Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
L ora rides as hard as the horse can bear. Tavish clings on behind her, but he never once asks Lora to slow down, and Lora is so grateful to her friend for it. Saga has been left at Ayc’s side, curled up to keep him warm. When they reach the inn, Lora swings off the horse before it’s fully stopped. She offers Tavish a hand as he slides off and then hands him the reins.
“You all right?” she asks.
He nods and inclines his head toward the inn. “Try not to destroy everything , Lora.”
“I make no promises.”
She swings around and charges toward the door.
The inn has no boisterous music. It’s dimly lit, sitting in the midst of shops that have been locked up for the night. This is Lux Aester; there won't even be alcohol within the place. Instead, it’ll be full of wealthy patrons eating a hearty meal and poor workers tending to them hand and foot. It’ll be quiet and peaceful and demur.
So, when Lora enters, she enters like a storm .
The door slams against the side of the wall. Strings shriek as the violinist in the corner stops their melody. The tables of patrons look up with startled cries. Lora searches through her silver-tinted vision for Wren and finds her at a corner table. Wren stands, dressed in her rainbow armor, and draws her sword. Only Sterling sits at the table with her, the other members of the Five nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Marcellus?” Lora demands as she eats up the distance separating them, both swords already in her hands.
“Lora,” Sterling says calmly as they climb to their feet, “maybe we should?—”
“Where the fuck is Marcellus?” Lora roars again.
Some diners creep toward the door, while others remain seated and gawk. Lora focuses only on Wren, barely able to restrain herself from clawing that too-calm look from Wren’s face.
“Why would I know where Marcellus is?” Wren asks.
“If you lie to me again, I’m going to rip out your tongue. Where is Marcellus? ”
“Wren would never work with Marcellus,” Sterling protests.
Wren’s gaze flicks to Sterling, while Lora laughs coldly. She doesn’t like the sound of her own laugh; it’s too much like her mother’s, but she can’t stop it. “Are you going to tell your sibling the truth, Wren? Or shall I?”
Wren visibly swallows. She stares at her sibling, and Sterling must see it in her face, because they murmur, “Oh, Wren, no.”
Wren flinches, but then hides it behind a glare, “All I’ve done is what is necessary to help you win.”
Sterling swears, lifting a hand to their lips.
“What you’ve done,” Lora spits, “is ensure Marcellus’s victory and get Ayc k-” Her voice breaks over the word, and she grits her teeth. “Killed.”
Wren snaps her head back to Lora. “Ayc is dead?”
Those three words rob Lora of all her air, and she has to suck in multiple breaths before she can respond. “He will be soon. Marcellus stabbed him with a poisoned blade, but you knew that would happen all along, didn’t you?”
“He was supposed to return after three days?—”
“He lied!” Silver explodes in Lora’s vision, and she swings her blade at Wren’s neck. Wren throws up her sword in defense. The clash rattles Lora’s teeth. The remaining diners race for the door.
Lora leans into their locked blades. Wren grits her teeth and attempts to resist. She doesn’t match Lora in strength, and slowly, Lora’s sword makes progress toward Wren’s face.
“I gave Marcellus golden root!” Wren explains. “He swore Ayc wouldn’t get hurt.”
Lora disentangles their blades and steps back. “You found golden root?” Hopes blooms once more. That would work. It would really work. “Where’s the rest of it?”
Wren hesitates, but Sterling quickly answers, “We turned what we harvested over to the Splendor in Lycendi already, for the lottery. Except the one bottle that Wren gave Marcellus, I guess,” Sterling adds, shooting their sister a disgusted look. “But we didn’t harvest all of it.”
“Where is it?” Lora asks. “We can make more.”
“No, you can’t,” Wren says, her voice wavering. “I—I destroyed it.”
Lora’s hope crumbles like sandcastles beneath a wave.
Sterling’s eyes fling wide. “You what ?”
“So no other victors could use it to fulfill their quests,” Wren adds quickly. Her explanation does nothing to ease the look of horror in Sterling’s eyes. Or the hate rising in Lora’s throat.
“You destroyed dozens of people’s chance to be healed, so that I would win,” Sterling chokes out.
Wren swallows again, saying nothing.
“You really don’t know where Marcellus is?” Lora asks.
"I would tell you if I did."
“Then there’s no reason for you to still be breathing.”
Lora aims her blade for Wren’s neck. Wren jumps back and lifts her sword to parry. Lora unleashes a barrage of moves, honed into her from all those years of training. Never mind that she thought it was her destiny to be Sovereign. She is and always will be a warrior first.
Wren barely keeps up, blocking blows only inches from her stomach, her heart, her face. But she doesn’t manage to block the boot Lora lands in her gut. She flies back into a table and tumbles over it, landing on the other side with a gasp of pain. The table tips over, and dishes shatter around her.
Sterling yells, “Stop! Please!”
Lora rounds the table. Wren grasps desperately through the broken glass for the sword she dropped, but Lora’s foot finds it first and kicks it away. She sheaths one sword, so she can wrap that hand around Wren’s throat. She clamps down hard. Wren’s eyes water.
“I’ll surrender!” Sterling cries. “I’ll take off my chronicler.”
Wren’s vision snaps to Sterling first, and only then does Lora let herself look. Sterling is the only one still standing in the inn. Even the workers must be hiding in the kitchen. Sterling grasps their chronicler .
“It’ll take it off right now. It’ll just be you and Marcellus. Just spare my sister.”
Wren croaks out a noise of protest. Sterling doesn’t even look at her.
Lora loosens her grip on Wren so she can inhale a breath but places her sword against Wren’s sternum, so she doesn’t dare move. “What do you mean just me and Marcellus? What about Wylder? Ruatha?”
“Ruatha is dead,” Sterling explains. “And Wylder removed his chronicler yesterday. He lost his brother trying to complete a quest. It completed the quest to make a great sacrifice, but I think he felt the price was too high.”
The silver in Lora’s vision fades. Sweet Ryker. Poor Wylder. No matter what transpired between them, Lora would never wish that upon them. Wylder was good sometimes, as cruel as Lora at others. But Ryker was good always .
This will crush Bronwen. Their friendship ran deep, and sometimes, though Bronwen denied it, Lora thought it was more.
“You have four stones lit, Loraphne,” Sterling says. “There’s still time to beat Marcellus.”
Four? Lora glances down at her chronicler, near the hand that is currently clamped around Wren’s throat. Four lit stones wink back at her. Not releasing her sword, she hooks a finger on her sleeve and pulls it down to find a quest now missing.
Make a great sacrifice.
Three days. That is what she sacrificed in her attempt to save Ayc. Three days, and the likelihood she would be Sovereign. The fate of her people for one man. It didn’t feel like a sacrifice; it didn’t feel like a choice . But whatever magic rules the chronicler must see it differently.
“I don’t want you to forfeit,” Lora says. "I want her dead." She tightens her grip on Wren’s throat once more. Wren opens her mouth, but no sound can come out now. Blue tints the skin around her lips, and Lora finds that shade beautiful. At the very least, a fair trade for what she did to Ayc.
Metal rattles, loud in the silence, as something lands near Lora’s boot. Sterling’s chronicler, now cold and dim, sits in the rubble of broken dishes.
“If her treachery is how I would win, then I don’t want it,” Sterling says.
Lora’s hand loosens around Wren’s throat, and she lets out a sob. “No," she wails, a dam of tears breaking in her eyes and flooding her face.
“Let this be her punishment,” Sterling says. “I know she doesn't deserve it, but please spare her. She's the only family I have left.”
Lora glares down at Wren. She hasn't changed in the years since she threatened Lora’s life for a crime she didn't commit; she’s still beautiful and treacherous. But Lora never blamed Wren for her hatred. Not when Lora watched her mother behead hers. Lora lost her own father that day, but still, the guilt of what Iris took from Wren and Sterling weighs upon Lora.
Lora thrusts Wren away from her, dropping her onto the ground, and stands before she changes her mind. She pivots to meet Sterling’s eyes. “Her life, for what my mother took from you. It doesn’t repay the debt, but?—”
“It wasn’t yours to repay,” Sterling says softly. They incline their head in gratitude. “Now go and win this thing. ”
Behind her, Wren climbs to her feet. Lora watches her out of the corner of her eye, not trusting her not to draw the knife at her side and aim for Lora’s spinal cord.
Instead, her tentative words land just as sharply, “I’m sorry about Ayc. I truly did care about him.”
Lora strikes before she’s consciously makes the decision. Her hands swipes across Wren’s face, nails digging in. Three long scratches are left in her wake across Wren’s pale cheek. Wren gasps and presses her hand to her face. Blood seeps between her fingers, but neither she nor Sterling move to retaliate. The three ugly lines are beautiful to Lora, and they will last, ever a reminder of what Wren has done. Yris has given Lora the same gift every year on her birthday, a small pot of nail paint. Yris understood Lora well enough that she would never wear the garish red that Yris favors, so the color is different, but the formula of the paint is the same. The poison within is rare and expensive but serves to slow the fae's ability to heal until any wound inflicted by her nails is certain to scar.
“You didn’t deserve a single moment he granted you, you traitorous bitch,” Lora seethes between her teeth.
“And you do?” Wren fires back.
No, Lora thinks, but does not say. And that’s the point, isn’t it?
Instead, she says, “You speak his name to me again, and I’ll do more than scar your pretty little face.”
The inn door bangs open. Lora expects to see town guards running in to stop what is happening, but it’s Bronwen who flies in, clutching her staff like she’s preparing for battle.
Lora rushes toward her. “What’s happening?”
Bronwen swiftly assesses the scene in the inn, before answering. “It’s Marcellus. He came back only a quarter of an hour after you left. He has the antidote.”
Profound relief pours like a balm over Lora’s skin that has, up to this point, felt like a raw and open wound. But then Bronwen adds, “But Ayc won't take it.”
“Why the fuck not?” Lora asks.
“It’s golden root, and he says it should go to someone else.”
Lora is going to kill him. She’s going to stab his stubborn, noble ass repeatedly, but first she has to save him. Without a backward glance, she races out of the inn and back toward Tavish and the horse. A dapple gray mammoth of a horse stands behind Lora’s own, sleek with sweat. Up the street, Lora hears the pounding of boots. Ah, there are the guards.
“I’ll take Tavish,” Bronwen says. “You ride as hard as you can. We’ll catch up.”
Lora mounts her horse and digs her heels into its sides. The horse snorts, but bolts out into the night, back toward the hospital. She can see the steeples of the temple near the hospital in the distance, rising high above the plains, the lanterns casting a gold gleam in the dark. Each yard the horse eats up feels like a mile, so Lora bends low, riding harder than she’s ever ridden in her entire life. She so rarely prays, but she prays then. All she wants is time. Time enough to make it back to the foolish baker, who has always been too kind for his own good.
“Ayc, listen to me?—”
“No, Peregrin.” Ayc’s voice croaks, but he at least has the strength to speak. Lora finds that encouraging as she runs through the waiting room and into Ayc’s hospital room.
Peregrin leans over where Ayc still lies in the bed, face riddled with fury. Ayc glares back just as hard. The sickly yellow shade of his skin has deepened since she left; he nearly glows against the white sheets.
Marcellus and Erech stand in the corner. Marcellus’s brow pinches in annoyance as he fiddles with a blue, ceramic vial. His sleeve is rolled up, revealing his chronicler, only one gem unlit. She registers the words on his wrist, familiar from this distance because of how long she has stared at her own arm.
Upturn the hands of fate.
Lora releases a breath that has been hitched in her ribs. She feared Marcellus would have given up and taken the antidote with him, but there’s still time.
She can save Ayc.
“Good,” Marcellus says with a heavy high. “We were about to leave. I’m wasting my time if he won’t take the antidote. I did not think him to be suicidal.”
Lora moves to Ayc’s side. “Ayc?—”
“Don’t,” Ayc interrupts, shaking his head. He meets Lora’s eyes defiantly. “The golden root could save someone who needs it more, who deserves it more.”
Saga whimpers softly, the dog’s head still resting on Ayc’s stomach.
“You will die without it,” Lora tries to reason.
“Give it to Peregrin,” he snaps.
“I don’t want it,” Peregrin growls back.
“You’re in pain every day. With the golden root, you could be in the aerial army again. You could have your life back?— ”
Peregrin hits their cane hard on the side of the bed. The whistle of it through the air cuts Ayc off. “Boy, you don’t get to tell me what I want from my life. You don’t get to assume that I want to be rid of my pain. It’s mine , and only I get to decide what I do with it. Without this injury, I wouldn’t have Irving and Zinnia. I wouldn’t have Ember. And I would not have you . And I would rather walk with this cane for the rest of my days than bear the pain of losing you. So, shut up and drink it.”
Moisture pools in Ayc’s eyes. Lora thinks for a moment it will convince him, and then he tightens his jaw into a hard, immovable line. “Give it to the Lycendi for the lottery. It’s only fair.”
Lora takes a breath. She hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He’ll hate her for this, but it’s a price she’s willing to pay.
“Drink the antidote, Ayc,” Lora orders.
His body jerks as he realizes what she’s done. Sweat beads across his nose as he shakes his head. “Fuck off, Lora.”
“Drink the antidote,” she repeats.
“No.” It’s a groan, like it hurts to say. Because it does. She is hurting him, but she can hate herself for that later.
“I command it.”
She watches whatever shred of affection he feels for her die in his eyes. It’s like the setting sun. It leaves the world cold and dark. She reaches her hand out to Marcellus. His brow furrows, curious, but he gives her the vial. She uncaps it and offers it to Ayc.
“Drink,” she orders again, sealing both their fates.
Ayc rips the bottle from her fingers and brings it to his lip. He can’t even lift his head, so he throws the liquid down his throat, sputtering before swallowing. He glares at Lora, the rage billowing off him. Hate. That’s the only word for how he looks at her now.
But it doesn’t matter, because he’s here. He’ll be all right. He’s going to?—
His hand falls to the side of the bed. The bottle tumbles from his grasp and collides with the floor. It shatters. The remnants of green liquid scatter amongst the shards of glass. Green. Not gold. Ayc still stares up at her with those wide, blue eyes, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Ayc has always been motion and energy and ridiculousness, but now he is still. Deathly still.
“Ayc!” Peregrin calls, shaking Ayc. “Wake up, boy! Come on!”
Saga barks and nuzzles Ayc with his nose.
Ayc doesn’t move.
Air. There is no air. Lora can’t draw in a breath. She has seen the face of death, and Ayc wears it now. He was there and gone in an instant. A crack forms in her chest, growing larger and larger. She is stone, and now she is shattering.
This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone. He can’t, because she cannot survive this. This agony ripping through her is not something that can be survived. It is river water pouring into her lungs and the slap of her mother’s hand and the day her father was banished and every beating she ever took at Adamant to make her stronger. This pain is unfathomable.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t…
“Oh dear,” Marcellus murmurs, “it seems I gave him the wrong vial.”
The world bathes with silver. Lora unleashes a scream as she flings herself at Marcellus. Erech thrusts his sword between them, and she freezes. She surrendered her own weapons before she was allowed back inside the hospital, but she might impale herself on Erech's blade just to get one swipe at Marcellus’s throat with her elongated teeth. But he holds up another vial. This one is clear, and gold liquid shines from within.
“If I give it to him now, it will reverse this poison too and should revive him,” Marcellus says.
Lora swipes for the vial, but Marcellus moves it out of her reach. Erech presses the tip of the sword to Lora’s chin. She stills, tilting her head back.
“I’ll be the one to give it to him,” Marcellus says.
Lora doesn’t know what game he’s playing, but it doesn’t matter. “Do it!”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Marcellus asks. “You know he’s not divina, but you have no idea what he is, do you?”
“I don’t care!" Whatever Marcellus knows, or thinks he knows about Ayc, it doesn’t matter. Because Ayc is still just Ayc , who is worth saving. Who her life will be in ruins without. "Just do it!”
Marcellus shrugs. He crosses the room toward the bed. Peregrin opens Ayc’s limp mouth so that Marcellus can drip it down his throat. Lora watches with Erech’s sword still at her throat. All the cracks and seams within her groan, threatening to explode at any moment. Each second crawls by as Ayc doesn’t move… doesn’t breathe…
How will she breathe again if he does not?
And then Ayc gasps.
Peregrin lets out a sob of relief. Lora’s own sob can’t make it past her lips. It gets trapped inside, ricocheting around, deeper and deeper. It’s only the sword at her throat that keeps her knees beneath her, that stops her from falling to the ground to thank the divine for giving Ayc back to her.
Erech drops the sword and looks at Marcellus. “Did it work?”
A wide grin breaks over Marcellus’s face. He lifts his wrist to show off his chronicler. All seven gems are lit.
Ayc was dead, and now he is not. Marcellus has upturned the hands of fate.
And he will be the next Sovereign.
The cracks within Lora turn to a chasm, and she crumbles, piece by piece. She failed. She failed her destiny and her Five and her people. The Totus Omni–who embraced her not as Sovereign’s daughter, but as just Lora–chose her to be their victor. They gifted her with the cape she now wears. Dozens of hands took their turn stitching the leaves and branches as a form of blessing. And Lora failed them. She will not be able to protect her people or make right what has long been broken. She will not be able to end her father’s exile or send Aluina aid.
She has failed .
She always feared, deep down, that she is not enough. And here reality is—proving it to her.
She forces her chin higher, so those around her cannot see the way she is ashes and dust on the floor. Marcellus saunters toward her.
“I will see you in Wyntra for the crowning,” Marcellus says, grinning wickedly as he looks down upon her. “And I will so enjoy watching you bow.”
He wants a response, and she refuses to give him the satisfaction. She only stares at him coldly, until he walks away. Until he and Erech leave. Only then does she give herself five seconds to come undone. Only five. Her hands flutter near her face, attempting to release the tension, but it’s too much.
Her own chronicler catches her eyes. She counts again. Five stones. Not four. She glances at the writing on her arm to see which task was completed.
Face your worst fear.
She isn’t sure which moment it turned—in the moment she thought Ayc was dead, or in this moment, as she realizes she is not enough. That everything her mother whispered—that she is too soft, too na?ve, too weak—has all been true after all. She’s not sure which of those is her worst fear, but whatever the case, she has completed five of the seven quests.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Lora,” Ayc says softly from the bed.
She looks at him. His skin is no longer yellow, and as he sits up in bed, he looks strong. Perfect. Like nothing even happened. Peregrin slumps down into the chair and places their face in their hands.
Ayc’s hands fist in the blankets, even when Saga licks his fingers. “He won, because you let him save my life, didn’t he?”
Lora can only nod.
“I hate you,” Ayc growls.
“Good,” Lora replies. “That means you’re still alive to hate me.”