Page 53 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

As the Steedlords relay how many armed men are at which outposts, how fresh their mounts are, and whether we have the numbers—unsupported as they are—to take Lorien’s forces before he breaches Tiriana, I’m drawn to the northern part of the chamber.

The stones have reappeared, nestled in a velvet box resting upon a small plinth. I rise, going to it. It’s the only thing that’s returned. No garden. No throne. No altar.

No one stops me.

And a part of me thinks someone should.

Leaning over the plinth, I take a small stone, only it’s not a stone, as I’d thought. Swirls of… dust, maybe?—glitter and spin inside the sphere.

I hold it up to the light.

It almost looks like

The breath leaves my lungs as the memory overtakes my mind.

A hand places a jezülbe into a carved black stand—not simply a stand, though. Ornate. Ritualized. As though I’m/we’re inserting it into its larger function .

As the jezülbe settles into place, I see through her eyes—no, her mind—the projected images of the worlds contained within.

The image locks in on a lovely blue and purple planet, and suddenly it’s as though I’m—we’re — falling into the world.

Tumbling through stars and then clouds and purple treetops.

And then demons.

Horned ones, skin every color I can think of and those I’ve never thought to name. Living their lives, building homes and sharing food and finding love.

These are the people I was jealous of?

This is the realm I cleaved as Dama?

The stone slips from my fingers, thudding back into its velvet home.

I don’t know if I should pick it up again, but when I reach for it, they’re gone.

Plinth, box, stones, everything.

I look up, to see if anyone else…

But everyone at the table is busy with the same conversation.

Everyone except Tyr, whose black eyes track me—asking.

I nod.

But I don’t think that’s truthful.

Am I all right?

I don’t think so.

“Why did Dama sunder the demon realm?” I ask, cutting through Dusk’s mounted cavalry demonstration.

Jaws tighten around the table. Tyr’s, the Steedlords’, and the Withered King’s.

Selke is about to ask what I’m talking about when Ashera places a hand on her sleeve.

“You can’t tell me.”

Shadows coil at my feet as the front doors crash open.

The benches and chairs scrape back at once. The Withered King aims a hand at the sound, while the Steedlords take up defensive crouches. Selke tucks Ashera behind her and readies one of the vials from her bandoleer.

Shadows part and standing before us is the?—

“Captain,” Tyr says with a sigh. “You gave us all a start. Save the door next time, eh?”

The captain removes his helmet, face ashen, the whites of his eyes showing all around. “General, Lorien has?—”

It’s then I see the bloodied burlap cradled against his body.

“He’s delivered a message.”

His eyes go to me, and I already know.

“Well, let us see it then. Don’t drag it out,” Cinder says heavily.

The captain draws in a ragged breath. “It was addressed to the Lady of Shadows.”

My body moves on its own accord, drifting toward the captain. I take the burlap. Feel the weight. The shape.

A sob lodges in my throat.

I don’t let it out as I unwrap the bloodied fabric on the table.

A severed arm. Pale, young, clearly female with soil under the nails and…

The sob tears out of me as my eyes fall on the purple smudge in the vague shape of…

My sister’s birthmark.

Tyr is at my back, holding me up as my knees crumble.

“No,” I whisper.

“Take it!” commands Dusk .

“NO! Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her! Any of you!”

Vella’s arm lies on the wooden table, a note tacked to the underside of her wrist with a nail.

I break free of Tyr’s grip and remove the nail carefully.

Blood leaks from the wound… so slowly.

My eyes won’t focus enough to read the message, and I simply hold it up for whomever to take.

Ashera reads it aloud.

“You can’t hide what you are. Not from me.

Not anymore. Choose. Or I’ll choose for you.”

“What does that mean?” Selke asks quietly.

I swallow the bile and fury rising in my throat. The throne shivers back into existence behind her, and I ignore it. “It means Lorien just signed his own death vow.”

Ashera steps out from behind Selke. “What do you need?”

My limbs grow cold, numb, fingers tingling, and it’s not from the open door. I look out into the frozen world, the outskirts of Tiriana, ringed in fire and smoke and ice.

Cinder steps behind me, a broad hand on my shoulder. “Gods don’t let threats go unanswered,’ he murmurs.

And I know he’s right.

But if I strike now, he’ll expect that.

And if I wait, he’ll have time to gather more forces, or more innocents.

I turn to Tyr and he…

He steps away from me.

“Do what you must,” he says quietly, pain stitched into every syllable.

“You—you don’t want me to take the life of the thing that maimed—” I pause not wanting to say what I know could be true aloud.

Tears fill my eyes. “You don’t want me to end the king who may have murdered my sister? The very person I’m here to protect?”

The calm stillness that always radiates from him shatters. Power roils off him, wind and freezing cold and so much death…

“I never said that,” he says between gritted teeth “You must make this choice for yourself.”

“But you clearly have an opinion on that matter. Such a strong one you can’t even keep your composure. So please, Tyr, tell me what’s got your silks in a knot.”

I feel more than see Ashera and Selke edging away.

His dark brows draw tight. His mouth opens, then closes.

“Amara, I—” He drags a hand through his hair, shoving back the strands blown wild by his magic.

Then he steps in.

Grabs my forearms.

“I cannot lose you again. Whatever you do—whatever you decide—make it bloody count.”

I take a breath, let it out slow, and then meet his gaze. “I need a minute,” I say and then walk past him, leaving the Ruined Fortress for the strange familiarity of the cold.

Wind bites at my face.

I’m not dressed for this.

My thin boots sink into the ice and snow.

It’ll only be moments before the cold and damp touch my skin.

But I stand there, breathing the air that hurts my nose, my face .

Shadows cling to the snow, curling over the drifts like smoke. “What should I do?” I whisper to them.

They don’t respond.

I hold out a hand, offering it. “Show me what you know,” I ask and the shadows twist and writhe up my arm.

But they don’t show me their secrets.

Don’t twist around my head.

“Show me what Lorien knows.”

A tendril breaks off instantly, circling my shoulder, neck, then finally around my temples.

Lines of people in formation. Standing at attention, waiting.

But these aren’t soldiers.

They wear no armor, have no swords or war horses.

They stand slack-jawed, gaze emptied of all humanity, all consciousness.

Like Sinea.

I stare at the faces, recognizing so many. Neighbors from Tiriana. Potentials from Shadowfell.

Even Shoreena’s lovely face stands among the frozen husks, ready to do Lorien’s bidding.

I stumble backward, falling into a snowdrift.

Pant legs soaked, feet frozen, I march back to the Ruined Fortress, opening both doors as I enter.

All eyes are on me.

“He’s made an army of vestiges,” I say, the wind howling at my back.

Cinder raises his fist in the air. “Then we fight like gods.”

His brother stands next to him, nodding, but says nothing.

I look at the Withered King. “The False Light’s time has come to an end,” he says and finishes his portion of wine .

I look toward Ashera. “Graceborns offer their magic through me. I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a warrior or a Shadow Queen or a god. I’m a woman.”

I smile at her. “That’s more than enough.”

Selke smiles. “Damn right it is.” She turns to me. “Did you see where he has his vestiges?”

I nod, and Tyr conjures a map.

“Right here,” I say pointing to the thinnest part of the Pine Forest.

“I have troops stationed?—”

I don’t let Tyr finish the thought. “I’m not letting that worm king take another one of us. Not a soldier or girl or anyone.”

Tyr holds my gaze, asking.

I nod. “We go together. Silently. We take him out as fast and efficiently as possible.”

The Steedlords bump their gauntlets against the other.

“We need weather-appropriate clothes,” I say, gesturing to Ashera, Selke, and myself.

“I’ll keep you warm. I’ve been doing it since the cave,” Tyr says lightly, but I shake my head.

“I won’t leave the survival of the humans up to one person. Clothe us properly or unmake the frost.”

At that, Tyr startles. “Amara I cannot simply unmake what I built with blood and grief to protect so many.”

“Then you’d better start conjuring some coats and boots.”

“Amara, I don’t think you understand what you’re asking.”

“Clothes, Tyr. I’m asking for clothes.”

He shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You’re asking four god-aligned demons to take three human women to war. Not just to war but to war in a magically frozen land that we must trek to on foot. We cannot simply shimmer into the forest where Lorien is.”

“And why not?” I ask.

It’s the Withered King who answers. “Do you think an ice wall and frozen land would be enough to stop Lorien if he could shimmer through it like it was simply weather?”

“I made the protections around Tiriana impervious to magical transport. The only exception being…”

“The red blades the guards carry.”

Tyr nods.

“Well, let’s get one of those then.”

“They only work once you’re already within the bounds of the protection magic.”

I’m getting a clearer picture of what this is going to take.

“I can take us to the outskirts of the magic, as close to Lorien as possible. But we’ll need to trek through the ice and snow and wind the rest of the way on foot.”

I glance at Ashera and Selke.

Ashera shrugs. “I like new clothes. Put me in some furs, Tyr.”

“Coordinating, if you can manage it,” Selke adds, pulling Ashera close and kissing her cheek.

If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it, but as Selke’s lips brush Ashera’s face, Ashera’s nose and neck turn a flushed pink.

I smile at that and turn to the Steedlords. “What about you? I’m sure you’re equipped to handle the elements?”

“Certainly,” Dusk says. “In our other form that is. This one”—he gestures to his torso—“is rather particular about being comfortable.”

“So you expect seven people to sneak through the forest to get to Lorien while two of them exist as enormous war horses? Yeah, I see several flaws in that plan,” Selke says .

“Tyr can hide us with storm winds and snow.”

The Withered King finally stands from his seat at the table. “I suppose I can make certain the women don’t freeze.”

“Thanks,” Ashera tosses at him. “Glad to see you’re contributing something other than drunken distain.”

The king makes a dismissive sound in the back of his throat.

A few minutes later Ashera, Selke, and I have new coats, gloves, and boots. “Keep them open. You won’t need them so long as Morvain does his job.”

“Who’s Morvain?” I ask.

The Withered King sighs. “That is my name, girl. You’d know that if you hadn’t dubbed me with that insufferable pet name from the outset.”

“Right. Are we ready?” I look to each of the people gathered to help me. They all meet my gaze with nods and tight smiles.

“Then let’s murder us a worm king.”