Chapter 25
25
Zabriel
A tiny, mewling infant has bested us.
That’s what it feels like as Isavelle lies semi-conscious on the bed and I pace up and down with a ten-day old Sylvi cuddled against my naked chest. She’s not hungry and she’s wearing fresh and dry clouts, but apart from a few brief moments when she’s fallen into an exhausted slumber, she’s barely stopped crying today.
“ Ma ness’in, sha’inji ,” I murmur to her.
Isavelle doesn’t open her eyes, but she whispers, “That’s pretty. What are you saying to her?”
“I said, I know, little one . Which is a lie because I have no idea why she’s crying, but Papa wants her to know he supports his princess no matter what.”
Isavelle smiles tiredly. “Papa is understanding. Mama wishes she would go to sleep.”
She sits up, ties her robe together, and goes out onto the balcony under the night sky. With her face upturned to the moon, she closes her eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling to Esmeral. I have an idea.”
A short while later, wings fill the sky, and Esmeral flutters down onto our terrace as daintily as a dragon can. Her head is pricked toward the sound of Sylvi crying as Isavelle embraces her.
Isavelle laughs and looks up at her dragon. “Esmeral would like to see the baby.”
I carry Sylvi out under the stars and Esmeral snuffles at the baby’s clouts and the top of her head. The dragon utters, clicks, and trills, and the squalling baby slowly quietens so she can listen to the sounds.
Isavelle cups Sylvi’s head with a smile. “Look how she listens to Esmeral. She will be a dragonrider.”
As Esmeral continues to make her soft, musical chirruping, Sylvi’s eyes grow heavy, and she falls into a slumber.
“Mama and Papa aren’t good enough,” I whisper, smiling. “She needs a dragon to send her to sleep.”
It’s a warm night, and I take a seat on the balcony with the sleeping Sylvi in my arms. Esmeral settles down with her head in my lap, taking up just about every inch of space.
Isavelle leans down and kisses me, and I whisper, “Go sleep while you can. She will want to feed again soon.”
My queen nods and heads off to bed. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s unconscious.
Overhead, a huge black dragon swoops across the sky, and then back again, almost invisible in the inky night. Scourge, checking on us all, patrolling the skies to keep us safe.
With my free hand, I stroke Esmeral’s head, remembering a time I comforted the small dragon when she was in the midst of a false heat and no one and nothing could give her any peace. She didn’t have her rider, and she was snapping at me and her mate. I didn’t know what to do for Isavelle, but I held her dragon’s head in my lap to soothe her. It wasn’t so long ago, but how far we’ve come since then. If someone had told me then that soon I would be holding my daughter while Isavelle slept in my bed, and her dragon’s hatchlings were slumbering together in the nesting caves, I wonder if I would have believed them. This is everything I was wishing for in that lonely, heart-stricken moment.
I doze with the warm baby and the hot-scaled dragon nestled against me. When the morning light touches my face, Isavelle puts her hand on my shoulder and I open my eyes. Sylvi is starting to fuss so she must be hungry.
My mate is smiling as she picks up the baby. “You all look so peaceful out here.”
“Esmeral, make room for your rider,” I murmur sleepily, and pat my lap as the dragon shifts her head. Isavelle nestles into my lap and opens her robe so she can hold the baby to her breast. I put an arm around them both and rest the other on Esmeral’s snout.
Scourge is standing proudly atop the cliffs, his black wings half unfurled to catch the warmth of the morning rays. Lord of all he surveys.
I smile as I gaze at my family. How thankful I am not to be locked beneath the mountain. Have I given thanks in the Flame Temple for my freedom lately? I must remember to give an offering, for I have never been this happy before.
I do not take for granted one moment spent with my infant daughter, day or night. I know this cozy time with just the three of us can’t last forever when the whole country needs us.
A few hours later, I dress in the usual jacket and breeches I wear when performing duties around the castle. Isavelle has Sylvi laid out on our bed, changing her into fresh clouts.
“I’m going to ask Santha and Posette to help us with the baby,” Isavelle tells me, rubbing her nose against Sylvi’s belly and then picking her up and cuddling her against her breasts. “They have already offered, and I think it would be good for both of us. You have duties to return to, and I need to take some fresh air and see my dragon and my crone.”
“It has been wonderful to retreat from the kingdom and into this cozy world with you and our baby,” I tell her, buttoning my black jacket up to my throat.
“It has been everything I could have hoped for,” she tells me with a smile. “How will you be today?”
“I’m fine.”
Holding Sylvi, Isavelle pads over to me. “Zabriel, you’ve barely slept. Don’t force yourself to work all day, all right?”
I groan and scrub my hands over my face. “I’m an Alpha dragonrider. I’m the King of Maledin. I will not be bested by a tiny little baby.”
Isavelle holds the baby up so they’re cheek to cheek. “What, this tiny little baby?”
“This one,” I agree with a smile, and kiss our daughter and then my queen.
Isavelle yawns. “You’re right, she’s bested me too. I’ll ask Santha and Posette if they can take Sylvi between feeds tonight so we can get some rest.”
As stubborn and proud as I am, the prospect of several uninterrupted hours of sleep sounds tempting. I kiss Isavelle goodbye and head out of our room, stopping to speak with the guards standing outside our door.
“Please send for Fiala and Dusan. The queen and the princess will be without me for a few hours.”
“Yes, Ma’len .”
I walk down the corridor grinning to myself. The queen and the princess. How good that feels to say aloud.
When I reach the Great Hall, the head steward informs me that there are several dozen urgent matters for me to attend to.
I feel my eyes widen. Have I sequestered myself away for so long that the whole country has fallen into devastation? “How urgent? Are our borders breached? Has Emmeric been sighted?”
“No, Ma’len . These are…internal political matters,” he says tactfully.
I know what that means. The lords in the big houses are squabbling, and they’re bringing their problems to the castle to lay at my feet instead of being adult men and women and sorting them out themselves. I think I’d almost prefer our borders being breached. At least I can solve those problems with a dragon and a big sword.
“Fine. Clear the Great Hall. I’ll see them from my throne.”
Perhaps the authority of sitting in a big gold chair will disguise how tired I am, and how little I wish to adjudicate aristocratic squabbles.
A few hours later, I’ve heard the details of several land disputes. Some borders were redrawn by the Brethren and the families want the fields and forests returned to them. Archivists have found the old maps, and after consulting them, I order that the land be returned, but the profits from the land be split equally between the two families for a period of five years. The lords and ladies leave the Great Hall with some grumbling, but at least they haven’t come to blows.
I hear that someone’s son “sullied” someone’s daughter. The sixteen- and seventeen-year-old couple are an Alpha and Omega pair, and I have to firmly educate them on Maledinni designations and that the pair were in fact blessed by the gods. They were acting as nature intended, are miserable without each other, and they’ve done nothing wrong.
“And women are not sullied by partners they choose to couple with,” I shout angrily after the departing lord, who is scarlet with indignation. “That’s Brethren nonsense to be left in the past.”
Mother Linnea has been standing at the side of the cavernous room, and I signal her to approach me.
“Send some Hratha’len to that Alpha’s and Omega’s families, would you? Someone who’s had more sleep and possesses more patience than I do should teach them about designations.”
“We are of the same mind, Ma’len .” She inclines her head respectfully.
Finally, when the lowering sun is making the shadows long on the ground, I leave the castle and cross the dragongrounds. Scourge has his head raised and is watching the sunset, and I lean tiredly against his side, soaking in his warmth and steady presence. It’s so soothing being with my dragon that I almost fall asleep standing up.
When I get back to our room, Isavelle shows me the antechamber where there’s now a second crib, and Sylvi is sleeping peacefully, watched over by Santha and Posette.
Wearing a tired but happy smile, I lean down and stroke Sylvi’s plump cheek with a forefinger. She’s more beautiful and perfect every time I look at her.
“You will wake me when she needs feeding?” Isavelle asks the women.
“We will, my queen.”
“Sleep well.”
The sun has not yet set, and I haven’t eaten, but the vast bed is too tempting. I pull off my clothes, wash the dust from my face and hands, and fall into bed. I think I’m asleep as soon as I close my eyes.
When I wake, the room is dark and someone is whispering for Isavelle. My queen gets out of bed, rubbing her face, and goes into the next room where Sylvi is crying. A moment later, the cries cease.
I sit up in bed and rest my back against the cushions, resolving to stay awake while she feeds our baby. I’m not sure why. In moral support? It doesn’t feel right to turn over and go back to sleep while she’s awake with Sylvi.
“Zabriel, what are you doing?” Isavelle says with a laugh, what feels like just seconds later.
I snort into wakefulness and blearily open my eyes to darkness. “I was waiting to welcome you back.”
“You didn’t need to do that. Santha and Posette are here so that you may sleep.”
“But you’re awake.”
Taking hold of my shoulders, she gently pushes me down onto the bed. “The Hratha’len told me that new mothers’ blood and bodies are strengthened after giving birth to help them cope with all the disruption. New fathers are not similarly blessed, so you must sleep. Besides, you must have your wits about you tomorrow. I can sleep between feeds.”
I’m too exhausted to argue with her and lay my head down on the pillow. I don’t wake again until morning. Isavelle is sleeping peacefully beside me, her hair tumbled across the pillow. I poke my head into the antechamber and see that Sylvi is sleeping in a cot, watched over by Santha and Posette.
Smiling to myself, I quietly collect fresh clothes and carry them out into the corridor. The guards are amused as they watch me strip naked and dress in front of them so I don’t disturb Isavelle.
“I was the same when my youngest was born, Ma’len ,” one of them tells me as I tug on my boots. “It doesn’t do to wake a sleeping dragon, or her mother.”
I’m feeling more energetic and clear-minded than I was yesterday, and I spend the morning sparring with the soldiers and stretching my unused muscles. In the afternoon, I resume hearing the grievances of people from across Maledin. It seems as though the aristocrats elbowed their way to the front of the queue, because as I continue, the people’s finery becomes less fine, and the problems more down-to-earth.
Sundra has been standing in the Great Hall and listening in for the last few hours, and as I get up off the throne I go speak with her. “To me it seems like a waste of these people’s time to travel all the way to the capital for me to settle their disputes. Some of them have been waiting more than a week.”
“I agree, Ma’len . Apparently the people used to go to their local Brethren monastery for this sort of thing, but of course the monasteries have been disbanded.”
Of course. I hadn’t considered that. “How were these matters handled in my father’s time?”
She thinks for a moment. “Godric would have known more about it, but from what I recall, your father enjoyed sitting in judgment. He didn’t wish to divest too much of his power into local authorities.”
That sounds about right. “I’m divesting it. I divest it right now. Find a way to invest it in some trustworthy individuals instead. A council of people in each area, and those people can report to me once a month.”
“Yes, Ma’len . But in the meantime, there are still more people for you to see…” She winces at my scowl. “I know, Ma’len . Apparently the Dragon Games has increased people’s trust in you, and they all wish for you to resolve their problems.”
In that case I suppose I mustn’t be churlish about it. “I won’t disappoint them, but appoint those councils quickly, please. Work with the Hratha’len , as they travel throughout the land more than most of us.”
It’s not until the third day that a thin man dressed in scholarly black who looks vaguely familiar comes before me. It takes me a moment to recall him after the steward tells me his name.
“Master Gaun? You’re one of the former witchfinders who’s now running a magical archive. I hope all is well with you and your fellow warlocks.”
“We are all well, Ma’len ,” Gaun says nervously. He’s holding a square of folded parchment and turning it in his fingers. “I would have spoken with the queen or one of her bodyguards, but of course because of the baby—blessings be upon the child—the queen has not been to see us in some time. I have been anxiously waiting to speak with you, but I was informed that I must be patient. Apologies that I must trespass on your valuable time.”
The man seems too terrified to look at me, and I think I understand why. “You mustn’t fear that I will treat you in the same manner that the High Priest once did,” I assure him. “I have no fondness for having people whipped and starved.”
“Of course, Ma’len . I will come to the point.” Master Gaun stares at his feet. “I was recently visited by strangers. They don’t wish their identities to be known, but they are united in belief with you that Emmeric must be stopped at all costs. These men insisted that I bring this letter to you. They promise that with your help, they can defeat him once and for all.”
He holds out the letter for me, and I take it with a frown. I help them defeat Emmeric, not they help me?
“A bold claim to make,” I say, as I cast my eyes over the slanted, heavily inked writing.
The King of Maledin must by now be aware that the Shadow King cannot be killed by steel alone. We have discovered the fiend’s whereabouts and uncovered the means by which he can be killed, but if we attack, we will become overwhelmed by undead.
We seek the aid of King of Maledin’s silent silver beasts and riders to support our assassination.
No army.
Quiet.
Swift.
Deadly.
An end to his brutal reign.
At the bottom of the note there is a time and date several days from now, and a description of a meeting place in northeastern Maledin, an area I’m only slightly familiar with in the foothills of the Bodan Mountains. An unlovely place of rocks, mist, and dead trees.
I read the note several times through, wondering about the veracity of the offer. It doesn’t invite me specifically to join the attack, so it’s possibly not a trap laid to murder me. Or perhaps the author knows that I’d be unable to sit out an attempt to finish Emmeric off for good.
I proffer the note to Master Gaun. “Who delivered this letter?”
“I did not see their faces, Ma’len .”
Gaun will not meet my eyes. I don’t think he’s lying to me about his visitors, but he’s concealing something. “Do you believe I should trust this letter?”
“I do, Ma’len ,” he answers directly.
“But you will not tell me why?”
He hesitates. “I am just the messenger, but I believe that the ones who are behind this letter have no love for the Shadow King, and they wish to see him destroyed.”
“Why may I not attack with my whole army?”
He speaks with the care of someone who doesn’t wish to offend a king. “I could not say for certain, Ma’len , but anyone familiar with the attack on the southern border will understand that the presence of the army alerted the Shadow King to danger, and he fled.”
That is the conclusion that I made myself. “This enemy we seek to defeat is not a king. He is a traitor prince being puppeteered by an evil mage.”
“Of course, Ma’len . I apologize. I find myself using the words spoken by the strangers.”
Then these people, whoever they are, were raised under the Brethren. Perhaps they are Brethren soldiers or priests who seek revenge for the suffering they endured during Emmeric’s reign. “Why do they wish to risk their lives to help me kill Emmeric?”
Sweat has broken out on Master Gaun’s brow. “I could not say for sure, but… Ma’len , the clothing they wore, the way they moved, they reminded me of witchfinders. They hinted of their powers, and as you may be aware, those who formerly called themselves witchfinders are all warlocks.”
An offer of help from former witchfinders. Isavelle once wondered aloud to me about what happened to them all after my dragon army drove the Brethren out of Maledin.
“Their magic is strong enough to face Emmeric?”
“They believe so.” Master Gaun bows once more, and I have the feeling he’s desperately hoping to be dismissed. “May I tell these strangers that you will meet with them at the appointed place and time?”
Agree just like that? I can’t see how that is a wise decision. Master Gaun’s nervous manner is suspicious, and I think he at least knows the identity of these men. Isavelle can give me more insight into his trustworthiness.
“I will think on it and send word to the archive. As this is a warlock matter, I should consult the queen.”
Master Gaun looks relieved. “Queen Isavelle will recognize the urgency of the matter. Thank you, Ma’len .”
I watch him leave, still frowning. What a strange turn of events. I can’t make them out or decide whether I can trust this letter.
In the early evening, I show Isavelle the letter in our room and describe Master Gaun’s caginess to her.
She reads it through several times, and purses her lips in thought. “Master Gaun is a little highly strung, and perhaps he was nervous because you are king. Witchfinders were treated abominably by the Brethren.”
“Perhaps, but the more I inquired about the identity of these strangers, the more nervous he became. Do you trust Master Gaun?”
She answers immediately. “I do. He provided me with the incantations, information, and advice I needed to bring my family and the lost villagers home, and save you from what Emmeric did to your parents. If Master Gaun is concealing the identity of the men who wish to help us, then he must have a good reason. Witchfinders did terrible things under the Brethren. Murder. Torture. They may wish to make amends for their deeds, but fear retribution.”
“I have already pardoned the witchfinders.”
“It may not be your retribution that they fear, but the people’s if their identities are revealed.”
“True. But it could be a trap.”
Isavelle hands the letter back. “Yes, it could be.” She watches me with her head on one side. “But despite your reservations, you still want to go and find out.”
I can’t deny that I do. The strategy is a sound one: go in quietly and deal with Emmeric before he realizes that we’re there. He won’t be expecting us and thus won’t have time to flee. “I will not be able to take Scourge. That bothers me.”
“A unit of wingrunners will be silent and swift and enough to protect us. And Esmeral, of course.”
“Us…” I repeat, my mind a thousand miles away. “Wait, us?”
“Yes, us. I’m coming too.”
“Oh, is that so? Has my queen decided?” I say archly.
“We don’t have a choice. I’m the only witch who understands the lich’s extraplanar magic.”
“You’ve just had a baby.”
“But it was a very easy birth. The women of my village…”
A smile tugs at my lips. “The women of your village were plowing fields and throwing donkeys within hours of giving birth.”
Isavelle laughs. “Not quite, but a woman in a poor little village such as mine doesn’t have the luxury of lying in bed for weeks being waited on by two maids—and, I might add, growing weaker with every passing day from her idleness. That won’t happen to me. I’m a village girl and a dragonrider, and I need to be out there doing things.”
When my mother gave birth to Mirelle I remember that she did stay in bed a long time. I don’t know if that was custom or because she was fragile or weakened. I never paid much attention to things like that. Isavelle certainly looks strong and healthy.
“No one has said Esmeral can’t go flying after having a clutch of eggs,” Isavelle reminds me.
“Esmeral is a dragon. You are you. We shall consult the Hratha’len about it. They know about births and Omegas. I have no clue.”
When we arrive in the Flame Temple, we seek out the Hratha’len that we trust the most. Mother Linnea is upstairs working with herbs and oils when we find her, and she wipes her hands on a cloth when she sees us approaching.
“ Ma’len . Queen Isavelle. I hope the princess is well?”
“Sylvi is growing fast,” I tell her proudly. “The way she kicks her legs, she’ll be riding dragons by the time she’s four.”
Mother Linnea looks amused by my gushing over my infant daughter. “No doubt she will. Have you come to see me about the princess?”
“Zabriel and I have a question about me, actually,” Isavelle tells her.
Mother Linnea gives me a stern look. “ Ma’len , please give your mate a few more weeks. The queen needs time to recover.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling startled. “We haven’t even asked our question yet. Wait, you don’t think that I—”
Isavelle hurries to correct the Temple Mother. “It’s not mating we have come to talk to you about. We are wondering about dragonriding.”
Mother Linnea nods. “Ah, I see. Usually it’s Alphas inquiring about how soon they can go back to knotting their Omegas.”
I feel myself turning red. “I am not so impatient, Mother.”
Mother Linnea gives Isavelle an appraising look. “You were riding all throughout your pregnancy and Sylvi’s was an easy birth. I see no reason why you can’t take to the skies again as long as you take things slowly and it doesn’t cause you any discomfort.”
“It’s not merely a matter of riding,” she tells Mother Linnea, glancing at me, as if wondering how much she should share. “It’s strenuous riding that could put strain on my body.”
Mother Linnea looks from one of us to the other, waiting for us to elaborate, but neither of us does.
“Does this have something to do with Emmeric?” she asks.
I give a short exhalation. “I can’t tell you any details, but yes.”
Mother Linnea looks from Isavelle to me. “Then I’m afraid the only advice I can give will be sorely biased. I love Maledin and what it has become, and I wish for things to continue as they are. Queen Isavelle has faced Emmeric and that thing using him as a living puppet several times. To exclude her now would not be in anyone’s best interest, including hers and Sylvi’s, Ma’len . If you wish to protect your mate, you will allow her to use her abilities to protect Maledin.”
Her stern tone leaves no room for misunderstanding. It’s what I expected to hear, though hearing it doesn’t make me any less worried for my mate.
“I hope my advice hasn’t offended you, Ma’len .”
I shake my head. “I’m never offended by honest advice. Thank you, Mother Linnea.” I could gather my inner circle together and consult them, but I’m sure they will either tell me the same as Mother Linnea, or that it’s a decision for me and Isavelle.
“It’s my honor, Ma’len ,” she murmurs, and then walks deeper into the Flame Temple.
When we’re alone, I ask her, “Do you truly wish to come with us on this mission.”
She gazes up at me with clear, determined eyes. “Even if I thought I could do nothing but tend wounds and pass around water, I wouldn’t wish to stay behind. But I could truly be of help, in ways that no one else can.”
She’s right. There are no two ways about it. Isavelle has proven herself time and time again that she’s useful, resourceful, and skilled.
“How about I just order you to stay behind, hm?” I ask Isavelle with mock severity. “What then?”
“Then you wouldn’t be my Zabriel,” she says, rising up on her toes to pull me down for a kiss. After pressing her lips so tenderly to mine, she says, “I know you want to protect me, but you can’t protect your queen if there’s no Maledin.”
I sigh and kiss the top of her head, wishing it was four days ago, and we were still blissfully sheltered from the world in our nursery-bedroom.
Northeastern Maledin is a foggy, rocky place, and the air is cold and damp against our faces. It’s early morning and the wingrunners are all bundled in their cloaks, but they keep tight hold of their halberds, and their eyes shift warily across the landscape. Steam gently rises from the wyverns’ nostrils. We can see very little through the gloaming except for the dead, twisted trunks of trees and rocky outcrops.
Isavelle and I flew on Esmeral, who is one of the few flashes of color in this gloomy place, but I don’t like being without my dragon.
“Did the flight bring you any discomfort, sha’lenla ?” I ask my queen.
Isavelle shakes her head. Fine droplets of water are collecting in her hair. “I’m fine.” She keeps her eyes fixed on our environment, hunting for movement. I’m busy cataloguing every route through which we could be ambushed, and there are many.
Isavelle seizes my arm and gasps. “Look, up there.”
Four figures are standing above us on a rocky ledge. Each wears a hunter’s black tricorn hat, and black jacket, and a long cloak, and all have black cloths swathing their faces and necks. Not even a lock of hair is visible, and their eyes are shadowed. All of them are strangers to me.
The man at the front nods slowly to us in acknowledgment, and holds his finger to where his lips are concealed. He nods to his right for us to follow, and then they all draw back out of sight. We can’t reach the top of the rocks, but there is a path through the scrub, and I presume that is where they wish us to go.
“We are not to speak with them?” Isavelle whispers, frowning at the place where the men were standing.
“I suppose we have our orders,” I mutter darkly, not enjoying the feeling of following someone else’s orders on blind trust. I glance at Esmeral, and I see that she’s focused on Isavelle, poised at the ready to fly away with the queen and protect her if there’s any sign of trouble.
I grasp my mate’s hand and whisper a reminder. “You are to stay back with me, and if there’s one sign of treachery, you are to leave immediately. On Esmeral or on a wyvern, it matters not. Esmeral and the wingrunners can defend themselves, you can’t.”
“I know,” Isavelle says, but her eyes are as hard as steel.
“Captain,” I call quietly, and Captain Ashton gives the order for the wingrunners to stay low and fan out in the direction that the man in black indicated. Several more move in other directions to search for an ambush and guard our backs.
Isavelle, Fiala, Dusan, and Esmeral remain with me, the three of us keeping the queen guarded on all sides. I walk with my sword drawn. I want to trust that this is an honest offer of an alliance because I believe the former witchfinders loathe Emmeric almost as much as I do, but I don’t trust easily these days. My reckless youth is receding further behind me now that I have both Isavelle and Sylvi to think about.
As we crest a ridge, I glimpse in the distance, at the bottom of the valley, a lone ramshackle dwelling, more hut than cottage. There are tiles missing from the roof, a smashed window here and there, and the walls appear to be crumbling. If the lich is in there, it may not care about comforts and status, but it’s difficult to believe that arrogant Prince Emmeric would consider this place fit for inhabiting.
The wingrunners are closing in around it from all sides, their bodies nearly invisible against the gray rocks. The four black figures are slinking along the valley, nearing the dwelling.
I have no magic, but a prickling in my teeth tells me that my brother is close by. It could be wishful thinking, but something is needling me not to waste this opportunity by being overcautious.
“I must get closer,” I murmur to Isavelle, her bodyguards, and the handful of other wingrunners with us. I point out a way down the ridge. “This way, and keep low to the ground and as quiet as possible. Protect the queen at all costs.”
If the man I once called my brother is here, I want to see him for myself.
We reach the valley floor and are crouched down behind a rock formation. Esmeral has curled her tail around and is keeping her head low. As the four strangers near the hut, nothing moves beyond the dirty glass windows, and there’s no sign anywhere that it is inhabited.
The four warlocks begin chanting quietly, and a line of pulsing light appears on the ground, circling the entire hut.
Isavelle’s eyes widen, and she whispers, “The Brethren didn’t teach them that. It’s a witch’s ward. These warlocks must have researched in Master Gaun’s archives, or they know a witch.”
The ward glows brighter, and suddenly there’s movement from within the hut. I see something dash past a window, and then the front door is yanked open. Emmeric appears on the doorstep, but he’s almost unrecognizable from the last time I saw him. His long dark hair is in greasy tangles, and there are dark hollows beneath his eyes. I wonder if the lich has been punishing him from within his own body for his recent failures. Losing all their prisoners, then their stronghold, and then failing to kill me.
Emmeric turns pale and his hands tremble. He looks tired. So very tired, and for a moment, he even looks afraid. Then green light flares in his eyes and his spine straightens. He reaches into his pocket and flings handfuls of small objects far and wide. Something lands near us, rolling over and over before coming to rest at my feet.
I realize what it is. A finger bone. As I watch, it twitches, glows green, and starts to grow in size.
“Shit,” I growl, and quickly stomp on the bone, grinding it to dust under my heel. “Quickly, destroy them all before they can grow into skeletons and attack us.”
Fiala and Dusan use the butts of their halberds to destroy the bones. Esmeral hisses and snarls as she rakes her talons across a rapidly forming skeleton. Isavelle draws a dagger from her belt and hammers the bones with her hilt.
There are too many of them, and soon an army of sword-wielding skeletons have risen up around us, the warlocks, and the shack, and are closing in on us.
“Wingrunners. Keep the undead off the warlocks,” I shout, while kicking a skeleton toward Esmeral, who rips it apart with her teeth.
The wyverns take to the skies and are diving at the undead, ripping off skulls with their talons, smashing them against rocks.
Isavelle performs a spell. Three skeletons freeze, and topple to the ground in a heap of bones. I swing my sword to cut the head of one skeleton, and I kick the rib cage from another. The undead aren’t so easily destroyed, and the scattered parts of the skeletons reform and get to their feet.
Through the battle din, I can hear the warlocks chanting. A green burst of magic appears between Emmeric’s hands. The four men shout a foreign but vaguely familiar word, and all his green light is blasted away.
Emmeric stares at his palms with furious, almost manic eyes, and snarls at the former witchfinders, “You ungrateful beasts. You were given status and authority when I ruled Maledin, and now you throw my generosity in my face. You will all die.”
But no matter how many times Emmeric tries to fling magic at them, the wards and the warlocks’ words subdue him every time. He can’t escape the ward around the hut either, and he appears to be growing weaker with every passing moment as he tries to sustain all the undead around us and break free of his magic prison. His hands tremble once more, his bared teeth are yellow, and his eyes grow watery and bloodshot. After five hundred years, the man I once called my brother is growing weary of the world.
One of the warlocks has drawn a dagger and is closing in on Emmeric.
“Protect the queen,” I shout to Fiala, Dusan, Esmeral, and the wingrunners, before charging forward, sword in hand. I cleave through three skeletons at once to get to Emmeric.
I’ll be the one to do it.
Emmeric looks terrified as I bear down on him, and holds up both hands in supplication. “Zabriel, please. I’m your brother.”
He falls to his knees, not one trace of green in his eyes. I stand over him, sword gripped in my hand. Please what? Spare him, after all that he’s done? If Emmeric had come to me in repentance and asked for forgiveness when I returned to Maledin instead of stealing my bride and murdering my people, things might have been different. If he begs me now, it is only because his defenses have been stripped away, and he is on the threshold of death.
“It’s too late for forgiveness,” I tell him. “You murdered our parents, and then you dragged Mother up out of the dirt so I had to watch her die all over again. You are not my brother. You’re barely even a man. After all your pride and your hunger for power, look what has become of you. You never thought twice before allowing that lich to invade your heart and bringing so much death and suffering to Maledin, so I won’t hesitate now.”
I tighten my grip on my sword, and thrust it through Emmeric’s heart. I feel the crunch of his bones and his gasping breath. Emmeric’s eyes go wide, he makes a wet choking sound, and blood flows over my hands. As the light fades from Emmeric’s eyes, he reaches for me. Then he slumps to the ground and dies.
Green light forms around his body and coalesces into a small, fluttering knot.
“The lich’s soul. Don’t let it escape,” one of the warlocks calls out.
They shout unfamiliar words, and the ward that encircled the hut snaps tight around the lich’s scrap of soul, all that was left after we killed the necromancer and destroyed its phylactery five hundred years ago, but it is more than enough to possess a man and cause utter devastation in Maledin. The green light fights madly within the magical net, hurling itself around like a wild animal caught in a trap.
One of the warlocks produces a metal vessel shaped like a bottle. They seem to be trying to force the frantically beating scrap of soul into the vessel. Isavelle hurries forward and adds her magic to the warlocks’, chanting with them, her high voice adding a powerful note to their deep ones. The green light is being forced closer and closer to the metal prison.
“Come on,” I whisper under my breath, clenching my fists. “You can all do this.”
The net of magic explodes, and we’re all flung off our feet.
My back hits a rock and I’m winded for a moment. When I open my eyes, I look around for Isavelle and see her and Fiala helping Dusan to his feet. The warlocks are all sprawled beside me, and they stand up, dazedly brushing dirt from themselves and testing sore wrists and ribs for broken bones. I can’t see their faces, but their bodies are stooped with exhaustion after exerting so much magic, and two of them seem to be whimpering in pain.
There’s no sign of the fluttering piece of soul anywhere. The lich has vanished. I feel no confidence that we have seen the last of it. Without a body it will be unstable, but it has been in this state before and it was still able to possess Emmeric.
“Failure,” one of them mutters darkly under his breath, echoing my own thoughts.
The metal bottle has rolled over to me, and I pick it up. This bottle is so heavy that I wonder if it’s made from lead. It reminds me of something, and for a moment I can’t think what, but then I remember. The phylactery that my sister Mirelle brought out from the lich’s den in the mountains, but this one has different markings on it.
“A phylactery?” I ask the warlocks.
But while I was focused on the bottle, the warlocks vanished.
“They were right here,” Ashton says indignantly, turning on the spot. “How did they leave without us noticing?”
“Magic,” Isavelle says, coming forward. “The warlocks are learning new spells.” She gazes at the bottle in my hand. “Not enough new spells. They couldn’t make the lich’s soul enter the phylactery, and I didn’t know how to do it either. Those symbols on the bottle look familiar. I think they’re binding runes. If the warlocks had managed to force the lich inside, I think it would have been trapped.”
I give her the bottle. “Then this should go with you. Perhaps Master Gaun will know how to return it to our warlock friends so they may try again, though the gods know where the lich’s soul will be now.”
“I would like to speak with Master Gaun at the archives as soon as possible.” In a softer voice, she asks me, “Are you all right, Zabriel?”
I feel many things. Relieved that I will never be confronted with what my brother became ever again and that he can no longer hurt people. Disappointed and worried that the lich is still out there. And there’s a small knot of grief as well, that any of this had to happen. I press a kiss to her forehead. “I will be well.”
“ Ma’len , what shall we do with Emmeric’s body?” Fiala asks me quietly.
I glance at the bloody corpse. Emmeric’s lightless eyes are fixed on the gray skies. The anger I feel over him resurrecting my mother has not dimmed after all these weeks. Neither has the torment he inflicted on my sister. Emmeric deserves neither Maledinni last rites nor a Brethren burial.
I take a long, slow look around the rocky valley. “This is a barren landscape and the wild animals must have little to eat. They can pick over his carcass, and he can serve an unselfish purpose for the last act of his miserable existence.”
I don’t feel myself again until I have taken off my armor, bathed, and I’m holding Sylvi in my arms. Her sweet, sleeping face banishes the ghastly memories of my haggard brother as I thrust the sword through his chest.
Isavelle, dressed in a soft white robe, has taken her hair out of its plait, and is combing through it. She comes up beside me and presses kisses to Sylvi’s head and my cheek.
“I’m sorry it’s still not over, Zabriel.”
I sigh, letting go of the last of my disappointment. “It was a good plan the warlocks had. I suppose they just weren’t strong enough for him.”
“Or perhaps not as clever yet. There’s something we’re missing. There must be a way for the undead to die.”
“Then you and Master Gaun will find it. I wonder who those warlocks were.”
Isavelle blinks up at me, also mystified, but apparently it’s by my ignorance. “Do you truly not know?”
“You mean you do?”
She purses her lips in thought. “I have my suspicions about three of them, but I will confirm them first. I would like to thank them, and discuss how we might ensorcell and trap the lich’s soul.”
“Maybe we never will. I’m not able to run a piece of a soul through with a sword.”
“Don’t say never, Zabriel, because we must defeat it. The lich holds grudges. It won’t forget the humiliation it has suffered at the hands of the King of Maledin, let alone the rest of us, and it has all the time in the world to plan its revenge.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so gloomy,” I say. “I just wish for once we could have a straightforward victory. Our successes must always be tempered by failure, and it never seems to end.”
“…so watch out for a fluttering ball of green light. You are on the lich’s list for revenge. It may try to kill you.”
I’m standing on the dragongrounds with Stesha while he polishes Nilak’s gleaming scales. He hunkers down on his heels and peers at Nilak’s belly, an enormous soft cloth wadded up in his hand. “Kill me? I thought it wanted to make me suffer.”
“We’ve made it angrier than ever, and I think murder is likely. Zenevieve isn’t safe either. Have you seen anything strange since yesterday morning?”
Stesha doesn’t seem to be listening to me.
“Stesha. I just killed what was left of my brother. You could at least look at me while I’m talking to you.”
Stesha glances up at me, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts a thousand miles away. He gets to his feet and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, Zabriel. I didn’t even ask about Emmeric. Was it awful to kill him?”
The sincerity in his voice cools my temper. “It was a relief more than anything. Did you hear what I said about Zenevieve?”
“Nothing and no one will touch Zenevieve,” he says at once with conviction.
That at least I can believe. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”
His hand lingers on his dragon. “It’s Nilak.”
“She’s all right, isn’t she? Not ailing from anything?” I take a quick glance at the dragon, but she’s uninjured and her eyes are bright. Perhaps the dragonmaster can see something I can’t.
“Nilak’s perfectly well. In fact, she’s about to lay a clutch of eggs.”
“Really? Who is her mate?”
Stesha rubs his jaw. “That’s the strange thing. She doesn’t have a mate. She’s never shown any interest in the males, and she’s being stubborn over communicating with me about what’s going on with her. She’s happy about the eggs, and that’s all I can get out of her.”
I grin. “Maybe she had a fling. Maybe she doesn’t want to be mated to anyone because these males aren’t good enough for precious Nilak, but she still wants some baby dragons.”
Stesha gives me a dark look. “None of these males are good enough for her.”
“Perhaps you’ll have a better idea who the father is when you see the hatchlings.”
“True. I’ve noticed Lethis has been paying Nilak interest. I think it’s probably him.” He addresses his dragon. “Is that it, Nilak? You don’t want to be burdened with a mate? You need not worry. We will take care of your hatchlings between us.”
Nilak nuzzles his shoulder in answer, and Stesha smiles briefly. Across the dragongrounds, Lethis is gazing at her with what I would swear is a wistful expression. The white dragon doesn’t seem to care one scrap for him.
“You two are the most dependent dragon and rider I’ve ever known,” I say dryly. “If only Nilak had been born a woman, or you a dragon, you could have been so happy together.”
Stesha ignores me, his eyes dancing with visions of Nilak’s future offspring. “Soon the flare will be truly blessed.” He looks as proud as if he’s received news that he’s about to become a father. He’s waited a long time for Nilak to finally have dragons of her own.
I leave Stesha’s side with a pat on his shoulder, and go to tell Isavelle the good news about Nilak.