Chapter Thirteen
Aftershocks
Glass. Shattered. A shimmering trail of fragments leading to the bed.
“Fly!” Varic screams.
Fray’s arms envelop my torso as we rise—
“If you think I would ever endanger her, you misunderstand.” Varic’s tone is urgent, prying my consciousness from what seems to be the beginning of yet another nightmare.
“While I have not taken the same vow as you, I promise I place her life above my own, and I will protect her with whatever it may take to keep her safe.”
Flames consuming Hendry’s form flash behind my eyelids, and I bolt upright, sucking in a shallow breath as my hand rises to clutch at my chest.
Tears brim with the absence of Hendry’s life force in connection to my own, leaving me with this strange, empty feeling—like a piece of my own soul is missing.
The weight of his existence is gone. Lighter, yet harder to carry somehow.
As if an integral part of me has been ripped away, leaving a rift in my being no magic could ever repair, helping me to understand what Varic meant when he described the sting of losing a friend due to your own hubris.
Though what I did was worse, because I wasn’t forced to strengthen my magic past any known capacity like he had been. I could have listened to Hendry’s warning. I could have denied it when he asked me—
“If you truly believe this item could be the key to aiding our cause, so be it.”
“I do.”
“Then we will keep you safe as you explore this option.”
Instead, I was resolute in believing this book might somehow be important, and he maintained his vow to me, unaware of how his trust in my judgment would spell the end for him.
If only I had made a vow to Hendry in return, then perhaps I would have taken his life more seriously than the promise of some book, of which we do not know the contents nor have any guarantee that it might end up helping our cause.
Silence fills the cavernous chamber as four somber sorcerers stare anywhere but at the witch who killed their friend, while the only one not bound to me warms my skin with the trail his eyes carve with his gaze, all while sending me waves of sympathy I have done nothing to deserve from him.
Unable to stall any longer, I turn to Cirrin, who barely holds back tears, urging me to go to him, to tell him it’s okay to cry, to let it out, to wail and scream if he needs to—but he knows all of this, especially anytime we are in my chambers.
So if he isn’t choosing to express himself in this manner, then he must have a reason, and I will not meddle with the way he chooses to experience his grief.
Malin stands with his back to me, watching the wooden doors as usual. Fray leans on the wall between the windows and my headboard, with tears streaming down his cheeks while staring down at his open sketchbook.
“Fray?” I ask, startling him as he snaps the sketchbook closed and straightens.
Loose tendrils of his raven-black hair fall forward, obscuring his eyes now cast somewhere behind my head.
His chest heaves with a sob rending from him, and I reach over, though he doesn’t show any sign of noticing before Cirrin closes the distance to envelop him in another tight hug, whispering something I’m unable to discern.
“Lars,” I try next, as he stares off into the distance while rubbing the back of his neck.
A knot grows in my throat as I consider Malin’s squared shoulders. The sorcerer who is most likely to confirm what I need to hear from someone. To know for certain that I truly sentenced my Lead Guard to death, all based on a hunch at best.
Because if Hendry were alive, he would be here, or the rest of my Guards would have told me if he were merely in the infirmary.
There is one sorcerer who would tell me anything I ever ask of him, yet I cannot seem to make my eyes focus anywhere near his form.
Not after the intimacy of our last interaction.
Not after he braced me so close to his chest while my healer used his magic to help me fall asleep.
The one who must have carried me up several flights of stairs to then lay me on my mattress.
Not after he remained, offering me protection and standing in as my interim force Guard.
Doing me the kindness of ensuring I did not wake to a relative stranger being appointed to the temporary position in Hendry’s absence.
Cirrin releases Fray with a pat on the arm, and my heart tears open from their outpouring of sorrow.
I sink deeper into the mattress with the weight of their suffering as I siphon it, gaining all the proof I need that neither of them is in any shape to explain.
Lars seems to be lost somewhere in his mind, and I cannot ask Malin about the death of his closest friend.
Tears overflow, and I swipe them away. My need to know remains, leaving the one who has not served at Hendry’s side, who could relay the events without causing him nearly as much distress.
Whose eyes are already trained on mine as I turn to address him, increasing the heat beneath my skin, carrying a sense of admiration, as well as another emotion with an unusual hue, as its signature shifts when coupled with his amber.
One which sinks within my chest, feeling both familiar and terrifying, because of how forbidden this one is for us to experience.
One I cannot name to myself, because if what I am sensing is accurate—no.
I will not entertain the possibility. It is merely a projection. My own wishful thinking.
Though I yearn for it. No matter that I should not wish for this to be true from him. It is unfair to us both, and far too dangerous.
“General Varic,” I say, more formally than intended.
He strides to stand at the edge of the bed while my pulse pounds heavier.
“Will you please tell me what happened?” My voice breaks over the words, though I continue. “I need to hear it. From you.”
He nods curtly with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
And while this formal way of addressing my query is best, it creates a distance between us which pierces my chest. I need the real him to be the one to deliver this news.
The real Varic. But he must maintain the wall required to keep us from acting irresponsibly should anyone arrive to witness our interaction.
“As you observed, small firebombs were set off near the balcony’s edge, to which I responded by shielding us and ushering you toward the door. Lars approached and assisted in your rescue by speeding us safely indoors.”
I nod, anticipating the worst of it, when Varic clears his throat. Tingling courses through my limbs with the urge to drop my legs from the mattress and pull him to my chest, assuming it might be more tolerable to receive this if he were to whisper it in my ear while holding me close.
“Hendry was surveying beyond the railing when a wall of fire rose.” I close my eyes as he leans closer. “The edge of the balcony fell, and we believe he must have fallen with it.”
A terrible image invades my vision—Hendry plummeting, flames scorching his skin the whole way down to the rocky foot of the mountain.
A shudder rolls down my body, and Varic unclasps his hands from behind his back to reach for me before pausing—hovering with one hand held in the air between us, clearly intending to touch me before thinking better of it.
He slowly curls his fingers inward to make a tight fist, and the black ink of the sigil tattoo ripples over the back as he clenches before forcing it down to his side.
Witnessing this war between instinct and decree breaks something inside me, while yet another piece of my heart calves off, lost to the infinite abyss named grief.
“Could—” I begin. “Could his shield have saved him?”
“While it is possible his shield could have kept him safe from the initial flames, I have no reason to believe it could have protected him from the impact of the fall, nor from the rising temperatures as he drew closer to the source of the explosion.”
A tingling feeling courses through my chest, and it feels as if that part of my soul which Hendry’s life force inhabited is present again.
My imagination must be playing tricks on me, trying to absolve me of the guilt I feel by making it seem as if I can sense the very fibers of Hendry’s soul thrumming within this plane of existence when every other part of me knows it cannot be true.
That Godsdamned snatcher called hope is manipulating my feelings, though it fails to remember just how well-practiced I am at catching its deceptions.
After years of my magic proving it can conjure other visceral reactions related to certain emotions, both from those I have experienced myself as well as some I have siphoned from others, making it seem as if I am experiencing it in the moment.
Haunting me with the past—my own, or stolen from others.
“Cirrin helped you sleep so we could safely transport you to your room.”
Cirrin, whom my magic detects is riddled with guilt, and who looks to me as I send my understanding and forgiveness until his kind brown eyes fall closed in acknowledgement.
“While you were sleeping, we received word that Imperial Army trackers have identified boot prints in the forest near the perimeter where the small bombs are suspected to have been set. His Majesty has commanded our best trackers to follow the prints while Imperial Grand Philosopher Wyrth will investigate the boot prints to determine if they may be helpful in identifying the assailants. As of now, we do not have any of the culprits in custody.”
“And Hendry’s body?” I ask, hoping we might honor him properly.
Varic clears his throat. “Imperial Guards escorted the undertaker to retrieve him.”
A shiver rises up my spine at the thought of that sorcerer having anything to do with Hendry’s remains.