Chapter 35 #2
“Looks like my job isn’t entirely done yet,” Viktor said, looking up at them. It took me a moment to realize he could see them. All this time, it had only been Wolfe and me who could see them. “Your ring has a message for you.”
Wolfe stared at him, puzzled. “You can see them?”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Because your ring wills it.” Viktor picked a Nyzith strand from the air and unraveled the strand like he was peeling fruit.
At the center lay a time thread. He held it up then out to me. I crossed the path back to him and took it.
“It’s the past,” Viktor said.
“The past?” Wolfe echoed.
“Possibly what no one else could see.”
Wolfe and I exchanged curious glances.
“Have a look. Show us its story,” Viktor encouraged me.
I no longer needed a spell. I knew exactly what to do. Willing the thread to reveal itself, I watched a burst of light unfurl before me as stone walls rose from the brilliance. A roaring fire sprang to life in the hearth across the room until, little by little, the vision rebuilt itself around us.
We were standing inside the royal study.
At the palace. In Galaythia.
More of the scene appeared, and at the far side of the room, a man sat behind an enormous oak desk.
No, not a man. Fae.
A Fae male who looked exactly like Wolfe.
It was as though I was staring at an older version of him, right down to the hair and the beard.
His father.
My breath caught. Gods, we were looking at his father.
Lysander Nightblade.
Wolfe stepped closer, his eyes fixed on his father. His sadness broke me. I couldn't imagine what it must feel like knowing your father was dead and that memory was all this could ever be.
The study door opened. Both of us straightened when we saw who came walking through the door.
Prince Maelor.
Lysander looked up and smiled.
"Don't tell me," he teased, "you forgot something again."
"You know me far too well, Your Grace." Maelor smiled easily. "I forgot to ask if I could borrow one of your maps. I'm leaving the others and heading to Thalyrius. I don't want to get lost again."
Lysander sat straighter. “Wolfe is back. I’m sure he’d be happy to accompany you. Thalyrius is a long way from here.”
"No, I couldn't possibly trouble him in such a way. You should spend time with him. Besides, I enjoy the journey. There are all sorts of sights to see beyond the mortal lands."
What was he even doing here? One of the reasons King Varis made my father ambassador was that Maelor hated traveling to the magical realm. Yet here he was, talking like it were his favorite pastime.
“I understand.” Lysander rose from his chair. “I have just the map. It will take you through a more scenic route.”
He made his way over to the shelves across from him. When Maelor followed swiftly behind, I paid attention. We all did.
Lysander retrieved a map from the corner of the shelf, and just as he turned back to Maelor, a sword with black tar coating the blade appeared in his hand and he rammed into Lysander’s heart.
I jumped when I realized what I was actually witnessing. This was it.
The moment that started all of this.
But it wasn’t my father who killed him. It was Prince Maelor.
Wolfe stiffened.
Black poison spread from the wound almost instantly. It raced beneath Lysander’s skin like ink.
Nightmother's Kiss. I recognized it.
Lysander’s hand flew to the blade buried in his chest, but his fingers refused to close around it. His strength drained from him in the space of a heartbeat.
The Fae were strong, stronger than most beings. They could survive many things, but not Nightmother's Kiss.
There was no cure. No antidote. It was an instant killer.
Lysander staggered backwards. “No…” His voice was barely more than a breath.
He was in pain, but his eyes never left Maelor. Every emotion flashed across his face before his knees finally gave way.
He hit the stone floor hard, one hand pressed desperately against the wound as though he could somehow hold his life inside his body.
Blood spread beneath him. And even then, he couldn't stop looking at the man who had betrayed him.
“Why?” he grated out.
“It’s not personal, Lysander. It’s time for a change across realms. You know I deserve to be king, yet my father wants to give his bastard son the title. And you…” Maelor crouched. “The reign of the Nightblades is over. The Deathless must rise.”
“Deathless.” Lysander’s eyes snapped wide with horror. “No, Maelor. You must not do this. You don’t understand.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled. “I understand perfectly. They can give me what I want. Reign over Nelkaraad and immortality. But before I can get all that, I need that ring of yours.”
Maelor grabbed Lysander’s hand and tried to pry the ring from it. Lightning sparked around the ring, a shield trying to protect it.
“Take it off and give it to me.”
“I am King of Galaythia. You will not demand anything from me.” The words were hardly audible.
“We will see about that.” Maelor tried to pull the ring free.
Just then, the study door opened again and my father walked through. Seeing my father just there made my heart skip.
“Lysander, I heard something. Is everything—” He stopped abruptly when he rounded the bookshelf and saw Maelor and Lysander on the floor. He knew exactly what was going on. It was obvious.
“You bastard!” Father yelled, charging him with his sword.
As King Varis’ son, Maelor would have had significant training with a sword, but he was no match for my father. To be an Ambassador of Realms you had to know how to fight—anything.
As Maelor pulled another blade from the sheath at his waist, my father brought his down and struck him. Maelor shouldered the blow and tried to stab Father with his sword.
It didn’t work. Father was quicker.
He swung the sword in an arc and drove it home, right into Maelor’s gut.
Shock filled his face and he stumbled. I thought he was going to continue fighting, but he used the last of his strength to rush through the door.
Father didn’t follow. Instead, he raced to Lysander’s side.
“Lysander, come. Let’s get you to the healers.” He tried to lift him.
“It’s too late, friend. I won’t make it. Poison. Nightmother’s kiss.”
“No. Come with me.”
“Please, listen,” he breathed, panting hard. “Take my ring. He was after the ring. More will come. It wouldn’t have just been him. Get the ring to my son. Wolfe. He is the next king.”
“Lysander—”
“Please.”
He barely took another breath. He used what little life remained in his body to chant a spell. When he was done, twinkling light lifted from his heart and flew into the ring.
“My essence will protect you while you wear it,” Lysander rasped, his voice weaker.
He pulled the ring off his finger and slipped it onto my father’s. Then his head hit the floor and his eyes rolled back, sealing shut forever.
My father stared at the ring on his finger. When he stood, a figure emerged from the air.
Zyrra stepped out with a heavy scowl on her face, but she looked different, weaker.
“No!” she cried when she saw the ring on Father’s hand. “Give it to me.”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
“With pleasure, human,” she spat then summoned a vortex. The vortex.
It swirled, growing larger. Father rushed through the door, and the vortex followed.
As it left, the image faded. I was staring after my father, knowing what happened next.
And Wolfe was still looking at his father. The memory faded, taking him away again, and we were back in the dragon cave.
The Nyzith strands dispersed and drifted away on an unseen wind. In their wake, the truth lay heavy in the air.