31. Rune
THIRTY-ONE
RUNE
The slaughter has ended, but this nightmare is far from over. I kneel in the center of the lifted platform, staring out at the wet courtyard. The Architect sent everyone away, and it was almost surreal, watching chaos dissolve into strained compliance. Masked guards led bare faced men into the Tower, the latter with their hands bound behind their backs. Tora was taken away screaming, calling for Harrick, even after he could no longer hear her.
The Architect remained on the stage with me and two guards, and together, we watched the masses work. Servants were brought out to scrape the dead from the cobblestone, and I clenched my teeth to keep from crying. They left the rebels in their haphazard pile to the right of the stage. I can see the bodies still, and I imagine it’s a warning for me to behave.
“Rouse him,” the Architect says.
I tense at the command, looking down at Harrick. After they’d beaten him into someone unrecognizable, they laid him out in front of me. He’s been sprawled across the cobblestones ever since, unmoving with his left arm twisted in the wrong direction.
One of the guards descends the stage and delivers a sharp kick at Harrick’s side. I flinch, unable to stop myself. Harrick groans. It’s long and drawn out, pained but alive. Despite everything, a streak of relief courses through me. Alive. He is alive—which means we still have a chance.
The guard wrenches Harrick up by his shoulders. His head lolls to the side, then drops to settle on his chest. His dark hair hangs over his face, hiding most of the bruises, but I know they’re there. I watched each strike land against his face, his body, his limbs.
I suck in a watery breath, unable to stop the tears. This is my fault. All of it—and I knew it would happen. I thought, hoped, it would end differently, and now I hate myself for being wrong. For being a fool. A selfish, impulsive fool.
I look at the murdered servants, abandoned in the rain. There are four of them, and I know them all. Arnelian’s corpse stares at me with an empty gaze. He’s the reason the guards found me. Tora had left me with a good hiding place, and I’m sure the guards never would have seen me. It was only Arnelian’s odd angle, as they dragged him through the entryway, that allowed him to notice me. And whether on impulse or out of anger, Arnelian called my name, stretching a hand toward me. Again and again, until the guards realized I was there.
“He’s waking,” the second guard says, the one still on the stage.
Harrick’s movements are loose and unsteady, but the guard is right: he’s waking. Those dark violet eyes blink, slowly at first, then faster. His attention snaps around the courtyard, at the darkness that has fallen over us. When his eyes finally find mine, a terrible sob breaks from his lips.
“I killed your men,” the Architect says, sounding bored. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth. “Pitiful deaths. Your sister barely fought. I expected more from her.”
Harrick doesn’t respond. He takes haggard breaths through his teeth, and I let out another involuntary sob.
“This is what happens when you lose focus,” the Architect continues. He makes a tsking sound in the back of his throat. “I told you your duty was to me, not these vile mortals. You defied me, and now, you will suffer the consequences.”
Harrick’s eyes rake over me, and I can only imagine what he sees. I am filthy and soaked, bruised and bloodied. He must know the truth, that every second of this misery is my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m crying so hard I’m not sure he can understand me. “I’m so sorry, Harrick. I didn’t?—”
Something strikes the back of my head—a fist, maybe. I fall forward, catching myself just before my face hits the wood. The Architect grabs me by my hair, twisting me up to my knees and then my feet. He roughly drags me, and I fumble to stay upright, closing my eyes as we stop at the stage’s edge. His rancid breath is hot against my cheek, a stark reminder he’s still not wearing his mask.
“You promised!” Harrick shouts. “You promised to let her live!”
He lets out an animalistic scream, unlike anything I’ve heard. By the time I open my eyes, he’s fought his way to his feet. He’s unsteady, but still straining against the guard, trying to reach me. He raises his hands, only for the barest of sparks to light his fingers.
The Architect heaves a disappointed sigh. He maintains his cruel grip on my hair as he pulls me back to his chest.
“I’ve drained your magic, Harrick,” he says. “Go on, feel for it. It’s gone, almost to the last drop. It will come back, don’t worry. But not tonight.”
He lets his words hang in the air, and I watch as Harrick realizes the truth of them. He flexes his hands, the color draining from his face. For the first time in his life, he is as weak, as powerless as I am. And without his magic, we don’t stand a chance.
“Don’t,” Harrick says. His entire body trembles as he speaks, and each word sounds physically painful. “I’ll do anything. Anything .”
“Ahh, I’m sure you would,” the Architect muses. He releases my hair, curling his hand around the back of my neck instead. I clench every muscle in my body, as if being perfectly still will allow me to disappear. “Unfortunately, the time for begging is past. Now, you must face the consequences of your actions.”
Harrick attempts another step forward, only to crash to his knees. The guard behind him lets out something dangerously close to a laugh, and it’s echoed by the other guard. The Architect doesn’t join. He only sighs again, as if impatient for all of this to be over.
“Hold his arms,” he says. “And keep his eyes open. Make sure he watches.”
Harrick’s head lifts before the guard reaches him. He fights, even though he must know it’s a battle he will lose. Magic sparks uselessly at his hands as the guard restrains his arms behind his back.
“I’m here,” Harrick says. His voice is strangled still, and tears trail through the blood on his face. “I’m here, Rune. You are not alone.”
“I’m scared,” I say. I don’t know why I admit it, but I do. “I don’t want to die.”
“I will be with you soon,” he says. “As soon as I can, sweetheart.”
I shake my head. There are so many things I need to tell him, but I can’t find my voice for a single one.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Live for both of us.
Don’t let him win.
A flare of magic lights beside my face. For one foolish moment, I think Tora has returned to save us, that the Architect lied and she is still alive. But when I turn my head, it is the Architect’s magic I see. It flares in a misshapen orb, creeping toward me like a starved animal. I lean away from it, even though I know there’s nowhere to go.
The Architect’s hand clasps tighter over my throat as his magic presses against the side of my face. It is warm, but not scalding like I expect. It caresses my cheek, sliding across my skin and slipping into my ear. I feel it inside my skull, dancing past the bone and into my mind. I try to look back for Harrick, but my vision is clouded until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.
I am on this stage, the rough, bloodied wood beneath my bare feet. But I am also at my mother’s deathbed. I am begging her not to leave me, even as she’s struggling to breathe. I am selfishly demanding she stay, telling her I will never forgive her if she dies.
I am in that cramped servants’ bedroom, asking too much of a father who has already given more than he has. I am telling him my cruelest thoughts, pushing him to be reckless, foolish, selfless. I am racing down poorly lit corridors, tripping over my own feet, shoving into this same bleak courtyard. But he’s already dead. I’m too late and it’s my fault and he’s already dead.
I am convincing Harrick to marry me. I am abandoning the rebel faction. I am ruining every life that comes into contact with mine.
All the horrible, terrible things in this world come back to me, and there is only one way to keep them from continuing. To stop the hurt I’ve forced on everyone around me.
“Creature,” the Architect whispers. For the first time, I realize his voice is not cruel at all. It is honest, bare, true.
When I open my eyes, it is his I find. They are darker than Harrick’s, without even a hint of violet. They are black, endless, all-knowing.
“This is for you,” he tells me.
I look to his outstretched palm. He holds a dagger between his fingers, delicately, as if it’s precious. And it is, I realize. It is the only solution to the damage I’ve caused, to the hurt I’ve inflicted. I study the Architect’s wide, omniscient eyes. I’m not scared anymore. I am at peace. For once, I know exactly what I’m meant to do.
I take the dagger from his palm, careful not to touch him with the blade. I look at my reflection within it, at the dark circles beneath my eyes.
You are so tired , the Architect tells me.
And I am. I feel the exhaustion of this life on every bone in my body.
It is time to let go , he says.
And I know he’s right.
I hold the handle, rotating the dagger, just like Harrick taught me.
If you were to stab someone , he’d said. You’d do it like this .
I point the blade to my pulse.
I will be your friend . He said that the very same night.
The dagger shakes in my hand, and I’m caught off guard by this second memory. It is not from the Architect, I realize, but from myself. I’m suddenly desperate to hear more. I want to stay, if only so I can hear his voice for another moment.
Gods, you’re beautiful . He’d said that the first night he kissed me for real.
Somewhere, I feel the Architect’s hand tighten on my neck. I feel him shake me, as if rattling me into submission. But I still don’t move the dagger. I want more, just one more.
Marry me, Rune. That was only yesterday, and I can still feel the warmth low in my stomach. Nothing makes me feel half as brave and worthy and good as you do.
I blink against the warm haze of the Architect’s magic. Bits of reality come back to me, as if I am waking from a deep slumber. I can feel it then, the presence of not just the Architect’s magic within me, but Harrick’s too.
I will protect you with my life , he said once. And he has, over and over again.
And I will do the same , I whisper into the void.
I cling to Harrick’s magic. It is softer yet so much more vibrant than his father’s, and I let it lead me away from the Architect’s distorted reality. I claw through muddled visions and memories, until I blink and find the rain-streaked courtyard before me. I still hold the Architect’s dagger against my throat, but it no longer feels like an answered prayer.
It feels only like a cold piece of metal, meant not to heal, but to destroy.
Harrick fights his captor, screaming my name again and again. Straining to get to me, to keep his promise. This time, the voice I hear is not his or the Architect’s or even my own. It is Alven Tjor’s, the dark-haired servant who didn’t want to risk his neck but did anyway.
That’s our strength, you know, he’d told me in the Wilds. They always underestimate us.
I look at the Architect without turning my head. Even as he pinches my neck, urging me to kill myself faster, he doesn’t look at me. I am so little a threat, he’s not paying me any attention. His eyes are solely on his most powerful descendant. Because this moment is not about me dying, not really. It is about Harrick watching me die and being unable to stop it.
I tighten the blade in my hand and take a thick breath through my nose.
And then, I lunge.
The Architect turns, his eyes widening in surprise. He’s too late. My blade slices through his exposed skin, hitting somewhere between his throat and his pulse. I jerk my hand back, drawing out the blade with it. I stab him again. And once more.
He falls like many of his victims. First to his knees, with his fingers grasping at his throat. Then forward, onto his hands. Blood sprays in thick pulses, soaking his leather gloves. I stand over him with the dagger still clutched in my hand.
His blood is everywhere. On my clothes, my hands, my face. I can taste the sharp iron of it on my tongue.
His guard crashes against my side. At first, I think it’s to kill me, but he only shoves me out of the way. He’s knelt before his leader, pressing both hands against the man’s throat.
“Get a healer!” he screams at the second guard.
The man doesn’t wait to be told again. He abandons Harrick’s side and sprints for the Tower’s entrance. I stare after him in disbelief before looking back to the Architect. He’s ruled this land since its creation, and he’s terrorized my kind every day of it. It’s fitting, I think, that he should die by a mortal hand. Despite this guard’s effort, I can tell by the empty glaze over his eyes.
The Architect is already dead.
“Rune,” Harrick says. His voice is a desperate plea. “We need to go.”
I stumble off the stage, half-collapsing at Harrick’s side. I gently hold his bruised face between my hands, and even though there’s no time for it, I place a frantic kiss to the top of his forehead.
“We need to go,” he says again. His eyes dart between me and the stage. “Help me up.”
It’s a struggle but I manage to get him on his feet. He’s covered in blood and bruises and swollen flesh, and I’m terrified he might lose consciousness at any moment. The guard on the stage has his back mostly to us as he tries, uselessly, to stop the Architect’s bleeding.
“If I collapse, leave me,” Harrick says as we cross the courtyard “If I collapse, go until you find?—”
“We’re going together,” I interrupt. “So stay with me. Okay? Stay with me, and we’ll go together.”
We don’t speak again as I drag him into the Tower. The entryway is thankfully vacant, but we’re quick to escape it, just in case that changes. We head down a series of hallways until we reach a concealed military lift. Only once we’re inside, moving upward, does he kiss the top of my head. Again and again, until he lets out a shaky sob.
“I love you,” he says, breathing the words against my hair. “So much, Rune.”
“I love you too,” I say. I’m trembling again, not from Harrick’s weight but from the reality of all that’s happened. “What are we going to do now?”
“I need to get my magic back,” he says. His voice is strained, tight. “We’ll rest tonight, and in the morning, I’ll be ready. We’ll call a gathering—and then, we’ll take what’s ours.”
“Harrick, you need a healer,” I say. A quick glance at the side of his face confirms my worst fears: he’s fading, and fast. I tighten my hold on him. “Forget the kingdom. You’re going to die if you don’t get help. Once we get to your quarters, I’ll go find someone?—”
“No,” he says, but even his words are growing weaker. “It’s too dangerous, Rune. Tomorrow. I’ll see one tomorrow, I promise. Just, please…”
I don’t answer him. The lift reaches his floor, and I lead him to his quarters. Once we’re in his room, he stumbles into bed. He’s still soaked and covered in blood, but he’s rapidly losing his fight to stay awake. I tuck him beneath the covers, not strong enough to change his clothes by myself. Once he’s settled, I hurry to the wardrobe for more blankets.
I’ve no more than turned when a flare of red magic erupts through the room. I startle, spinning to face Harrick again. He’s sitting upright in bed, arm shaking but lifted. Thin, reedy vines twine around the door, as if to lock us in—and everyone else out.
Harrick manages two strands before his eyes roll back. He collapses against the mattress, finally succumbing to unconsciousness.