Page 47

He’d opened his eyes, at some point, the world veiled in black and white.

It made everything hard to see, indistinct shapes.

Before, when he’d channeled fire, it had always been on instinct.

Hells, his earliest experiences had been by accident, back when he didn’t fully understand what was happening, when he would have done anything to stop it.

He’d never taken the time to sink in, to feel the full weight of what he could do.

The world was dark and blurred, nothing clear except the strands of red-orange streaking through the air. Unfelt, unseen, but capable of cleansing destruction.

“You see what you want,” Gabe said, not thinking through his words anymore. “The thread of the element, how it weaves into everything else. And you tease it out.”

His finger twitched. One of those red filaments, a seed of fire, wound itself around his hand. Breached his skin and ran all through him.

“You let it into yourself,” he said, “and you tell it what you want. And then you let it go.”

He let the thread of fire burn itself to nothing, hovering in front of him, a spark and flame in the air that lasted only a handful of heartbeats.

“Excellent,” Eoin said, his voice too close. “Doesn’t sound too difficult at all.”

Things happened fast then.

Gabe shook himself from channeling-space just in time to see the Prime Minister lunge for him, a dagger in his hand. Ornate, golden, old. Gabe feinted left, the point of the blade catching his shoulder rather than his throat.

The dagger was Mount-mined; he remembered the conversation he’d overheard, put the pieces together. Apparently, Eoin thought such a thing would allow him to steal god-power. But it was just a blade that stung like any other.

Gabe snarled, catching flame, turning it toward Eoin’s cloak.

Or trying to—it was wet, soaking, and so was Eoin’s skin, his hair.

Wet footprints marked the ground between where they stood and the false Fount, filled only with common water.

But water was enough; he’d bathed himself in it while Gabe was lost in channeling-space, made himself something that couldn’t burn.

At least not for a moment, and a moment was all he needed. A Mount-mined blade wouldn’t take his power, but it could take his life quite easily.

“You don’t deserve it.” Eoin sounded nonchalant as he lunged at Gabe again, the blade swiping for his throat and missing. He was barely trying; he knew there was nowhere for Gabe to go. “All this power that you worked against bringing back into the world. And what have you done with it? Nothing.”

The other members of the Brotherhood stood at his back, blocking the stairs, holding plain steel daggers of their own. None of them advanced, letting their leader strike the killing blow. Three of them had Malcolm, two holding his arms, one with a blade to his neck.

Another halfhearted swipe of Eoin’s dagger. He had Gabe cornered; he was in no hurry. He had never not gotten something he wanted.

They had to get that Fount piece. And then they’d have to kill their way out of here.

Even as the thought came, Gabe was already looking for another solution, already hoping he could reason Eoin away from this. He didn’t want all those deaths on his conscience.

At least, he didn’t want to want them.

“Why kill me?” Gabe stood, knees bent, hands held in loose fists.

Brawling came naturally to him; doing so with a man who held a knife wasn’t smart, but Eoin’s cloak would dry eventually.

He kept testing the air, sparking dust motes into shooting stars that made the atmosphere glimmer, but Eoin’s robe was still too wet to catch.

No magical protection, just simple physics, and if that was what managed to get him stabbed, Gabe was going to scream all the way to his own personal hell.

“It won’t give you my power. It doesn’t work like that. ”

“Doesn’t it?” Eoin cocked his head. “I suppose we’ll find out, once you’re dead.”

Another swipe of his dagger. It drew blood this time, a thin line across Gabe’s chest.

“Take comfort in the fact that you would have made no difference,” Eoin said. “Your Queen is dead, your King is gone, and the Empire will be mine.” He bared his teeth. “That’s what you get for being too cowardly to use what you have.”

Gabe’s thoughts ignited, flames springing to life in his palms, burning out any shred of conscience, of doubt.

Eoin was covered in water, too wet to set afire.

But the other Brothers weren’t.

A twitch of his fingers, red-orange threads.

The Brotherhood of the Waters burst into flames.

It took them a moment to realize what was happening. Then, chaos, some of them diving toward the Fount, others screaming and running up the stairs, trying to beat out the fire by ramming themselves against the walls.

With a roar, Gabe thrust his hands at the copper door in the wall. Fire blazed around it, lighting the metal bright orange, making it drip down the stone like scouring tears.

Eoin shrieked. But the sound wasn’t anger; it was laughter, high and delighted. “Look at you!” He swiped out with the knife again. “How useful this will be when it’s mine.”

Embers crackled in the air, the fires burning everywhere finally drying the waters of the false Fount from Eoin’s skin, his cloak and hair. Gabe twisted his fingers, drawing in flame—

“I get this one,” a voice said from behind him.

A cloaked figure surged forward, familiar, holding a knife. A knife that he used to slice the Prime Minister’s throat.

For such a powerful man, from such a powerful family, Eoin died easy. Gabe had seen enough powerful men die to know that it was never any different from anyone else, but it still surprised him, every time.

Eoin’s killer turned, his hood thrown back.

“Now,” Finn said. “To take care of you.”

But Gabe was faster. He ran toward the copper door, gaping open like a death mouth.

The flames didn’t hurt as he shoved his arm through the opening, grabbing the piece of the Fount inside.

It felt worse than the fire did, immediately making his arm numb to the shoulder.

Pain rushed through him, enough to make him shout and almost drop the piece.

Finn came up behind him, struck the back of his head in the same perfect place Gabe had been taught as a child in the Presque Mort, and the pain flared out as his world went black.