Chapter Thirty-Two
MALACHI TELEPORTED THEIR GROUP A FEW YARDS shy of the city’s market square, which the bulk of the golden sunfire rained down upon.
Buildings, open-air stalls, the trees and shrubs that lined the streets—everything was ablaze.
The smell of burnt flesh tainted the air, the stench so violent and pungent it made Malachi see black.
Those were his folks burning, Apollyon lives being snuffed out. In untold numbers.
Of course Rishaud chose this of all days.
Because the morning marked exactly a fortnight before the Winter Solstice rite.
It was a significant celebration among Malachi’s court, and today was the day in which folks customarily flocked to the market in droves, buying sweets and decorations and other baubles for the weeks-long revels that would lead up to the solstice.
They were not celebrating now.
The raging flames of ethereal gold—a color no fire born of a natural source would be—were spreading like wildfire, a tidal wave of destruction that was already racing in the direction of the residential area closest to the market square.
That bastard was sending the message that the Apollyon Court’s pinnacle city and Malachi’s subjects could easily be touched.
He was sending the message that “peace” would only be on his terms, and by his definition.
“We need a weather rune,” he told Trystin in a voice that sounded like death even to his own ears. Then, he dared ask, “Do you think heavy rains will be enough to douse the fire?”
Trystin gazed at the burning market grimly and answered in a ragged voice, “I hope so.” The fact that his cousin didn’t offer the usual response that was chock-full of arrogance in his skills with runes punctuated the horror they beheld.
“Put everything you’ve got behind it,” Malachi growled.
“Afterward, erect a protective barrier around this meadow. We’ll use it as a camp for any survivors.
Then, transport yourself and Nychelle back to the palace.
Gather whatever supplies we may need for the camp and as many healers as the infirmary can spare. ”
“Go with them,” Kadeesha hurriedly told Leisha. “Bring Yashira here. Her skills with herbs may be of help, and bring the rest of the Nkita and our kongamatos. The squadron can help transport those with severe injuries back to the infirmary.”
Malachi heard Leisha respond “I’ll see it done” back to Kadeesha as he started toward the market square to spare what lives he could.
Nychelle gripped his shoulder, stopping him. “No! Not just yet,” she cautioned. “You need to take a moment to surveil—”
“Fuck Rishaud and fuck the danger!” He cut off the reasons she’d throw at him for not crossing into the market at once.
“If that bastard is somewhere nearby, I can handle whatever he dishes out,” he spat.
He manifested shadows around him, commanded them to cling to his form and even his face, arranging them into body armor and a helmet of darkness that would swallow anything that came in contact with the pitch-black Void.
Nychelle sucked her teeth. However, whatever she saw in Malachi’s gaze kept her from protesting.
“Stay safe, cousin,” Trystin impressed upon him and then yanked out the knife sheathed at his hip.
He sliced open his right palm and knelt, pressing his hand to the land.
Malachi retained enough presence of mind to wait for as long as it took Trystin to chant an incantation that bent the physical land to his will and cause a torrential downpour to rip forth from the skies.
Once the rains began that he hoped like hell would extinguish a magical fire somewhat quickly, he rushed toward the burning market.
His Cadre moved beside him without needing to be given the order, manifesting void armor of their own as they ran.
Kadeesha was among their group rushing toward the epicenter of the blaze.
When he sighted her in his periphery a few paces to his right, something within him recoiled at seeing her advancing toward danger.
It was pure madness that he thought about the pregnancy, the babe of both their blood that she’d birth if she carried it to term.
He inwardly flinched at the image of Kadeesha’s body charred beyond what a healer could repair.
The intensity of the aversion that slammed into him like a battering ram was especially ludicrous given that she would be ending the pregnancy and he hadn’t expressed any dissenting opinion when she’d announced her desire.
Whatever insanity he was going through, he shook it off.
He couldn’t afford to be unfocused. Still, he couldn’t halt his head from swiveling to scrutinize the brightly glowing, near-blinding aether flames she’d locked in place around herself.
He did, however, manage to curb the urge to test out the strength of her protective flames.
He knew that Kadeesha could handle herself—he’d witnessed her strength and resilience and ferocity firsthand—and they didn’t have time for an unnecessary delay.
THE CITY’S MARKET attracted several hundred patrons on any given day, and that didn’t count the scores of traveling merchants and the locals who owned stalls, taverns, and boutiques.
Plus that was for a regular day, and today it had been packed.
Yet in total, they pulled out forty-two fae so far.
Forty-fucking-two. That was the number, out of hundreds, that they’d found among the burning buildings, melted stalls, and smoldering ruins of the market.
Thank the skies, Trystin’s conjured rainstorm was successful in dousing the raging fires before they reached the residential sector.
Still, it was a brutal reminder of Rishaud’s power—and viciousness.
Malachi let the healers and Yashira tend to those with injuries that would eventually heal, while he worked on those with wounds threatening to claim their lives, moving from one to another as quickly as he could.
There were enough of those in the latter group that he appreciated the presence of Kadeesha and the rest of her squadron.
It was impossible for Malachi to heal the many who’d sustained critical wounds at once, so the Aether fae flew those who might cling to life just a bit longer and survive the time in flight back to the palace, where healers had the full inventory of the royal infirmary’s apothecary at hand.
Even as he worked, his mind was a torrent of thoughts. Fuck. I’ve failed my court. I’ve failed everybody who’s been injured. Who has lost their lives.
Again.
It didn’t matter that he was ruling differently than his father had. The scores dead and the dozens injured ate away at him; it was a failure on the level of his father’s. Malachi had sworn never to repeat the former king’s mistakes, and yet here he was, knee-deep in one.
His eyes landed on Kadeesha. Stationed a considerable distance across the meadow, she tied a tourniquet around the thigh of a fae girl.
The stripling was young; she appeared no more than about five years of age.
She had dark copper skin, near the color of Kadeesha’s, and red ringlet curls.
Kadeesha tended to the girl with the gentlest handling.
Malachi must’ve been feeling particularly masochistic at the moment; it was the only excuse for seeking Kadeesha out on the heels of the miserable thoughts about his father’s shortcomings.
He clenched his jaw and shoved memories of the previous king away.
Today, however, they were especially obstinate.
Churning thoughts about his father and how he’d died, how he’d allowed Malachi’s mother to be killed, stayed firmly planted in his mind.
It was as if they’d decided to sprout roots and anchor themselves in the forefront of Malachi’s thoughts.
And his hellish, treacherous thoughts didn’t stop there.
He blinked, fighting with everything he had not to rock back on his heels when Kadeesha’s stature shifted.
As Kadeesha knelt beside the young girl, her belly rounded, forming a clear bump beneath her flying leathers.
Malachi blinked again. He knew it wasn’t real, that it was only his mind torturing him because his failure to prevent the deaths at the palace wall and now in the market was eating him up.
He should’ve known the blast was coming beforehand.
He should’ve known Rishaud had infiltrated the Cleric’s Rebellion.
He should’ve fucking known that five of his own lord primes were conspiring with Rishaud and the treasonous clerics.
He should’ve known better than to tempt fate by bedding Kadeesha and giving in to the urge to mark her as his.