9. Diar
Diar
Iflew toward the governor's manor, surrounded by the screaming ghosts of the past. The snow and stone blurred, twinned visions of Tsuyan and Kentoro.
All but one guard had abandoned the gates, and he reached for me as I tore through them.
"Hey!" His hand swatted through the air, missing.
Ahead, the manor's double doors slammed open, and knights spilled out: those in the silver and green of Aenir, and the deep blue and black of Muirashi.
Darting out of their way, I threaded through the crowds of alarmed civilians and ascended the steps two at a time. Ferris shot past me into the foyer, effortlessly outpacing me.
The ground beneath our feet quaked. Clinking glass drew my attention up to the shaking chandelier, a sharp noise against the primal roar from outside.
Had that been thunder?
Blinking away the distraction, I rushed down the hall into the ballroom. Several nobles remained inside, gathered in circles around their tables, chattering away while servants urged them to return to their rooms.
Two men walked side by side down the center of the room. One, an Aenir man with steel hair, bound by a circlet, a forest-green cape flowing behind him. The other, a Muirashin with short, neat hair, his sword drawn.
"Is that him?" I asked.
"That's the king," Ferris confirmed. "But—"
He cut himself off. A familiar scent caressed my face, leaving a smoldering scar.
Smoke and flame.
Drawing my blade, I sprinted toward the man wearing the crown.
The governor leaped in front of the king, blade held high, but it wasn't to him my eyes were drawn. Something flashed beneath the glare of the furthest chandelier, as though intensifying the firelight.
I had but a second to react. A blade of light manifested and shot across the room, directly toward the king's back. Throwing myself past the governor, I jumped into its path, sword raised to deflect it.
The radiant blade slammed into mine at an awkward angle, forcing my arm back. It broke from the steel and tore down my bracer before thudding into the ground.
Screams erupted around the room. Blood pulsed in my ears, drowning them out.
The nightmare was here, hidden in the shadows, surrounded by the smoke slowly filling the ballroom.
Seeing his attack failed, the shadow retreated into the corner of the room, but not before I'd seen him in full: a cloaked man with a slim build, moving with the grace of a dancer.
"Get the king to safety!" A deep voice shouted.
Boots thundered on the floor, and someone shoved past my shoulder, but it was like the world had muted. The assassin darted from the safety of the smoke and shadows toward a back hall.
And I followed.
I heard another shout. "Ferris, stop!"
Risking a glance behind, I saw my cellmate a step behind me. Maybe he'd be good for something in a fight.
The smell of fire grew as I tore down the hall. The thin corridor ended at a spiral stairwell. I could hear the assassin above me, nearing the top.
Black cloth caught my eye, where his cloak hung through the wooden slats. Tearing after him, my heart thundered in time with my steps.
Akemi had not bested him. Would I?
I exited into a cluttered kitchen, abandoned by the servants. The assassin leaped over a counter, throwing cups and plates across the room.
He whirled around when he landed, eyes but a gleam of gold beneath his hood. Raising his hand, he extended his fingers toward a candle and drew.
Another sword formed from the light as the candle died, this time aimed at my heart.
Magic did not come easily. Most people never grasped it.
Catalysts barred us from the elements boiling in our blood, the thread connecting us to our magic. They were personal and oftentimes unpleasant. Only those willing to look inward and accept their truths ignited their spark.
Akemi had tried and failed to help me find mine. Only after his death did I wield magic for the first time.
My catalyst was him. After his death, our blacksmith had done me a favor: reforged Akemi's broken sword with his blood folded at its center, rather than ice.
And that blood was my link to my magic.
Ripping my blade before me, I drew on that link. On him. On the hole left by his loss and the nobody I'd become in his absence.
A sheet of ice ripped from the blade and arced across the kitchen, meeting the radiant blade halfway. The impact shattered both spells.
Realizing he faced a mage, the assassin turned tail and ran.
My vision turned red. He was a coward. How had a coward bested my brother?
I cleaved my sword through open air again, but the spell that shot forth emerged bright red. Ice, the color of blood, crashed into the assassin's back, knocking him down.
Giving me enough time to reach him.
Flipping my sword, I raised the blade—prepared to bring it down on the man's defenseless back.
Something struck my back—hard. I hit the floor and rolled over myself, losing my grip on the blade. It clattered across the hall, landing a few paces away.
What had hit me?
The assassin darted to his feet as I rose to my hands and knees. Our eyes met for the briefest moment.
A smirk danced on his lips, and something shone in his eyes, but I could not read it. Then he crashed into the window.
Glass shards spilled across the hall as he broke through and vanished into the growing storm.
Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed my blade and rushed to the broken window. Rain fell like sheets from the heavens, and lightning flashing in the sky lit the snow two stories below.
But the assassin was already gone.
I had not clashed blades with him, had not seen his swordplay. Had he been the same man?
"Are you alright?" Ferris' voice startled me.
Whirling around, I tightened my grip on my blade.
Steel hair, emerald eyes . . . Ferris was one of the Stormborn who called Aenir home.
A wind spell must have struck my back. Ferris had thrown me from my prize.
Shoving him against the wall, I pressed my blade to his throat. "You're with him," I hissed.
"What?" He breathed, eyes fixed on my blade.
"You stopped me."
"You were going to get yourself killed!"
A snarl spread across my lips as I studied his face. His eyes hardened.
"Why would I help the assassin trying to kill my father?"
Father? My eyes scanned his face, the high cheekbones and sharp nose.
The king shared the same features.
I couldn't read people. All my life, I'd never understood others, how to read their body language or understand the ticks of dishonesty.
Was he lying?
It didn't matter. Even I knew slaughtering the Aenir prince was a royally stupid idea.
Dropping my blade, I stepped away.
"In case you hadn't noticed," Ferris said, rubbing his throat. "You're bleeding."
Glancing down, I noticed blood pooling from my torn bracer. The blade had ripped it open, and I hadn't even noticed.
"Here." Ferris pulled a knife from his belt and sawed the bracer off. Yanking the cloak from his shoulders, he pressed it to the gash.
Adrenaline still pumped through my veins. I couldn't feel the pain. Blinking, I watched the blood soak the fabric.
Was that why my second spell had been red? Had I turned the blood of my catalyst into a spell of its own?
"You're crazy," Ferris breathed. "But you saved my father's life."
"There might've been more," I said.
Ferris' eyes flared, and he quickly tied the cloak around my arm. "Stay here," he ordered.
"Not a chance," I spat. "I don't trust you."
Sighing, he turned and jogged down the hall, and I was a step behind him.
The ballroom was empty when we returned, but I could hear commotion outside. Thunder shook the heavens again, shaking the very foundation of the manor. Ferris and I lost our balance and fell to our knees as the chandeliers hanging above the ballroom strained to break free of their chains.
"Saints," Ferris cursed, finding his feet. "Did Tirnanog itself just land on our heads?"
I thought I knew what he meant—violent storms surrounded the now-empty city, warding it from the world. Nothing like this had ever brewed in the skies above Tsuyan.
Violent winds tore in through the manor's open doors as we chased the commotion outside.
The king stood in the center of the promenade, staring up into the sky. I followed his gaze, shielding my eyes with my uninjured arm.
Lightning pulsed in the firmament, a brilliant violet. I'd never seen anything like it.
"Shit," Ferris breathed beside me. "This is no ordinary storm."
"Did the assassins cause this?" I asked.
"No." He shook his head. "Tirnanog really did drop on our heads." He turned his eyes toward the road. "Cierthine's wielder is here."