Chapter Thirty-Four
Strange how a room filled with Sovereign Kings becomes easier to navigate once they have the promise of power.
They’re no better than demons.
Things flowed smoothly following my interrogation. A few of the kings demanded to see my wings, and while I wanted nothing more than to free them, I refused.
I am not a creature to be gawked and gaped at. I don’t exist for their entertainment. If they can’t take me at my word in the presence of a truthteller, that is not an issue for me to grapple.
The question of the hour boiled down to why Netharis would be so desperate to return me to the hells—and honestly, it’s a question I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have an answer.
At least, not an answer I felt was the correct one.
They followed with questions of the hells.
And secrets of the hells be damned, I owe no allegiance to Netharis.
I spent hours sharing what I know about the hierarchies, the Layer Lords, the species of demons and undead within Netharis’ ranks.
I detailed how to disrupt their maneuver tactics, why the fae should quickly dispatch commanders while avoiding generals, and taught them the old magic runes needed to cast shield-like wards capable of deflecting several blood magic spells.
Only those armed with bloodstone should consider taking on a general or any of the Layer Lords. Even then, never alone. None of the Sovereign Kings were willing to tell me whether they possessed any of the material, so it’s safer to assume they do not.
On the off chance they happen to have it and they simply did not want to tell me, I can’t blame them—they don’t know or trust me.
I am Netharis’ daughter after all. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to earn their trust the way I should.
If this bloodstone alloy they’ve created is truly capable of killing a god, the gods are going to want to take it.
Of course, discussion regarding the night of the harpy attack arose—and I did my best to reign in my emotions. Bearing my anger, shame, and pain to a room full of Sovereign Kings would do me no favors. And if I opened that box in front of them, I don’t know how quickly I’d be able to close it.
Questions regarding my history as a Death Bringer were raised—the purpose of my role, how many Death Bringers, our abilities, and our place within Netharis’ hierarchy.
It was when they started asking about souls I drew a hard boundary.
I made it clear I would not be detailing the collection, processing, cataloging, treatment, storage, or fate of souls destined for the hells.
Sharing that kind of information carries great risk of driving some of these fae to madness.
A mortal should not know what could potentially be awaiting them once their time in the living realm comes to an end.
Mortals are already too easily tempted by the thought of immortality. If they were to learn about the horrors of the hells…
Rowen seemed especially grateful I refused to divulge further on the topic.
He appeared uncomfortable through most of the conversation and questioning, but he had been more willing to support than some of the others.
I don’t know what his contract entails, but it’s clear he believes this may be when Netharis will call in his dues.
As we continued, Cyran, Ryc’s Captain of the Guard, joined. Followed by Riordan, Fenryn’s Captain of the Guard. Once the kings had sent word to their kingdoms to send their forces, it wasn’t long before the room filled with fae, male and females alike, listening to me speak.
Generals, commanders, captains…
And in a matter of minutes, the whole of Ollora was brimming with fae, with more ferrying in still. They congregated in the courtyards, the great rooms of the castle, the surrounding grounds, even in the city streets.
Castle staff brought us lunch, and then dinner. As the sun began to set, the library filled with fae preparing to lay down their lives. They strapped on armor, filled quivers, and a few prayed to their favored god or goddess.
To my surprise, the soldiers, the Captains, the Lieutenants were easier to convince. Without much effort they were ready to save Ollora, to help Ryc, and to try and keep me alive.
The guilt alone was enough to kill me.
Maps were unfurled on every table within that library as they developed their plan of attack. Where garrisons would be posted, what weapons would be used—
It forced me to warn them demons are not honorable. This is not going to be a war like ones they’ve fought in the past. They need to be ready to fight with everything they have, because demons are bloodthirsty creatures and they won’t care how they spill blood, or whose.
Someone, I can’t remember who, one of the many voices in that room asked if the god of death would be among the demons.
I laughed.
No, he wouldn’t.
Not unless he wanted Gaia and her fleet of nyraphim to contest him.
Another asked if I would be fighting, and before I could answer, Ryc did on my behalf.
No.
His reasoning had been logical, but it left me riddled with anger all the same. I would be their target, and the demons would likely swarm my location once it became known, making it impossible to reach and dispatch leaders, commanders, and isolate archdemons.
And again, Ryc would not entertain the possibility of my death.
I expected as much.
My death lies outside the realm of acceptable, and he would hear nothing more on the matter. While his determination sung to my heart, my mind whirled with the darkness of our reality.
A reality that will shatter him, I’m sure.
My death is all but guaranteed.
Eve found me following dinner, and it was then she quietly informed me of Artemise’s response to my letter.
The plan is a go. Both Artemise and Celesta are more than willing to begin the ritual as scheduled.
My arrival needs to be timed just right.
With a narrow window during the penumbra, I have to spill my blood willingly into Celesta’s hands.
In exchange for my blood, I requested Celesta help me in taking the bloodstone dagger across realms. She’s agreed to the request, with surprisingly little hesitation according to Eve.
The hardest part of the ordeal will be my return to the hells. I have to stop my heart. And I’m not going to ask my mother, regardless of our estranged relationship, to kill me.
No. I’ll have to send myself. Which means there are a few other loose ends I need to tie up before the eclipse.
Celesta will get my blood, I’ll return to the hells, and with any luck I’ll free myself from Netharis. What she does with my blood, I don’t care. I hope it serves her the way she needs it to.
She’s my safeguard should I fail.
Her desire for vengeance rivals that of Netharis’ desire for control.
All of it is foolish.
But we’re not left with any other choice.
Everything I aim to do hinges on a goddess known for her capriciousness. If she decides not to honor the agreement and I return to the hells without the dagger, I’m fucked. All of this will have been for nothing.
The Sovereign Kings’ plan is no better. They plan to fight for as long as it takes, hoping Gaia will notice the breach and intervene.
And gods, I hope she notices quickly.
Would she let her son suffer?
Surely the goddess of life is more compassionate than the god of death.
And please, gods, don’t let Netharis get his hands on Ryc.
The thought of Ryc’s soul dragged to the hells chokes me, seizes my heart, freezes my mind with unadulterated fear.
I know what Netharis is capable of.
If Ryc ends up in the hells—
I cannot fail in this.
The small lawn below the balcony of my bedroom is filled with at least four hundred elite soldiers from Sol.
Fenryn’s country.
Their armor glimmers in the last bit of sun before it sinks below the horizon. Seeing, hearing, knowing they’re all here—it gives me hope they’ll survive.
At least survive long enough for me to reach the hells.
After that—my fingers brush against the dagger strapped to my thigh—I must end it all.
Standing on the balcony, I stare down at the garrison of soldiers below.
My eyes fall on Fenryn in their midst.
His sun-lightened, chest length hair trails in the breeze as he walks the ranks, his hands clasped behind him. He’d exchanged his finer clothing for polished silver armor and the battle axe strapped across his back. He towers over the fae around him, drawing attention without trying.
A flash of crimson catches my eye. Lilith weaves through the soldiers, headed toward Fenryn. She moves with a nimbleness I hadn’t expected, and she’s dressed in fighting leathers of her own.
My jaw tightens.
Even Lilith is going to fight?
Why?
How can a dreamweaver stand against a demon?
A touch on the small of my back swings my head to the right, meeting the gaze of Ryc. I smile instantly as warmth floods my veins. My heart seizes as I recognize what he’s wearing.
It’s the same platinum armor he’d worn during the Dividing War—the same armor I’d seen him in the night we met. The warmth I’d felt seconds ago dissipates, replaced by a mixture of icy fear and heartache.
It hurts me to look at him, knowing what I know.
It kills me not to tell him, but he would find a way to stop me. I can feel it in my bones. I suck in a deep breath and bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. This all feels full circle. Ends meeting and joining as woven by the goddess of Fate.
Damn her.
Damn her and her eight legs in all of this.
I must have been wearing my emotions on my face, as Ryc leans down, kissing my forehead softly.
“We will get through this,” he whispers, caressing my cheek.
Gods, how my heart swells with his words.
Standing before me is the vision of the fae that’d called to me across realms. If only I’d listened to him sooner. Instead, I never tried and wasted centuries of time.
“Ryc, I…” my voice evaporates as my vision blurs. “Please return to me.”
How is it possible to speak words that are both the truth and a lie?
His eyes soften as he stares down at me, gathering me into his embrace. “Always,” he murmurs quietly, resting his forehead against mine.
My hands lift to his face and I draw him to me, kissing him. He folds me into him, his arms circling tightly around me. As I deepen the kiss, beckoning his tongue to mine, he steals my weight from me, sweeping me off my feet. My arms wrap around his neck and I cling to him, needing to be closer.
The lawn below erupts with cheering, clapping, and whistles from the soldiers. The encouraging and joyful sounds ring across the northern lawn and gardens, and I begin to laugh at some of the unexpectedly raunchy remarks being shouted.
Ryc also laughs, breaking the kiss. He brushes his lips against my brow as he lifts me upright. The cheering continues, heat stinging my cheeks with the sudden attention. A multitude of faces are turned in our direction, watching us with broad smiles, Fenryn included.
Chuckling, Ryc brushes his nose along mine.
“Hurry up and accept the bond!” one soldier taunts, his hands cupped around his mouth. Laughter rises around him as Ryc laughs with them.
I still don’t understand what that means.
“Nevin, I’ll send you to the nine hells myself if you don’t shut up,” Fenryn barks from across the lawn and I burst into laughter.
Fenryn glances in my direction, shooting me a smile with a wink.
Perhaps I should have read more about fae customs and traditions. But I’m not going to ask what the soldier meant.
Not now.
It wouldn’t do me any good to know.
“I will find you after,” Ryc says softly, his pained expression telling me this is the absolute last thing he wants to do.
It’s the last thing I want him to do.
Our minutes are whittling away into seconds.
He leans, kissing me gently. “I will be your weapon, little death,” he whispers coarsely.
Holding his stare, I frame his face with my hands, needing to remember every detail—the way the gold of his eyes shifts in this light, the way his hair feels like silk, the heat of his skin under my palms… Let it be this moment, this meeting, that inspires my dreams for the dark centuries to come.
Expressions of love are far and few in the world of demons.
Too often we speak the words others want to hear, not the words we want to say.
Not me.
Not today.
“Keeper of my darkened heart,” I whisper in Malbolge, “you are my light.”
Words he’ll never understand trapped in a memory I’ll never forget.