Chapter 15 #2
My ancestor’s steely eyes find me but I crouch and make a small cut on Marlak’s arm. As I’m bringing the dagger to my mouth, I feel strange hands pulling me back, but I insist and taste my husband’s blood, the metallic tang comforting, soothing.
“Seize her,” the Witch King says.
Ghouls pull me away from Marlak, but I can still see the Witch King’s hand on his head, syphoning his magic. I try to feel the air around me, feel some humidity, even though there probably isn’t much, but my elemental magic feels dulled.
Dulled.
Not dead.
I recall the moment when I conjured a flame on my palm. I’ll need much stronger magic now if I hope to have any chance to survive this, any chance to save Marlak.
The ghouls pull me, and I make myself heavy as if I was about to collapse on the ground, just to make their job harder.
The Witch King is still pulling Marlak’s magic, but not only magic; his vital force too. He’ll kill my husband if he continues like that.
It’s that thought and the panic that does it; lights a spark.
And the fuel is my anger. A small flame appears on my hand. Too small, but enough to scare the ghouls.
I run towards Marlak, but feel a current of air pushing me back, quenching my flame. The Witch King has stopped trying to syphon his magic and is giving me all his attention, but it’s not very strong elemental magic, at least not enough to push me too far.
I conjure another flame, perhaps too small, but I hope it can do something, and send it in the Witch King’s direction. The fire doesn’t reach the sinister fae, though. Instead, it parts in two like a curtain.
Still, I run in the Witch King’s direction, dagger in hand, and I’m fast enough to scrape his hand.
No air is coming to my lungs and my vision is getting blurry, and yet I manage to bring the dagger to my lips and taste his blood.
I feel something in my shoulder, like a puncture.
The ghouls are attacking me, but I manage to create some fire and scare them.
I can’t breathe, can barely think, but I see the Witch King in front of me, smirking.
It’s now or never—and it better be now.
Fire is fragile, volatile, an odd magic as erratic as it’s powerful. I can’t fight the Witch King’s air magic, but I can send my flame toward him. A sliver of air magic is active within me, and I can use it to power my fire.
The first blast does nothing, as the flame fades as soon as it touches him.
I send more fire, and for a moment I can breathe again.
The Witch King had been blocking my air, I realize, but now he’s focused, looking at me, ready to counteract whatever magic I send in his direction.
I focus, and create the most powerful blast I can muster—a fraction of what I saw Marlak use.
My air flow gets blocked again and my senses are dulling when I send another fire blast. This one touches my aim, and the old fae steps back, his body becoming a pyre, then dissolving in ashes in a second.
My stomach sinks.
That’s not how it was supposed to go. I should have kept burning him. Ghouls surround me, and I remember to conjure another flame, but I feel that the Witch King did something to the air I breathed, or something to my mind.
My knees buckle and I fall almost face first on the ground, except that I stop my fall at the last second with my hands.
A red drop falls on the stone beneath me—I’m bleeding.
And weak. I need to conjure more fire, but I don’t know how long I can remain like this, how long I can remain conscious, or how I’m going to fight my way and bring Marlak with me.
At least the ghouls are leaving him alone.
If I managed to kill the Witch King, dying here would have been worth it, but I don’t know if he’s gone for good. Marlak opens his eyes and I exhale in relief to see he’s alive, awake. I still don’t know how I’m going to get us out of here, and I don’t know how long I can fight.
At least we’re both alive.
MARLAK
Astra’s bleeding and fallen, ghouls surround us, and I can’t feel my magic.
At least I don’t see the Witch King anymore, but too many ghouls surround us.
I get up in time to hold her, throw her on my shoulder, and run as I use a dagger to try to keep the ghouls away.
The closer I get to the opening and the faint light seeping from the sun outside, the slower the ghouls get.
I run as fast as I can, and when I step outside and see the sun above me, I want to cry in relief, collapse on the ground, but the truth is that I need to get us to safety quickly, before the night comes.
Still, I place Astra on the ground to examine her wounds.
Her eyes flutter, as if she was about to sleep, and still she gives me a smile.
She was stabbed on her shoulder, and I press the spot with a piece of my shirt, then ask her to keep pressing it.
She has more wounds on her arms, but they aren’t as deep.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I… burned him,” she mumbles with difficulty. Too much difficulty.
“Hush and rest. We’ll get to safety soon.”
I carry her with both arms, and she rests her face on my chest.
“I didn’t…” She takes a deep breath. “He burned too fast.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
I need to get back to the giants and hope that they can treat her wounds. She’s also having some difficulty breathing, and I wonder what kind of magic the Witch King infused in the air she breathed.
Her eyes close, and I decide to run. Run, run, run under the scalding sun.
Run—and hope I can save her.
RENEL
We haven’t gained much distance from the castle, but I glance at Tarlia from time to time, and notice that she’s almost leaning over, her face pale, clearly tired and not feeling well.
I didn’t speak much to her, still shook from seeing her holding Ziven by the edge of the castle, or perhaps unsure what to say. Maybe I was expecting her to act differently. I don’t know.
Still, she’s clearly not well. The only solution is to stop.
I ride up front and we take the road to a small city. Creek End, I think, but I could be mistaken. I keep looking back at Tarlia, wanting to hold her, wondering if she should ride with me, but I don’t want to push my presence—or anything.
We stop in front of a small inn, so small that it doesn’t even have a stable, so I tie our horses in front of it. When I help Tarlia dismount, our eyes meet. There’s a question in hers.
“You need to eat,” I mutter.
She nods, then grimaces. “I’m stinking.”
I bet she feels horrible after a night in a cell. “There’s no time for a bath, but I’ll make sure you get the chance to freshen up.”
She looks down. I pull her chin up, and say, “Tarlia, you’ll get a chance to wash.”
“Right.”
Ziven watches us as if bothered. Jealous? I might be the greatest idiot ever, who let him rescue her. At the same time, if he’s the one she loves, there’s no point being a bigger idiot and hoping she’ll change her mind.
“Let’s go in,” I say, realizing too late that I sound angry.
Well, I am furious, even if I’m not certain why.
I walk in, Tarlia beside me, as Ziven and Mirella follow us. I hope my agreement with my stepsister will be enough to keep her from betraying us—at least until I find a better solution.
The place is a large restaurant with a staircase in the back leading to rooms. Only two customers sit by the counters. I’m still wearing the cape, and while it won’t make us unnoticeable anymore, I hope it will at least prevent people from recognizing me.
I turn to Tarlia. “We’ll get you something to eat first.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And endure my horrifying stench? Oh, no. I should get cleaned first.”
My stomach knots knowing she’s so disgusted with her own smell. I wish I could kill Zorwal for having subjected her to such an ordeal.
I tell her, “I’ll arrange that for you.”
Only one middle aged woman is working at the counter. I order a room for Tarlia with a cleaning basin, and ask her for new, clean clothes.
The woman looks me up and down. “We’re not a clothing store.”
“Find new clothes,” I say, and I’m not sure why the threatening kingly tone comes so naturally. Still, I place some gold coins on the counter. “I’ll pay for them.”
The woman tosses the cloth she had in her hand. “Well then.” She smiles at Tarlia. “Let’s get you all clean and proper.”
“She’s already proper,” I blurt, then turn to Tarlia. “What do you want to eat? A soup?”
“Anything.”
“I’ll go with her,” Mirella offers.
I don’t trust my stepsister, so I say, “Stay. Tarlia won’t take long.”
We sit at a table by a corner, and when the woman returns, and I ask her for chicken soup with little oil, since Tarlia’s stomach is empty.
Mirella looks at the stairs. “She shouldn’t be left alone.”
As if she cared. “There’s only one way up.” I point at the stairs. “If someone followed us, they’re still far. She should be fine.”
My stepsister taps her fingers on the table. “My deal with you won’t let me run away or betray you, Renel. And yet I don’t know where we’re going. It wasn’t part of our deal.”
Of course not. But I’m not taking her to the island house I swore to keep a secret—at least not yet. But I say something else. “If it’s true that you could see me, and if you know what we discussed…” I lower my voice. “You know we need to find a way to kill Zorwal.”
She shrugs. “Isn’t it fire?”
Somehow, I’m still stunned that she knows so many details. I say, “There could be more to it. We have to investigate the anchors, right? So it’s what I plan to do. Also, in case we are tracked or followed, I’d rather not reveal Marlak’s location.”
“You could have called Lidiane to take Tarlia back,” she says, somehow trying to pretend she even cares for Tarlia.
“I considered it,” I explain. “But escaping fast and using an unpredictable route was more important.”
Mirella huffs just like Marlak, but doesn’t say anything.
The owner then brings us cups and a pitcher of water, and I fill the cups.