sword to the ground, where Pa stood a moment ago. “Would you have fought Pa yourself?”

Dalca pauses. “I would’ve fought Alcanar, yes.”

“Don’t say his name.”

Dalca circles around me, and I turn to keep him in sight. “Why not? I’ll dance on his grave if I want to. Hekilled my grandfather. Finally, I, last of the Illusoras, have avenged the wrongs done to us. All but one.” He raises his sword to point at my heart.

Was he always like this? Did I just never see? Was I too afraid to look close, to look beyond the good to what lay underneath?