Chapter 65
DIEM
“In two days, we’re all going to be dead.”
The voice hung in the air, echoing through the wooden rafters of the otherwise noiseless council meeting room. Its owner—the new governing council representative from House Hanoverre—sank back in his chair, knotting his hands in his hair.
“Actually,” he went on, “we’re dead already.”
“We are very much alive,” I said. “And we’re going to stay that way.”
The gathered faces stared back in patent disbelief. The news that Ophiucae was alive had been a hard blow for the council to take, but they initially remained optimistic, trusting in my promise that I had a plan.
Then came the other confessions: That he was a Kindred.
That he might be headed for Lumnos. That he had at least two—maybe three, four, or five—realms’ worth of Descended as his soldier-slaves.
With each revelation, their faces grew paler, their voices less steady.
And when I told them I no longer had magic to fight him . . .
That had silenced them all.
My advisors had reacted the same way. Though hours had passed since our morning meeting, their faces still wore the stunned, disoriented look of a person staggering in the wake of a bomb.
Only the mortals had taken the news in stride.
Magic had never been their savior, and its loss would not condemn them now.
“We’ve been preparing for this,” my mother said. “We will defeat him.”
“How?” someone asked. “He’s immortal. He can’t be killed.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t be killed,” another said hesitantly. “He’s a Kindred.”
My mother’s palms hit the table. “Are you mad? He wants your kind dead. Why do you think so many of my people joined him?”
“The Kindred spoke to Diem,” Luther said. “The real ones—the ones we worship. They gave Diem their Crowns so she could stop him.”
“Why are we here?” Norwick Benette asked. “The power to command the Royal Guard still lies with the Crown. What are you asking the council to do?”
“I’m asking you to fight,” I said. “Go back to your communities and gather as many as you can to join our army.”
The Althiena woman recoiled. “But that’s why we have an army—so we don’t have to fight.”
“The army might not be enough.”
“Maybe it would have been, if you hadn’t let so many of them defect,” Garath muttered. Though he’d been forced to cede his place on the council to Eleanor, it had not stopped him from attending the meeting and injecting his vitriol every chance he could get.
Aemonn sat behind him, eyes cast low, avoiding his brother’s accusatory stare. The progress he and Taran made last night seemed to have vanished in their father’s presence.
“I gave everyone in the army a choice,” I said, bristling. “I will not lead an army of slaves. I’m not like him.” Those final words echoed in my thoughts, rattling through me like a question my bones and blood could not answer.
“We don’t know how many Descended Ophiucae has forced into his army,” Alixe cut in. “That number is only going to get higher the longer we wait. If we make our best and biggest stand now, we could end this war in a single battle.”
“You want us to fight alongside them?” the Althiena woman asked, nervously eyeing my mother and the Guardians seated behind her.
“The rebels are terrorists,” Garath said. “They shouldn’t even be here.”
“Would you rather they leave and lower our numbers even further?” I asked. The Althiena woman looked down, embarrassed, but Garath kept up his usual sneer.
“He’s right,” Cordellia said, “we shouldn’t be here. We should be living in peace on our homeland, unbothered by the lot of you.”
Garath rolled his eyes. “It has been thousands of years since the Kindred arrived. Will you people get over it already?”
“We’ll get over our oppression when it’s over,” she fired back. She sank back against her chair, shooting Auralie a cross look. “Remind me again why we’re fighting for these pricks?”
“You’re fighting so we don’t hang you for your crimes,” Garath retorted.
“At least they’re fighting,” Aemonn said under his breath.
Garath shot a look over his shoulder. “Silence, boy. No one came to hear you talk.”
Aemonn’s eyes went dark. His face emptied of all emotion, and his shoulders crept forward, back hunching and body shrinking. As his gaze began to drop, it cut to Taran, who scowled in disappointment.
Suddenly, Aemonn stilled. “No,” he said loudly.
“I said silence,” Garath snapped.
“No,” Aemonn said again. His spine slowly straightened.
“The Guardians don’t have magic.” He pointed to the Ignios refugees.
“They don’t have homes. Most of Diem’s army doesn’t have godstone weapons.
You have all of those things, Father. They’re fighting—when’s the last time you did anything but talk? ”
Taran’s eyebrows flew to the sky.
Garath shot Aemonn a scorching glare. “How dare you—”
“Why was he allowed to keep his godstone weapons?” the Althiena woman demanded. “Ours were confiscated by the Crown.”
“So were House Corbois’s,” Remis said, frowning at his brother.
“He took them off the Corbois members of the Royal Guard,” Aemonn said.
“You little traitor,” Garath hissed.
“He’s not the only one,” the Hanoverre man admitted. “Marthe confiscated the godstone weapons you gave to the Royal Guards in our family, too.”
To my dismay, rather than looking outraged, many of the other Embers nodded with similar confessions.
“Do you not understand what’s at risk?” Luther snapped. “Sophos is gone—no mortals, no Descended. No one. Everyone in Meros that didn’t flee is now his slave. Same with Umbros. Maybe others, too. Ophiucae is wiping out realms one at a time. If we don’t stop him, there will be no Emarion left.”
A heavy silence filled the room as the truth of it settled in.
Even the mortals looked shaken. Until now, Ophiucae had been a not entirely unwelcome distraction to pull the Descended’s focus off of them.
Most mortals had kept their heads down, perhaps secretly hoping Ophiucae and the Descended would fight each other out of existence.
But, as history had shown too many times, a fight for power always cost the powerless most in the end.
“So how do we stop him?” Norwick asked.
“We launch an offensive,” Alixe answered. “Instead of waiting for him to get to Lumnos, we gather every person who can swing a sword or wield magic, and we march south until we find him.”
I nodded. “He’s building his army realm by realm, so we’ll do the same. We have Lumnos and Ignios here already. I’ve dispatched riders to the other realms with orders to join us.”
“I told my people to keep a safe distance at sea, but safety means nothing if they have no home to return to,” Obaneryn called out. He rose to his feet. “I’ll send the winds for them. They will fight.”
Doriel stood, as well. “The only Descended of my kind left are the ones in your army, but I will join them. I will fight.”
I gave them both a nod of respect. It was a relief to see that, for once, my pathological mercy had led to something good.
My attention moved to Drusila and Symond. “The Centenaries’ help would be invaluable,” I prodded. “If you can shield our soldiers’ minds from Ophiucae, it might mean the difference between victory and defeat.”
I could tell my request surprised them. The ability to choose, to consent, was a muscle they had rarely been permitted to use.
Symond refused to look at me, his features as stony as the wall he stared at. “I already gave you our answer in Umbros. You have cost us enough.”
“Symond, this could cost us everything we have left,” Drusila said. “I have to protect my child.”
Symond flinched.
“Think of Yrselle,” I begged. “She wanted you to—”
“Yrselle is dead,” Symond shouted. His glare snapped to me.
“Because of you. They’re all dead because of you.
Our people, our gryvern, my—” He stopped himself, then stood and knocked his chair aside, sending it tumbling end over end until it cracked and fell apart.
“Fuck you and your war,” he snarled, then stormed from the room.
Drusila sighed, looking as if she might say more, but after a moment, she rose and followed him out.
“Wonderful,” Garath muttered. “Your leadership will go down in the history books . . . if there’s anyone left to write them.”
Aemonn shot to his feet. “I will fight,” he announced.
“Sit back down,” Garath sniped. “Your magic is pathetic, and you’ve barely lifted a blade. You’ll embarrass the Corbois name.” He pointed at Taran. “If anyone’s going to represent our family in battle, it’s him.”
Taran looked stunned. Garath was toying with his sons, dangling his respect to drag Taran back into the fold and make Aemonn jealous.
This was no doubt how he’d controlled them both for years.
He’d made his love, or at least his approval, something that could be earned through obedience to him and him alone—and something he was willing to bestow on only one son at a time.
Taran and Aemonn exchanged a wordless look. I couldn’t tell whether Garath’s plan was working. There was no fondness in the way the brothers locked stares—more of an air of challenge, a test, each of them waiting to see who broke first.
“I’ll fight,” Taran said, standing.
My heart sank, and so did Aemonn’s shoulders.
“But I’m not fighting for House Corbois,” Taran went on. “I’m fighting for my family. The Bellators. Zalaric.” His gaze returned to Aemonn. “And my brother.”
Taran’s tone rose on the final word and lingered—a question. A hope.
Aemonn turned to Garath. His hands were visibly trembling, color draining from his face. His usual callous confidence made a strange kind of sense now—no threat could rattle him, because no enemy had ever loomed larger than his father.