Page 24

Chapter Twenty-four

The rain has slowed from a downpour to a drizzle by the time I bid Carys farewell and start my sodden march back to the palace. The streets are empty as I have ever witnessed, the normal midday hubbub of the marketplace forced indoors by the elements. The vendor stalls are vacant. Even the chestnut roaster, who seems a steady fixture, is gone from his usual post.

I tromp through puddles, my skirts a damp slap against my legs. My cloak is soaked through. The constant patter of rain against the earth is the only sound except for my squelching boots. For once, I am eager to get back to the warmth of the tower, with its crackling fireplace and volcanic wall.

Cobblestones gleam orange and red, a sheen of moisture catching the flickering glow of the lamplight. The air is chill, but I barely feel it. My thoughts are directed deep inward as I hurry down the abandoned roadway, head bent to avoid the worst of the raindrops.

I am worried about Carys, worried Uther will not make it home in time for the birth, worried she will trip down the stairs and go into labor prematurely. I have half a mind to turn around and head back to High Street, just so she won’t be alone, but I know my absence at the palace will certainly be noted if I’m not there in a few hours when the maids pay their nightly call.

“Tomorrow, first thing, I will go back and check on her,” I mutter to myself as I walk past a row of parked merchant wagons. Next morning’s deliveries, piled high with goods. “I’ll ensure she does not overexert herself. And make her drink more of the healing tea she so loath—”

The fist comes out of nowhere.

It clips me across the mouth, hard enough to split my lip. I taste blood on my tongue, a rush of hot copper, and cry out in pain. The sound is swallowed up by a large hand that claps over the bottom half of my face. In a blink, a second arm bands around my midsection, hard as granite, and hauls me backward. I kick and claw as I am dragged between two parked wagons, but whoever has me in his grasp is barrel-chested, with arms like anvils. The speed at which I find myself subdued is laughable.

My eyes widen when I see where he is taking me. One of the wagons is open at the back. I know instantly that I am the intended cargo. My teeth sink into the fleshy part of his palm, hard enough that he loosens his hold for a moment. He hisses an oath as I drop low and twist away, falling face-first into a puddle when my wet skirts tangle around my legs. The skin tears away from my hands as I scramble for purchase on the rough sidewalk, dragging myself forward.

The instant I find my feet, I start running flat out. He chases me, boots pounding through the puddles so close, I can feel the splashes against my back.

Where the hell is Gower when I need him?

With each stride, the cold power at my chest coils tighter, searing through my cloak. I reach inward for the wind that might save me, but it slips uselessly through my fingers, dulled by the fear and panic overriding my senses. Resorting to more traditional methods, I shove one hand into my cloak pocket to retrieve my dagger while the other fumbles for the whistle hanging on the cord at my throat.

I’m not too far from the soldiers’ barracks. If I can signal for help, someone will surely hear me. Someone will come running. Someone will—

The whistle never makes it to my lips.

He clobbers me from behind with something much harder than a fist. It feels like a plank of wood or the hilt of a sword. Stars burst in my visual field, fragmenting the world around me into a kaleidoscope of colors. I go down in a heap of limbs, landing face down in a puddle. I feel the dirty water seep through the fabric of my dress, into my skin.

Then I feel nothing at all.

The wagon rolls along an uneven road, jolting painfully each time we hit a divot. I am slumped on the floor in the back, hands bound with coarse rope. There is a gag in my mouth, so tight I can barely breathe. My tongue is parched as sand. My head throbs so fiercely, it is a miracle I am able to see straight.

Struggling into a sitting position, I gingerly probe the back of my skull and discover an egg-sized lump beneath my braid. No wonder my head hurts. I wipe the crust of dried blood from my lower lip with my damp dress sleeve. To my surprise, the split is already healed—as are my scraped palms. My enhanced healing abilities are well intact, at least.

Through a slotted window at the front, I can make out the back of my captor’s neck. He has not yet realized I am awake, focused as he is on steering the pair of mules who pull us through the gathering dusk. It is not yet full dark. A good sign. I was unconscious only briefly, which means we have not been on the road for long. We might even still be in Caeldera.

Pulse pounding, I press my cheek against the side of the wagon, trying to make out slivers of passing scenery between the splintered wood planks. I see no buildings. Only fields of barren, half-frozen farmland and pine trees piled with dripping snowmelt. The road beneath our wheels is not cobblestone, but hard-packed reddish dirt.

We are beyond the city limits.

Beyond the wards.

My heart sinks into my stomach as hope withers within me. I have been taken. For what purpose, I do not know. By whom, I do not know. All I do know for sure is that it is no one’s fault except my own.

I trusted Penn when he said no one could get to me in the capital. I thought myself safe within the protective cradle of the crater, shielded from outside evils by an invisible barrier. I fancied myself untouchable in my new existence at the palace. And so, I had let down my guard, had dropped my constant vigilance.

All for…what? A handful of steady meals? A place to rest my head? A chest of warm clothes? A bit of kinship?

For that, I traded my life.

I am no better than a starving alley cat, won over with a few tossed scraps.

How quickly I settled into new patterns at the palace. How fast I forgot that I never meant to stay—not in Caeldera, not with Penn. Not permanently.

Where was my sense of self-preservation?

Where was the foundation of logic on which Eli raised me?

I had lost sight of everything that kept me alive, everything that carried me through those long months on the run. And now I would face the consequences.

My pulse leaps when we lurch to a stop. Muffled male voices call out to my captor, asking for his credentials. We are at a security checkpoint. Hope surges anew. But just as I am about to begin banging on the side of the wagon with my bound hands, my captor responds to the men in the tower, his voice gruff as it carries back to them through the twilight.

My soul stills along with my body.

I know that voice.

Recognize it.

“My credentials ? I am Second Lieutenant Gower of the Ember Guild,” he snarls. “I don’t appreciate being delayed. Let’s move it along, shall we?”

Gower!

There is a tense beat of silence. “We haven’t heard anything about a transport…”

“Nor would you. This is Prince Pendefyre’s personal business.”

“Of course,” the guard hedges. “But you must understand, we have certain protocols…”

My dazed mind struggles to make sense of this unexpected turn of events. Perhaps Gower has taken me on Penn’s orders?

I dismiss the possibility almost as quickly as it arises. Penn would never allow anyone to lay a hand on me, let alone throw me into the back of a wagon under the cover of darkness and sneak me out of the city.

In a swift resurgence of desperation, I thump my bound fists against the side of the wagon hard enough to bruise. I scream, but the sound barely permeates the gag around my face. I yank it roughly down and try again.

“Help!” I yell. “Help! Back here!”

“What in gods’ name is—”

The guard’s question cuts off abruptly as Gower vaults from the driver’s seat, his body weight jolting the wagon. I scramble toward the slot-like window at the front. I can see nothing. Nothing except the short, stubby manes of the two mules. But what I hear paints a clear enough picture.

The slide of a sword pulling free from its scabbard. A brief scuffle, thudding limbs, and traded blows. A short scream of pain. And then…

Chilling silence.

When Gower’s face, red with exertion, appears on the other side of the slotted window, I backpedal so quickly I go down on my ass in a tangle of skirts. I stare up into his cold, dead eyes as waves of despair wash over me.

The guards are dead.

And with them, my chance at escape.

“Stupid bitch,” he seethes. “If I weren’t getting paid to deliver you intact, you’d feel the length of my sword for that little stunt.”

I’m shaking with anger and fear as I get to my feet. “You killed them. Those guards outside—”

“And whose fault is that?” he roars, so incensed that spittle flies through the slot. Lank black hair falls over his sweat-dotted brow. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, they’d still be alive.”

I stare at him—at the crazed glint of hatred in his eyes—and know there is little point in arguing. Steeling my shoulders, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to the likes of you.”

“Coin, then? It must be.” My head tilts in contemplation. “I wonder, Gower…what is the going rate for betrayal these days?”

“I owe you no loyalty, bitch. I didn’t betray you.”

“Maybe not. But you betrayed your leader. Your prince. And I’m certain he will be less than forgiving when he finds out.”

He flinches ever so slightly at my words. “He’s not going to find out.”

I laugh. “You’re delusional. You really think you can kidnap me and no one will notice?”

“I have a plan—”

“I’m guessing whatever plan you had went to hell the minute you killed those guards outside.”

Gower’s eyes flash with wrath. “You know nothing!”

“I know Penn will kill you for this,” I whisper in a bald voice. “There is no place you can run, no place you can hide. He will hunt you down wherever you go. His face will be the last you see before your pathetic existence is snuffed out like a flickering candle.”

“I have fought beside Pendefyre for years. You have been around for…what? A handful of weeks?” His voice is sheer malice. “He may enjoy bedding you, but I assure you, he will hardly mourn your loss. No one will. You may be of importance to our enemies, but all in Caeldera will forget you long before I’ve reaped the rewards of this exchange.”

His words knife through me, but I keep my expression still and calm as the waters at the center of my mind’s eye. “Is that how you justify your actions, Gower? The reward purse outweighs your conscience? Assuming you have a conscience, that is. Doubtful, seeing as you’ve kidnapped me for a bit of extra coin.”

“Not a bit of extra coin, you stupid bitch! Efnysien is offering immortality for the one who delivers you to him!”

I struggle to keep my shock buried beneath a mask of indifference.

Gower’s eyes go unfocused, as though he is not fully there. Not fully seeing me or speaking to me. “Deliver the girl, get to live forever. His scouts have spread the missive far and wide. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes him up on the bargain. Why not me? Why should I not benefit from your existence? Your life for mine. A fair trade if I ever heard one. Who in his right mind would resist such a reward?”

My eyes scan his face more intently. I have never looked at him— really looked at him—before. He is always scowling at me or storming off before I can study him with any sort of acuity. But now, seeing him up close for the first time, I notice a faint yellowing of his skin. A jaundiced undertone I have observed in sickly babes and dying men. His eyes, too, show signs of illness. They are ringed with deep shadows, their whites turned the dull shade of curdled cream. And there is a gauntness to his cheekbones at odds with the complexion of a healthy warrior.

“How long have you been dying, Gower?”

His gaze jerks back to mine, wide with shock. “ What did you say to me? ”

“You’re dying. I can see it clear as day. Judging by your pallor, you’ve been ill for quite a while now.” I take a swing in the dark, hoping my guess strikes home. “Has the vomiting begun? The bloody stools? The burning bile in your throat?”

“Shut up!”

“Your reaction suggests that it has,” I say softly. “You must be in a great deal of pain.”

“You have no idea. No idea what—” He chokes into silence, his teeth gnashing together to contain his words. “It doesn’t matter. Soon, I will be healed. I will be immortal. And you…you will be dead.”

“No.”

His scowl darkens. “ No? ”

“No.” I shake my head at him, almost in pity. “I will not die. Not today, in any case. And not because of you, you miserable excuse for a man.”

“You little—”

“You will be the one to die, Gower,” I cut him off. “Long before you make it to Efnysien to claim your supposed immortality.”

I must appear calm to him in that moment, with my serene expression and even tone. But inside, I am far from calm. Inside, I am a gathering storm. A churning cyclone, growing in strength. Rising to meet the rage that thrums through my veins as I stare at this traitor who intends to steal away my future.

I am not about to let him.

Not when I have the power to stop him coiled at the center of my chest, poised to strike with a viciousness I have only felt once before.

“What—what are you doing?” Gower’s face is no longer full of scorn. It is full of fear as he shouts over the growing wind that fills the wagon. Planks of wood rattle as the entire rig rocks back and forth with increasing velocity.

“Stop this!” he screams, pulling his face back from the slotted window. “Whatever it is you’re doing, stop right now!”

“Goodbye, Gower.”

I close my eyes, surrendering to the storm the same way I had on the mountainside when I held back the inferno. The power bursts from beneath my skin, exploding out of me like a shock wave of electrified air. There are no ancient wards to contain it this time. No bond of support from Penn’s formidable presence.

I am untethered.

Unencumbered.

Unrepentant.

My bonds rip away, snatched from my wrists like they are made of paper. My back bows under the force of it—spine arching, head falling back. I hear the sound of splintering wood. My eyes sliver open and I see not the wagon’s ceiling, but open sky.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, Penn is shouting at me to contain it. To lock it down before it kills me. I pay him no heed as another shock wave blasts outward, this one even stronger than before. So strong, it lifts me clean off my feet. I brace myself for a fall, but my body does not hit the earth below; instead, it rises toward the sky. I ascend into the air like a bird in flight—arms outstretched, hair billowing all around me, skirts fluttering like wings.

I hover there as the wagon combusts beneath me. Nails shudder loose from their holes, wheels fly from their axles, boards shred into shards. The team of mules bolts with a clatter of hooves, their tack trailing behind them in the dirt. I do not see Gower in the melee, but I hear him cry out in pain—a brief bleat of agony—before the sound is snatched away by the wind. All around me, the vortex kicks up a cloud of dust and debris as it lengthens into a towering funnel cloud that stretches from the earth to the clouds far overhead.

Someone is wailing—an unearthly, inhuman sound. It’s me, I realize after a moment, feeling the strain in the hinge of my jaw as the cry spills out. Blood drips from my eyes like tears, tracking down my face into my open mouth.

It tastes like copper.

It tastes like pain.

It tastes like madness.

Raw power. Too much to hold without shattering. Too much to endure without my skull cleaving in two. It is cracking me open. Flaying me into fragments. I float there at the center of the tornado, losing myself in slow degrees as the pulses of power strengthen. My consciousness flags beneath the crushing mass of agony and air, beneath the biting cold at my breast that pierces my lungs and steals my breath. I am no longer me—no longer Rhya Fleetwood, Remnant of Air.

I am simply…air itself.

The wind itself.

Think of every breeze that has ever stirred between every blade of grass in every corner of this world…Think of every ripping squall that has ever filled the sails of every ship in every far-off sea…Think of every soaring current that has carried every bird that dared spread its wings in every distant sky…

Strange—it is Soren’s voice I hear in that final second before my mind blanks entirely.

From a whisper to a scream, from the lightest puff to the wildest tempest…

All that resides within you.

All that and still more.

Another shock wave crashes outward, carrying with it my last semblance of strength. My mind tapers into darkness so suddenly, there is no time even to brace as I plummet from midair to the hard-packed roadway below.

If the landing hurts, I have no inkling of it.

I am already unconscious.

Dawn is peeking over the horizon when I shake off my dreams, pushing out of the deep, dark sea where I am drowning, gasping awake as my head breaks the surface. I blink up at the sky, thoroughly dazed.

I am lying on a bed of splintered wood. Parts of the obliterated wagon litter the ground all around me, most no longer than the length of my forearm. The wind is gone; only the faintest whisper of a breeze stirs the blades of grass that line the perimeter of the road. Grappling with the familiar exhaustion that comes whenever I expend my powers, I haul myself into a sitting position. It takes a long time to get my limbs to cooperate. They seem made of jelly, even after a full night of sleep.

I suppose I should feel lucky no one came across me while I was unconscious. But it is hard to feel anything except horror as my gaze sweeps the site, taking in the full scope of the wreckage for the first time. Several pine trees are toppled, ripped out by the roots, their trunks resting against the snow-dappled earth. One has fallen directly atop what must have at one point been a guard post. It is naught but a pile of kindling now.

I try not to look at the bodies scattered beneath the detritus. The slain guards. Three of them, young and strapping, with sightless eyes fixed skyward. Their blades sit uselessly in the dirt beside them.

A muffled moan makes my head whip around. The sudden movement triggers a dizzy spell that takes several hard blinks to clear. When I am once again capable of focusing, I spot the source of the agonized whimpers. Gower. He is flat on his back in the road twenty paces from me, twitching occasionally. His hands clutch at his midsection—at the shard of wood that speared through him when the wagon exploded.

Skies.

I drag my way to him through the wreckage, fighting my fatigued muscles with every inch of ground I gain. Exhaustion batters at my temples, a relentless ache, but I banish it from my mind. I was asleep for hours. Since twilight. For a man to linger so long with such an injury…

I cannot fathom how much pain he is in.

It would have been a mercy to die right away, in the blast. Six inches higher, the spear would have pierced his heart and killed him instantly. But by some cruel twist of fate, it skewered the fleshy planes of his stomach instead, leaving him to a drawn-out death I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

“Gower,” I whisper through parched lips, peering down into his face. “Gower, can you hear me?”

His eyelids flicker but do not open. He does not answer except to moan—a low, anguished mewl. He is pale from the blood loss. The earth around his body is saturated with red.

“Gower?”

“M-mercy,” he gasps, the word garbled. “ Mercy. ”

His head falls listlessly to the side, as though the effort of just that one plea is more than he can endure. His hand is wan and clammy when I take it in my shaky ones and squeeze with as much strength as I can muster. He does not squeeze back. I doubt he would even if he had the ability.

I’ve killed him, after all.

The lance in his abdomen is thicker than my fist. The finest healers in Anwyvn could not stitch him up. And even if they could, he would never survive the fever that followed. Not when his body is already so weak, his immunity so damaged by the cancer that gnaws at his insides.

Anyone who spends time around the dead or dying learns quickly—there is a scent to death. A particular aroma that plagues battlefields and sick bays alike. Not only blood or bile but something else. A grim harbinger of what is to come.

I smell it now. Pull it into my lungs like deathly perfume as I hold the hand of the man who would have passed me over to Efnysien without so much as a backward glance, all too happy to trade his life for mine.

Mercy.

He asked me for it. Begged me for it. His final request—for salvation from his agony, for deliverance from this lingering punishment. But why should I grant him such a thing? He had shown me none. He had all but condemned me to death at the hands of a power-hungry madman.

As I watch his chest rise and fall in shuddering, excruciating gasps, I feel no sympathy. Or so I tell myself, as my eyes smart with unshed tears and my throat thickens with grief. This is no more than he deserves: a direct consequence of his own self-serving choices. Traitors do not warrant an honorable passing of soul into aether.

This is the fate he has earned.

Still, I cannot stop from setting his hand down by his side. Nor from reaching down into his boot, where the familiar hilt of a blade pokes out, shining in the weak morning sunlight—my dagger, stolen back on the streets of Caeldera. For a moment, I trace the glyphs carved into its handle, wondering not for the first time what they mean. And then, with a steadiness honed by years of healing, I palm the blade firmly and lift it to Gower’s throat.

Beneath the thin skin, I watch his pulse pound in the vein. It is thready. Weak. Unlike mine, which is racing at twice its normal speed as I adjust the angle of my dagger to rest beneath the hollow of his ear, where his neck joins his jaw.

“Your life for mine,” I whisper, recalling the words he’d spoken earlier. “A fair trade if I ever heard one.”

In one clean jerk, I slit his throat.

I do not know how long I sit there in the dirt beside Gower’s dead body, staring at the blood on my hands. Long enough for the sun to drift high into the sky. Long enough for the pain in my temples to subside from a blinding ache to a distant throb. Long enough for some of the power I spent in last night’s outburst to re-form at the center of my chest, a faint furl of wind wrapped directly around my heart.

As the exhaustion begins to ebb, I take stock of my situation. I have no idea where I am. Moreover, I have no idea where I might go from here. Back to Caeldera? At the moment, that seems like the worst idea possible. It would be one thing if Penn were there…but he is not, and it may be days before he returns. Gods only know if anyone else will believe my story.

Kidnapped by a member of the esteemed Ember Guild. Forced to kill him to escape. And as for the matter of the slain guards and wind-blasted tower…

My head shakes, a slow rejection. I do not trust anyone in the capital to shield me from the repercussions of my actions. I certainly cannot expect any support from Queen Vanora or the members of her court. They already hate me. They are eager for any excuse to see me brought low or banished altogether. I would not be shocked to find myself thrown into the palace dungeons to rot.

Carys will stand by you , a small voice pipes up. So would Farley. And Teagan. And Keda…

I shove that voice away. I cannot put my new friends in such a position. I will not ask them for a show of loyalty that will jeopardize their livelihoods or reputations.

No.

I will not return to Caeldera. I will find a way to survive on my own. I have done it before. I can do it again.

When I feel strong enough to move, I force myself to pick through the wreckage for anything useful. In the ruins of the guard post, I find a cache of weapons—battle-axes and broadswords, all too heavy for me to wield. In a stroke of luck, I spot a hunting bow and a full quiver of arrows half-hidden beneath the branches of a fallen tree. Near the flattened remains of an old table, I pilfer a few stale bannocks, a store of dried fruits and nuts, and a large hunk of cheese wrapped in wax paper.

I close the guards’ sightless eyes as I check their pockets, coming away with a tiny whittling knife and a suede purse filled with Dyvedi crowns and farthings for my trouble. I pack as much as I can carry into a dusty rucksack I discover by the last soldier’s body. Slinging it across my back along with the quiver, I walk into the forest.

I do not look back.