Chapter Ten #2
I don’t take even a moment to think of the consequences. Just like the moment in the arena, the situation sharpens into focus with the only possible course of action I can take.
I send out my shadows. The tendrils of darkness swirl through the camp and up into the sky towards the falling figures.
They reach Ronan first—but no, it’s not him. It’s Taran. The one falling to the ground is Taran.
I grab him with my shadows, but he’s falling fast. I can’t keep hold of him and help Ronan and Kira in their spiral.
“Fuck!” I scream. I sense others rushing towards me vaguely, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene before me. I drop my ordinary shadow over myself and hope it’s enough to conceal me for what I need to do.
I feel Ronan’s terror, and it slices through me like a knife. My own feelings are overwhelmed by it, paralyzing me as the fear echoes between us. I try to fight it, try to latch onto something comforting, try to remind myself of the love we have for each other, but it’s no use.
My shadows retreat as I struggle to gain back control over my emotions.
And then I’m struck by a sudden realization. What are secrets made of other than fear? Secrets and lies are the keys to my power, but secrets are just hidden fears. They’re fueled by fear—the fear of being discovered.
I reach deep within me into a dark, secret place where all my worst fears live. The fear of losing Ronan. The fear that he no longer wants me. The fear of losing my family, of losing the war. Of watching everyone I care about die right here at this moment.
And then, rather than fight the fear, I grab onto it. I pull it out of me and into my shadows, casting my darkness out into the world for all to see.
The shadow splits. A tendril holds onto Taran, but another grabs Ronan and Kira as they fall. It rights them just long enough for Ronan to send a burst of light into Kira’s side, healing her.
“Go!” I scream at them as one of Seth’s guards charges me. I release the shadow from Ronan and fling it at the guard, sending him flying.
But I’m losing my grip on Taran. I can’t hold him long enough or high enough for Kira to get him, not with the volley of arrows heading their way.
I have no choice. I strain my power as far as it can, lowering Taran to the ground and pushing the soldiers advancing on me back as I watch Ronan fling his light into the lines of archers.
“Please, Ronan!” I cry. As much as I’d love for him to swoop in here to save me, to save Taran, I know it’s impossible.
There are thousands of soldiers in this camp, dozens already gathered here to be the one to take out the God-King.
His light is powerful, but he can’t overcome this many people on his own, and I know he knows it.
I love you. Please trust me. I’ll find my way back to you.
I send my feelings through our bond. At first, all I receive back is fear and grim determination.
But then, I feel something softer. Acceptance, admiration. A soothing wave of relief at my safety, followed by longing, both physical and emotional. There’s an undercurrent of undeniable passion, a desire that persists between us even under the circumstances.
But, more than all of these things, I feel fierce, all-consuming love.
Like the fear, it strengthens me too, though I don’t truly understand how, since our love is no secret, and it’s certainly not a lie.
But this is no time to question it. I exhale in relief as it gives me what I need to deliver Taran to safety, to keep myself clear of Seth’s soldiers until I can bring him to the ground unharmed.
I pull the shadows back into me as Ronan and Kira retreat into the distance, flying hard for the cover of the clouds. I stand there, watching them until they finally vanish, until I feel the wrenching loss of Ronan’s emotions, the emptiness of his absence.
One of Seth’s soldiers takes my arms and pins them behind my back, but I don’t fight against it.
I watch from a distance as they drag Taran to his feet.
There’s an arrow in his chest near his collarbone, but it’s missed his lungs from the way he moves.
The soldiers push Taran forward to Seth, who gestures for them to follow him.
Seth leads the soldiers and Taran towards me, swaying a bit as he goes.
“In the tent,” he tells the soldiers. “Have another cot brought in, and a healer.”
Taran’s blue eyes meet mine as they lead him away. He doesn’t look angry or even afraid. He just looks resigned, as if he knew that this would happen and warned Ronan about it, and then it happened just as he thought it would.
Which is probably exactly what happened.
But I am afraid for him. Seth may have been on his best behavior with me because, in spite of everything, I’m his sister, but he’ll have no such affection for Taran.
Taran, an Orsa. An enemy even more hated by our people than Ronan himself. Taran, one of Ronan’s generals, a general who defeated us once before. One of the people responsible for the deaths of many Nithyrians, including the friends and loved ones of people in this very camp.
Taran, the man who killed our father.
It’s a secret only three of us know—Taran, myself, and Ronan—but if Seth manages to get it out of us, he could use it to turn Selara against Ronan. To win more of its Great Houses to Nithyria’s cause.
And if he finds out, he’ll kill Taran.
He may kill Taran anyway just for the fun of it, knowing him.
Taran may be calm and accepting of his fate, but I’m not. I will not let him die here, and I cannot let him be tortured.
And, as before, the key to saving him lies in somehow convincing my insane brother not to do something I’m sure he desperately wants to do.
“Well now, sister,” says Seth as he approaches me. He wipes his face, and his hand comes away red. Is that Taran’s blood, or was Seth harmed somehow in the confusion?
It’s neither, I realize as Seth turns towards me.
It’s lipstick.
Seth cleans the lipstick from his neck and jaw with his handkerchief, folding it neatly before putting it back in his pocket.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” he says, shaking his finger in my direction. Or sort of generally near where I am.
He’s really drunk.
I haven’t been holding out on him, but I can’t let him know that. “I can’t control it,” I say. “It just happens.”
“When you’re afraid,” he says, his head lurching with the realization even through his stupor. “We can work with that. Come. Let’s see what that Orsa has to say for himself.”
My stomach plummets as he leads me back into the tent.
Gods, Taran. I’m sorry.