CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Infinity surrounded him, its vastness rippling through his core with unmitigated power. Deckard stood in the Space Keep, the beauty of the Heavens alight around him. Amber swirled with vivid green across the onyx depths of eternity. The Shades stood like soldiers, awaiting their officer’s command.
Deckard surveyed them and, with a mere thought, released them to their charge.
They barreled into him, giving him their strength as he absorbed each one.
He closed his eyes to soak in the thrumming power in his chest. His body vibrated with intense vigor.
He could hear the enthusiastic whisper of Space in his mind.
Upon opening his eyes, Deckard found himself in the Chamber, standing on the dais.
The Relic rested on the pedestal before him, its gold setting almost glowing.
He reached out eagerly, the magic in him quivering with anticipation.
The tips of his fingers could feel the ricocheting energy that pulsed off its onyx stone even as they hovered above it.
But the moment his touch met the amulet’s golden ridges, a scream ripped through his ears, cutting through him like the shards of his own magic.
He recoiled from the Relic, stumbling back to fall off the raised dais.
His form hit the marble with a body-numbing thud.
Yet, the screaming didn’t cease. It echoed in his mind, rocking through him like tremors until he lost all sense of himself or the world around him as it repeated one phrase over and over.
“Let me out!”
A gentle wash of cream light woke Deckard. His body was pleasantly warm, the soothing weight of blankets and the mattress’s plush support embracing him. Stretching, he instinctively kept the movement contained to avoid disrupting Evylin. But then he realized she wasn’t in his arms.
With a rush, the drowsiness of sleep evaporated, and Deckard opened his eyes, seeking his wife. He was in their bed, the morning sun filling their room. Evylin never rose before him. Why had she now?
His searching eyes cast about the room, and then he found her. Evylin stood at the window, fingers on her wedding rings. She turned at the sound of his movement. An air of worry radiated around her, but relief flared above the emotion as she hurried to his side.
She took a seat on the bed and smiled gently at him. “Welcome back,” she said, her voice light. He sat up slowly to rest against the pillows, and she brushed her fingers along his jaw.
A wave of power surged from her fingertips and into Deckard’s soul.
Space.
Deckard’s heart jolted, and he jerked backward. His mind reeled, reminding him of all that had happened. The moment he’d stepped into the Space Keep, its magic had overwhelmed him. And then he lost control. . . .
Worse than in Dunneshead, worse than during the Wind Mages’ ambush. He wholly lost himself to Space—mind, body, and soul.
“Oh, Evie.” He lunged forward to pull her into his arms. The jarring surge of power went through him again, but he needed to hold her, to apologize to her, to know she was safe despite his horrible failure. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Shh,” Evylin whispered soothingly. She ran her hand through his hair, holding him close. “It’s all right. We made it out.”
Deckard refused to be absolved. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, face pressed into her neck. “I lost control, and—”
“It’s all right,” she repeated, though he could feel the tension and pain in her heart. “We made it out.”
For several minutes, they sat there, comforted by the physical assurance of their safety.
He laced his fingers through her wavy hair.
Her arms cradled him tenderly. His muscles relaxed as she nuzzled deeper into him.
He wanted to stay wrapped up in her forever, on their bed, in their house, under the calming morning sunshine.
But Evylin pulled away, her mood still somber. Deckard sat back, studying her face even as she took his hands in hers. “What is it?” he asked.
Her brown eyes were locked on their entwined fingers. He could feel her reluctance as she took a steadying breath, and worry wrapped around his heart. “Evie,” he pressed.
“We, uh . . .” She trailed off, adjusting his moonstone ring absentmindedly. “After you fell unconscious, things grew difficult.”
Deckard wet his lips, preparing for what she was about to reveal.
“Thom,” she began, and his heart stuttered, “fought valiantly and made sure we got out, but he was gravely injured in the process. He would have died if it weren’t for Brea and Ilain.”
Deckard didn’t know whether to feel relief or guilt. His brother was alive. But he’d almost died because of Deckard’s failure.
At Evylin’s lingering solemnity, Deckard realized there was more. He tightened his grip on her. “What else?” he asked.
Evylin scooted closer again, her side pressing into his legs. She met his gaze, impressing him with her next words. “It isn’t your fault,” she insisted.
“What isn’t?”
“You have to understand; you couldn’t have stopped it.”
“Evylin—”
“Tell me you understand,” she demanded.
Deckard’s brow pinched so tightly it ached. “What happened?” he asked in a determined but hushed tone.
A cloud of grief, worry, and compassion swelled between them. “We lost Auden,” she whispered.
Deckard struggled to take in the revelation.
Nothing about it made sense. Without seeing their friends, without the ability to visually comprehend the truth, he couldn’t rectify it in his mind.
Auden wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be. She’d merely meant that he’d been taken, stolen away by Blount and his men.
They would rescue him, and all would be well.
Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, Deckard asked, “Where did they take him?”
Evylin’s expression clouded with sorrow. “Jonn . . .”
Deckard shook his head, the awful truth dawning on him, but he refused to accept it. She didn’t mean that Auden was dead. Deckard’s mistake, his inability to control himself, hadn’t gotten the man killed. “It was Blount, wasn’t it?” he asked. “He took him, and now—”
“Jonn,” she repeated his name again but said nothing more.
Deckard’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s gone?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Dead?”
Her gaze averted apologetically.
Guilt and despair slammed into Deckard’s gut. He’d gotten Auden killed. “How, uh—” He fought back his tears, forcing himself to accept the responsibility for his actions. “How are Ilain and Vayden?”
“Coping,” she said softly. Her own eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s been quiet, relying on Isla.”
Deckard grimaced. He hadn’t considered Isla’s grief as well.
“She’s staying strong for him,” Evylin continued. “But I can see it’s hard on her. Ilain, though . . .”
Evylin glanced at the door, then turned to him again. “Ilain didn’t take it well.”
“I wouldn’t expect her to.”
“After Auden died, she took the Wind and Space Relics from Ethenn and me,” she explained. “She unleashed a storm of black fire that killed hundreds of remaining Shades. It was . . . terrifyingly impressive.”
Deckard gaped at her. “I left you to fight hundreds of them?”
Evylin leaned in at his desolate words. She took his face in her hands. “Stop,” she ordered. “They would have come whether you remained conscious or not.”
“But Auden wouldn’t have—”
“You don’t know that,” she insisted. “None of us can know what would have happened.”
Deckard’s jaw tensed, but he let the argument go. “Does Ilain blame me?”
Evylin released him and sat back, sighing. “No,” she said. “She blames Brea.”
She explained the rest of it then, how Brea left Auden to defend Thom and relegated the Mage to his death. She told him of Ilain’s accusation that Brea had feelings for Thom, which was why she’d chosen him over Auden.
Deckard’s brow furrowed. “I wondered,” he murmured.
Evylin cocked her head. “You did?”
He shrugged. “She’s paid more attention to him than is strictly platonic, in my opinion.”
“It could be cultural,” Evylin offered with a wry smile. “Isla is also rather friendly.”
He gave her a flat stare. “She gave him a pet name that’s blatantly affectionate.”
Evylin pressed her lips together as though she knew her amusement was ill-timed. “She denied it,” she said.
“And we both denied our feelings for months,” he reminded. “It doesn’t mean they weren’t real.”
Evylin accepted the point. “Ilain isn’t talking to Brea anymore,” she warned. “She said she also won’t work with her because she can’t trust her.”
Deckard drew in a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was understandable. Ilain was reactionary and passionate. Her anger as a result of her grief was to be expected. But they couldn’t have rifts that made their troop unstable. Not when they all depended on one another for survival.
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
“One other issue,” Evylin said with a grimace. “Brea won’t talk to Thom either.”
“What?”
Evylin shrugged. “Evidently, she doesn’t want him believing Ilain’s accusation, so now, she’s shut him out. Perhaps it will blow over, but in the last twenty-four hours, she’s hardly looked in his direction, let alone spoken to him. But it doesn’t bode well for our journey if she keeps it up.”
Deckard tried to focus on the matter at hand, but he couldn’t help latching onto the one fact she’d revealed. “I’ve been asleep for twenty-four hours?” he asked.
“Closer to twenty-six at this point,” she confirmed.
Deckard’s heart stuttered. They’d entered the Keep around seven the previous morning. They’d lost an entire day to his mistake. One full day, putting them even farther behind schedule.
Not wanting to face that particular consequence yet, Deckard asked, “How did you get back?”
“Carlile,” Evylin said. “We rested in the antechamber until nightfall. Ilain gave Rafferty directions, and he snuck through the palace to find Carlile’s office. He orchestrated our return without the king’s knowledge.”
“And how did I get all the way to the third floor?”
Evylin gave him a gentle grin. “You can thank Ethenn, Rafferty, Vayden, and me. Thom would have helped, but he’s still recovering.”