3
A Sylvan is fashioned from light and air.
A Dracu is a creature of earth and darkness.
Neither can thrive where the other abides.
—E XCHARIAS, S YLVAN POET
I ’M NOT READY.
The thought ran through Cassia’s mind as she surveyed the battlefield from atop a cliff overlooking Hexdun Valley, a gray bowl of war-scorched earth collared by low cliffs on two sides, with the immense forest of Thirstwood stretching out to the north and west. She wished she were closer to the trees. She had only to touch the bark and feel the life force running through each trunk to feel calmer. But it wasn’t the time.
The Sylvan king, his bone-white antlers soaked in moonlight, moved through the fray on horseback like a graceful nightmare, his longsword as pitiless as a scythe at harvest. Cassia winced, filled with a mix of revulsion and admiration as her father took three Skratti heads in one swing. The Sylvan Huntsmen, well-trained and as vicious as wolves, wove between the Dracu—slashing, skewering, and beheading with efficient strokes.
Her father had been right about the Azpian hordes joining the Dracu queen’s side. Their forces outnumbered the Sylvans five to one, a sea of enemies that looked as if it would swallow them whole. Not only were there Skrattis from the deepest recesses of the Cryptlands, but there were also winged imps and pit sprites—noxious clouds that flew into eyes and noses like a stinging pestilence. Enora said it was like having a handful of soot blown into your face. You couldn’t see or breathe for a moment, and in that time, an axe or a mace could find your head. If enough of them converged, they could suffocate you.
Cassia watched the grisly, awful dance. The Sylvans favored the elegance of swords, while many Azpians preferred axes, cudgels, and maces—heavy weapons that showed their brute strength but were prone to clumsiness. Enora once shared a gleeful account of an imp who’d managed to get his helmet stuck on backward. The halls of Scarhamm had shaken with laughter, and even the Sylvan king had smirked.
But now there was no mirth, only fear. The odds were so much against them.
She paced the cliff’s edge, her leather boots tearing up weeds and mud. When Thea appeared beside her, she jumped, having forgotten her sister’s presence.
“Breathe, Cass,” Thea said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t spend your energy before the fight.”
Cassia took a deep breath. If only she knew how to be calm.
“I should be down there,” Thea said in a low tone, her irritation palpable. Her recent injury meant she’d been forced to stay behind. “I hate not being at Enora’s back.”
Cassia gave her sister’s arm a squeeze. Enora and Thea together were more than twice as formidable as they were separate. There was something about how they read each other that worked magic.
“You’re watching my back,” she pointed out. “When you should be resting.”
Thea made a disgusted noise. “I’ll rest when the last Dracu falls.”
Which was probably never. Not if Cassia couldn’t slay enemies with the ring. “I’m the one who should be down there. The ring’s blast would take out more enemies from up close than from way up here.” She was always kept apart, never risking herself the way the Huntsmen or her sisters did. More and more, she was finding that separation intolerable.
“Cass,” Thea said sharply. “You know why. We can’t risk the Solis Gemma falling back into Dracu hands.”
“I know.” But it marked her as different. An outsider to her own people.
“You’ll get your chance, Deathringer,” Thea said. “When you master that thing, you’re going to take out more Dracu than the rest of us combined.”
Cassia tried to smile, but found little comfort in the words. It was easy for Thea to say, her reputation being established. She’d been described as a violent dance on the battlefield. Cassia once saw her and Enora cut through seven Azpians who were surrounding them. They moved and reacted to attacks in harmony, almost as if they could read each other’s thoughts.
Not like Cassia. Deathringer. The nickname was empty. She wore a weapon of legend on her finger but dealt no death.
Cassia breathed deeply of the frostbit air, watching silently for her cue. The Azpians’ numbers were taking their toll. The Huntsmen were hemmed in, ragged and flagging.
“We keep falling back,” Thea said darkly. “They’ve slipped past our—no!”
Cassia held her breath as the Sylvan king was nearly unseated from his horse by the onrush of two Skrattis and a Dracu. He stabbed one Skratti while kicking the other away, taking a hit to his back that sent him half sprawling. But he managed to keep his seat on Feria, his white stallion, and skewer the Dracu through the throat under his helm.
The Sylvan king’s head turned up and toward her, and he lifted a hand. Her signal.
But the battlefield seemed so far away. Too far. What if that was the reason she couldn’t kill with the ring? She’d resolved to push herself harder. To take risks.
Decision made, she slid down the angled cliff, grabbing weeds and rocks for purchase, the shouts and cries of battle growing louder. Thea screamed her name, probably wondering what fool idea had entered her head. But Cassia was sure of herself, for once. She had to do this.
The Skrattis were bigger than she remembered, their muscles bulging, their tusks as sharp as sword points. They fought with shrieks and cries, their eyes wide, grimacing with pointed white teeth. The Dracu moved with eerie speed, their horns pale blurs in the fray. And everywhere, tiny pit sprites streaked through the air leaving trails of black smoke and white ash.
As she neared the base of the cliff, she spotted a new threat: a dozen or more Dracu closing in on her father, their movements even faster than usual, leaving a trail of Huntsmen in their wake. Their aim was clear: take out the king.
Fear pulsed in her temples, and everything inside her seemed to rush too quickly. The Dracu soldiers moved with implacable purpose, their green eyes glowing in the dark. Some wore helms, but most went bareheaded to show their sharpened horns. She could see strands of hair plastered to their faces.
A prickle of warning sparked at the back of her neck, making her scan for further danger.
From about twenty or so yards away, a Dracu watched her with unblinking attention, even as he swung his weapon with deadly effect. He moved like water, even more graceful than the best-trained Huntsman, as three Sylvan opponents tried to take him down. Horns flared out of his shaggy dark hair. He wore a leather cuirass, his arms bare, covered in gashes that ran red with his blood. But it was his glowing stare that raised the hair on her nape. She felt his hatred as a physical thing, a pressure in her temples and against her throat. His mouth opened, but his shout was lost in the din.
She put a hand to her neck, grabbing the vial given to her by Veleda, and pulled the cork out with her teeth. She gulped the brew, taking comfort even as she grimaced at the awful taste. With it, her blast radius should be enough to protect her father.
The Dracu hadn’t looked away. Was he edging toward her? Good. The blast will hit you first.
Her legs shook, but she stood her ground. Where was her father? She did a quick scan, finding him, relieved that he’d kept his seat in Feria’s saddle. But something had changed. The Skrattis and imps and Dracu who had been approaching the king were fighting their way toward the base of the cliff. Toward her.
Did they realize who she was? They were almost on her. Out of time.
She called on the gemstone. Every muscle and sinew in her body sent strength toward her hand. The Solis Gemma fought her. It was a battle of wills, hers against the ring. The resistance brought a throbbing ache into her heart until it felt as if it might burst. The first few times she’d made the blast, she’d thought she was dying. But that was the trick. You had to push past that part, then hold, hold. Never release the power too soon. Finally, when the pain was unbearable, the ring yielded.
The blast radiated from her, the pain sending her to her knees. Amber light blazed like the midday sun. Dracu and Skratti voices howled and screamed. The thuds of enemies hitting the ground was a reassurance that she’d done her job.
That was the fiercest attack she had ever managed, maybe the widest radius as well. If it was not what her father had demanded, if she still hadn’t killed with the blast, at least it was more than she’d ever done before. And she might have saved his life. Perhaps for now, it would be enough.
There were Dracu shouts and commands, attempts to regroup, but she had done this dozens of times over the years. No Dracu within range was impervious to the Solis Gemma.
She could barely survive it herself. Every use of the ring took a toll on her. Being so close to the source, she always lost her vision for a few minutes. And the pain in her heart intensified with every blast. She feared one day she would call on the stone, and she would be torn apart by its answer. Maybe, she thought secretly and with shame, that was why the stone hadn’t shared its full potential with her. Her own fear made her unworthy.
As she shook with reaction, she reminded herself this was her role. Her duty. Her penance. Her way of making up for mistakes and failures.
The ground rumbled with the hoofbeats of the Huntsmen’s horses, the Sylvan cavalry taking full advantage. If Noctua’s favor was with them, this would give the Sylvans the advantage they needed. The Azpian hordes would retreat into the cold earth, and she would go back to Scarhamm to her warm bedchamber. There would be a hot bath, spiced nectar to drink, and Thea would tell her how many Dracu had died because of her. Maybe her father would even set her on Feria’s back and take her back to Scarhamm in pride and honor.
Perhaps, finally, she had done something right.
She felt more than heard a presence beside her. She blinked hard, but her sight was still gone. Her heart did a double beat. She waited for one of the Huntsmen to greet her.
Instead, coarse fingers grabbed her chin in a painful grip. No Huntsman would dare touch her that way. She shrieked and grabbed for her dagger, but found her wrist held. She punched out with her other hand, but that fist was caught, too.
Warm breath tickled her cheek. “Hello, Cassia.”