52. Chapter 52
Chapter fifty-two
Cyrus’s eyes locked on the arrow—its barbed tip, pointed at his chest. They traveled the length of the barrel to the end, then moved to Kord’s hand on the lever.
“Kord, what are you doing?” Hephain shouted.
“We’re all going to die here,” Kord told him. “He’s going to kill us all. He’s never going to stop, and we’re all going to die.” He didn’t take his eyes off Cyrus.
Cyrus shifted and squared in front of him. “Do it, then,” he challenged. Orion’s bow could pierce armor. Not Cyrus’s armor, but Kord didn’t know that. It hardly mattered, though. Kord wouldn’t shoot him.
Kord held the crossbow tightly. “Why can’t you just stop?”
“Do it,” Cyrus challenged again.
“Kord, put it down,” Hephain said, moving closer to Cyrus’s right.
Brant drew closer on his left. “Kord,” he warned. “Don’t.”
But Cyrus still stared him down. “Do it.”
Kord shook his head. “Cyrus.”
Cyrus stepped closer. “Do it. Brother .”
Kord’s eyes welled. “Cyrus,” he begged.
“Do it!” Cyrus raged.
The arrow flew from the crossbow.
And hit Hephain as he stepped in front of Cyrus.
“Hephain!” Cyrus caught him as he fell.
Kord staggered back in horror.
“Hephain!” Cyrus yelled again. He shot his gaze back to Kord. “What have you done?!” he raged. Hephain couldn’t stand on his own, and Cyrus lowered him down onto his back. The short bolt had pierced his breastplate and buried itself deep, halfway through the fletching feathers.
Brant dropped down beside him.
“Get Teron!” Cyrus bellowed at him.
Hephain struggled for breath, but he couldn’t draw it in.
Cyrus’s hands shook over the arrow. He couldn’t pull it out. He ripped at Hephain’s breastplate, but he couldn’t take it off without moving the bolt. And there wasn’t any blood. Where was the blood? Hephain coughed and it sputtered from his lips.
“Get Teron!” Cyrus shouted again. He clung to him.
Brant dashed off toward the back of the army, where Teron was safely positioned.
He wouldn’t make it in time.
Cyrus swore as his eyes burned.
Hephain tried to speak, but no sound came.
“I’ve got you,” Cyrus told him. “I’ve got you. Teron’s coming.”
A wild fear grew in Hephain’s eyes as his body became heavier, and his breaths slowed. Blood was in his teeth and on his lips.
Cyrus clutched him. “Hang on! Teron’s coming.”
Hephain’s breath rattled as he inhaled.
He didn’t breathe it out. His body stilled.
“Hephain?”
His eyes were still open.
“Hephain?”
Cyrus sucked in a ragged breath. “Hephain?” A cry shook him as he drew his hand over Hephain’s eyes, brushing them closed. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything. He could only hold him as an overwhelming fury built in his core.
Cyrus’s men created a defensive circle, struggling to keep back the attacking Shadowmen. Cyrus jerked his gaze around him to find Kord, but he’d disappeared.
Brant burst through with Teron, but it was too late. There was nothing that could be done.
Hephain was dead.
Slowly, Cyrus rose. His rageful eyes searched for Kord again. “Where is he?” he shouted. “ Where are you?! ” he snarled down the bond to Kord.
He let out a roar as he launched himself into the attacking Shadowmen. He killed with savage indifference—he didn’t care if it was clean, he didn’t care if they suffered.
No, he did care.
He wanted them to suffer.
And they would.
And Kord would suffer when Cyrus found him.
“Cyrus!” Brant yelled in a panic, stopping him in his tracks. He jerked back to see a Shadow warrior holding Teron with a knife against his throat.
“Kiran, do it!” another Shadow warrior called to the one who held Teron.
And the warrior didn’t hesitate.
“No!” Cyrus bellowed as the warrior dragged his dagger across Teron’s throat.
The old healer fell to the ground.
Cyrus flung both his swords, striking the warriors in their chests and dropping them where they stood.
He scrambled forward and fell on his knees beside Teron. The old man clutched Cyrus’s arms as he sputtered and gurgled.
“No, no, no,” Cyrus sobbed. He pulled Teron’s hands to his bleeding throat. “Heal yourself, heal yourself!”
But he knew it didn’t work that way. The old man weakened.
“Heal yourself!” Cyrus practically screamed at him.
He clutched Teron’s neck in his hands, trying to stem the bleeding.
He willed the power of healing. With everything he had, he willed for Teron to be healed.
Heal. He pulled power from the Aether—more and more and more.
Bind the flesh, stop the bleeding , he commanded. Heal!
The old man stilled under his hands.
No. Cyrus wouldn’t accept it. He pulled more power, opening himself, pulling everything he could into Teron.
Heal!
But he was gone.
Teron was gone.
Hephain was gone.
Jaem was gone.
Bash.
Ram.
Tears streamed down his face.
Miriel. He’d lost the birds he’d sent to find her. He couldn’t feel them, but he didn’t need to see to know she was gone too.
And then Cyrus saw him.
The Shadow King. He fought from on top of his horse, surrounded by his warriors as Cyrus’s men swarmed around him.
Cyrus stood slowly as an all-consuming fire lit through him.
He would end this now. He stepped to the dead Shadowman and pulled his sword.
He wouldn’t let this all be in vain. Seizing Orion’s crossbow that Kord had dropped, he leapt onto his horse and spurred the animal forward through the sea of bodies.
As he reined up just short of the king, a calm washed over him—the calm before a kill. The calm of promised vengeance. Fate had sent him here. For this purpose. For this moment. He nocked an arrow and pulled the crossbow to his shoulder.
Cyrus aimed for the king.
With the steadiest hand.
He loosed the bolt.
And it hit true.
The Shadow King jerked in his saddle. He clasped his side where the arrow had pierced him. Through the armor. Through the flesh. He wavered slightly. Then he fell from his horse.
Cyrus dropped down from his own mount, pulling off his helm. He tugged at his breastplate, but as his fingers reached for the clasps, he stopped.
He’d promised.
He left the breastplate on.
The Shadow King paused when he saw Cyrus. Their stares locked. The arrow still protruded from his side. He tried to drag himself backward, but there was no escaping.
Cyrus stalked toward him.
The king held his sword in his hand, but he made no effort to lift it. He made no effort to fight.
Cyrus struck it from his grasp.
Still, he didn’t resist.
Did he accept his fate?
Pathetic man.
Cyrus swung his sword above his head. How he’d waited for this moment. How he’d dreamed of it. This was what he’d come for. This is what he’d warred for. He held the sword high.
Justice.
Vengeance.
Freedom.
Peace.
He’d have it all.
And he’d have it now.
But before he could sweep the blade down, a pain pierced his chest.
Deep.
Deep.
His arms went numb.
He couldn’t breathe.
Cyrus wavered. Then he stumbled sideways, swaying. His hands couldn’t hold his sword, and it slipped from his fingers, dropping to the ground behind him.
His chest was on fire. He clawed at the armor, but he couldn’t get it off. Blood poured from underneath his ribbed breastplate. He didn’t understand—nothing had pierced it, nothing had struck him. He looked around wildly.
Then he saw her.
Norah stood with her hand wrapped around a dagger in her own chest. Their eyes met.
She was here.
And he realized.
The tether. She’d done this.
His strength left him, and, slowly, Cyrus fell to his knees.
She’d stabbed him.
He sank to the ground.
Why would she do this, at the cost of her own life?
He rolled onto his back, looking up at the sky. He never looked at the sky. It was so blue, so beautiful. He’d never seen it like this before.
Perhaps it was fate’s consolation.
But he didn’t understand. Fate had sent him here. He was supposed to kill the Shadow King. He’d been willing to die for it. But Norah was willing to die too. And she was the one fate had answered.
There was a flurry across the field toward her. Cyrus blinked back the blur in his eyes to see the Shadow commander crouched over her.
And the Shadow King crawled. The crawl of desperation.
Both men held her. They held her like her breaths were their breaths, like her life was their lives.
And suddenly, Cyrus was sad that he’d only scraped the surface of knowing this woman—this woman who’d changed fate. His whole life he’d fought injustice, so why did her death feel like the biggest injustice of all?
“ Essandra ,” he called through the bond.
“ Cyrus? ”
“ She’s dying. ”
“ Who’s dying? ”
“ Norah. Can you help her? ”
Her voice came more urgently now. “ Cyrus, where are you? ”
“ I’m fine, I… I broke the tether. ”
He could hear her relief.
“ But I need you to help her ,” he said.
“ I’m not a healer. ”
“ You’re the most cunning witch this world has ever seen, the most resourceful person I know. If there’s a way, I know you’ll find it. ”
She was quiet for a moment. “ I might have a bond that can help, if there’s someone with her. ”
He struggled to focus his vision and barely made out the wounded king lifting her onto a horse. “ She’s with the Shadow King. ”
“ He lives? ”
Breathing was getting harder. “ Fate spared him. ”
Her breath hitched. “ Did fate spare you? ” she whispered.
He felt his heart slow. “ Fate freed me ,” he said. “ Did you find Everan? ”
She was silent again. “ No ,” she said finally.
A tear spilled from his eye. She’d never been good at lying to him, but she didn’t need to tell him—he already knew. Everan was gone. Cyrus had always thought they’d die together. It was all right. Cyrus would follow him soon enough.
“ Will you help Norah? ” he asked her. “ The Shadow King is headed east with her. ”
“ I’ll do what I can. Where are you? ”
“ Help Norah first. ”
“ I will, but where are you? ”
“ The northeast side. ”
“ Stay there. ”
“ I will. ” He wasn’t going anywhere. He hated that Essandra would find him this way. He hated that he was leaving her alone in this world. He hated that he couldn’t stay to love her longer.
As his mind quieted, he broke the tether with Norah. It gave her the best chance at whatever Essandra might be able to do for her, not letting his battle-worn body draw what life was left from her.
Cyrus struggled to focus his eyes around him. Brant lay not far—loyal until the end.
He looked back up at the sky. So blue. Had it always been that blue?
Footfalls drew near, or maybe he was just imagining them. A shadow loomed over him, and a face came into focus.
A face he knew.
“Adrian,” he whispered.
No, it couldn’t be Adrian.
But the eyes staring back at him…
Gods, let it be Adrian.
It was, and Cyrus wept.
Adrian knelt beside him.
Cyrus stretched out his bloodstained hand. If he could just touch his skin… He struggled to speak; his strength was gone. “Adrian,” he whispered again, begging. If he could just touch him, he could come to him in his mind…
For a moment, he thought Adrian would just watch him slip away, but then he felt the warmth of his hand.
Cyrus let his body relax, and he chased the blood trail with his mind. He didn’t entirely let go of the physical world. He didn’t want to let go of the feel of Adrian’s hand.
“ Brother ,” Cyrus said as they stood in the battlefield in his mind. There were no bodies, no blood, no death. It was only him and Adrian by the mountain stronghold with a low fog rolling in.
Adrian eyed him warily.
It was deserved.
“ I broke the tether ,” Cyrus told him.
“ But it won’t help her now, will it? ”
It could, but he didn’t say that. He wasn’t looking for grace or appreciation. He did want to give him hope, though. Cyrus still had hope. “ I’ve sent someone to help her. A friend. ”
If Adrian saw Essandra, Cyrus didn’t want him to see her as the enemy.
“ A healer? ”
A pain daggered Cyrus’s heart. “ I lost my healer. ”
“ Will this friend save her? ”
“ I don’t know if she can. ” Gods, he prayed that she could. “ I didn’t mean to hurt Norah. I didn’t think she’d sacrifice herself. ”
“ Because you don’t know her at all ,” Adrian said angrily.
Cyrus didn’t fault him. He had a right to be angry.
He only hoped that one day Adrian might understand.
“ I don’t have much time ,” Cyrus said, “ but I wanted you to know that I wish things could have been different between us. I like to think they could have been, if we’d lived in a different world, in a different time.
” He had to stop as his eyes welled. How he wished now more than ever that he’d been able to have known Adrian. To have loved him.
He did love him.
“ I don’t dare ask your forgiveness ,” Cyrus told him, “ but I do want to give you something. ”
Cyrus drew all the power he could, everything he had left, and he focused it toward the light. Adrian followed his gaze to see Alexander walking toward them.
Adrian’s breath quaked, and he trembled. “Is it really him? ”
He nodded.
“ I don’t understand. You can link with the dead? ”
Cyrus nodded again. “ Something like that. ”
Adrian stumbled toward Alexander and fell into his arms with a sob. He clung to him.
Cyrus wanted to hold Adrian; he wanted to feel him. In the physical world, he squeezed his hand tighter.
Adrian pulled back from Alexander. “ How are you here? ” he asked, still in disbelief.
But Cyrus couldn’t give him that…
Adrian looked back at Cyrus. “ Can he not speak? ”
“ I don’t have enough power to let him speak, but he wants you to know that he loves you. ”
I love you , Cyrus wanted to say. “ He’s proud of you, and the man you’ve become. He says our father is proud. ” Cyrus was proud.
“ I love you, Alec ,” Adrian said through his tears. “ I’ll hold everything you taught me. I’ll honor our family. I love you. ”
Cyrus couldn’t hold the image any longer, and he let it go. “ Our time’s come. ”
Adrian stared back at him.
“ Goodbye, brother ,” Cyrus said softly.
He couldn’t feel his arms anymore. He wasn’t sure if he was still holding Adrian’s hand.
Cyrus didn’t fear the other side. He was looking forward to seeing his brothers again. Kieve. Jaem. Orion.
Everan.
He wondered if he’d see Alexander.
He longed for Essandra one last time. To hear her. Feel her. Breathe her. He would wait for her.
As the darkness came, he didn’t fight it.
Finally, he would sleep. He was free.