Chapter 59
Rhoswen Fallen
“We were not expecting you back so soon.” He was a man no older than I, ornamented in fine, silver armor from head to heel.
Two strangers stood before me at either side, their feet planted in line with their shoulders. Alistair stood the same. Both strangers wore armors forged with curling vines like silver garlands, though only one had whitened wisps. Like glass, the armor shone through the dawn mist, cutting through grime and wear. I did not recognize the emblem on his cape or the green of it, like verdant pastures.
“Plans changed.” Alistair’s tone had leveled as soon as we stepped outside, as though the clouds pressed down on his shoulders. Not to say his shoulders slouched. No, they were taut as iron.
We stood at the fountain beside Alistair’s study, where the stone woman looked at me, offering her hand, serrated by time. The strangers did not acknowledge my presence, but continued to glare at me with narrowed eyes. I felt as though I shouldn’t be here, but Alistair had not dismissed me yet.
“Is it done?” Alistair asked curtly, primarily speaking to one—the one with armor minorly more extravagant than the other.
“Without any issues to report,” he answered, just as brisk.
“No one expected us, and their defense was weak.”
“Any casualties?”
“None apart from the guards and those who retaliate,” the stranger answered without a note of influx.
“All others are counted unharmed. Many remain in their homes, and some are relieved at our coming, taking a stand beside us. Our flag has been raised, the raven torn down. Everything has gone according to plan.”
Alistair’s eyes closed for a second, and his frame loosened.
I almost asked what they spoke of, myself feeling as though I was trying to separate soil from dirt.
I looked past the unknown men, seeing the ancient trees and smog encroaching the estate’s property line. Remnants of the bloodmoon sprinkled throughout the land, giving this day a dark crimson haze, mottling in the mist. The weight of mourning was in the air, sour and thick.
In the distance, hooves pounded from the laurel wood, and Alistair immediately stole back his tense stature. Again, I nearly asked what was happening, but I could not seem to get my words out. There was something too great, too important, that I did not understand. I wanted to know, but I would not be the one to interrupt.
Like an aurora warping over the lands, a pale light seeped from the laurel wood, catching the bowing roots. Shielded by darkness all these years, I half expected the wood to hiss at the abrupt light and shrivel back.
All turned toward the stables as we watched a man charge on a white steed. Clad in silver, lavish in detail, the armor appeared sacred like holy robes revering the man inside. The same green cape was hills down his spine, threaded with silver. The realm seemed to bow to him, all attention devoted to him.
I did not know who he was, but I could tell—this man was important.
He leaped from the saddle and began to walk to us, each movement graceful like a ballad.
My eyes strained beholding the glass of his armor, somehow catching a light that was not present.
Removing his helmet, a waterfall of auburn hair kissed the air and draped over his shoulders. His features were all edges and bone—sculpted cheekbones, slender nose, sharp jawbone. Brown eyes were rich and hemmed in white. A silvern tattoo carved up his neck on each side, breaking into a dozen wisping ends. He was… beautiful, was the only word I could find for him.
His luminous eyes first marked the two strangers that matched his attire, only theirs were lesser than. His sight on Alistair demanded a wrench of his brow, and then he glanced at me as though I was an emptied cup with nothing to give.
Alistair tilted his head to this man, his spine subtly following.
The man found himself beside the other two, his feet and shoulders in line like the rest of them.
A silent lull was had until the man, taller than Alistair, let out a huff with widened nostrils. He marked me again, this stranger in religious armor. It was familiar how he stared at me. Dissected me.
I bit my tongue before my curiosity bested my silence.
“I trust my men have told you, the raven has been dismantled.” The large man finally spoke, his voice deep and smooth. He seemed to look past Alistair, not at him.
I thought I might be relieved the silence had broken, but I was still itching to understand.
He continued.
“Our forces line the streets, and we are taking the guards as prisoners. They will not see tomorrow. As for the king—”
“He is unaware thus far,” Alistair interrupted.
“As I have assured you many times, we can trust the prince.”
The prince? I asked the hollow void in my mind.
“Trust?” The man scoffed, taken aback by a different statement than mine.
“Trust is faith, and faith has been dead in these lands for years. Nevertheless, you are in no place tell me where I shall lay my confidence.”
Alistair fought his clenched jaw.
“I have upheld every command you have given.”
“But you are still a Raven.”
“Then why have you come here?” Alistair’s voice lowered.
“Forgive me for speaking so boldly, but it appears you need me, even if I do not hold your confidences. You have stepped into these lands, you have taken the stronghold, because of my hand.”
At Alistair’s sentiment, the other two tightened their fists, but not the large one. This man, he was flawless of skin—neither wrinkle nor crease lining his features. Any frustration seemed to stem from his voice and his voice alone.
“You’ll do well to remember your place before you speak with such contempt,” he said, his eyes scraping past the bridge of his nose to the Raven Lord.
“You,” He uttered.
“You are the product of mistakes, the blood that has been tainted by man.”
An anger burned in my chest. Now I wanted to speak up, but for different reasons.
“Marked by Shadow,” he hushed under his breath before projecting.
“Tell me, Alistair, when is it that the light has ever needed the dark? I do not need you. If it was not for my oath to your mother, I—”
“You needn’t remind me.” Alistair’s foot struck the ground between them. He grit his teeth.
“I know exactly what you think I am.”
The man lifted his white-gloved hand.
“Go tend to the city,” he said to the two strangers, who immediately bowed and withdrew towards the stables.
His voice held steady as he addressed Alistair.
“No amount of atonement will change what you are, Alistair Raven. No amount of salvation will let you step into the throat of our haven.”
“That is not for you to decide, regardless of what title you carry.”
“A title greater than yours, nephew.”
Nephew? I suddenly missed Deceit, capturing my thoughts and validating my interest.
“Ascension does not wait for you.” This man, Alistair’s uncle, unsheathed one of the many blades in his belt. He was armed with two short swords, two daggers, a silvern bow, and a stocked quiver.
Is he an elvish warrior? I meant to ask a god, but I only asked myself.
“Do you know, Raven, what it means to uphold elvish blood?” Alistair’s uncle lifted a dagger to his own palm.
“Centuries of battle and pain have been passed down our lineage, harking back to the ages of war. It is memories, depths, passions, and centuries of beauty and love. Rich ardor.” Without a grimace to his face, the man sliced the blade along his palm. Blood collected in the crevices of his skin.
“It is pure. From our blood, we bless our people and strengthen the roots of our Father Tree.”
Crimson life dripped to the ground, the dead soil absorbing it without contention.
From the red droplets, a supple stem began to break through the ground. Thin petals of white and stardust unfurled from the bud. It was the most exquisite flower I had ever seen. And it was here, drawn in the center of this cursed estate from hard soil and elvish blood.
“But your blood—” The uncle lifted his chin and sheathed his blade.
“Your blood is wasted. Your blood is the only blood left of my sister, and it is spoiled. Do you understand that, Alistair?”
My lungs filled with anger, and I masked myself in courage before my tongue could flick words I might later regret. But, before I spoke, there were hooves again, and the three of us turned toward the laurel wood at another’s coming.
No darkness was outmatched, no light bled from the laurel trees. A horse of black satin skipped over the crimson mist. The rider came into view, and my stomach nearly dislodged from my throat.
I stepped nearer to Alistair. He took my hand in his.
“Everything is alright,” he promised, and I wanted to believe him, but—
“Gods, Alistair, I thought you might have died.” Prince Evandor leaped from his horse and walked to us, not minding the company.
“I heard you chased a deranged Bloodletter out of the city.” Evandor joined the company and turned towards Alistair’s uncle.
“Lord Vaelir,” he said with a bow. “A pleasure.”
Vaelir did not grant His Highness respect, though his thin brow arched.
“What drove a Bloodletter to the castle?” Vaelir asked.
Evandor adjusted the travel bag at his back and untucked a loose tunic from his waist. If Evandor wore the ebony circlet that marked him a royal, I could not see it. He looked more like an assassin, dressed in all shades of black, which only pronounced the forest in his eyes.
“The castle was attacked by god servers at my father’s show of executions.” The prince looked at me, and my face flushed.
“The Bloodletter was hunting a perhaps not-so-innocent woman, and your nephew went after him. The hunter, being hunted.” My brother then tilted his jaw to me.
“Rhoswen, good to see you still have your head.” He looked at my hand, locked firmly with Alistair’s, and crafted his sly grin.
This prince. He knew too much.
I bit my tongue into silence once more.
“A man against a Bloodletter is a death sentence,” Vaelir stated.
“And yet you live?”
“You doubt him too greatly, Vaelir,” Evandor said as he stripped away his riding gloves and crammed them into his pocket.
“I know mankind has disappointed you greatly through your years, but it is clouding your judgment.”
“It is fine, Evandor.” Alistair lifted his hand, to which Evandor shrugged and rolled his evergreen eyes.
“The Bloodletter escaped the city before I could put an end to the carnage.”
“Of course he did,” Vaelir said with curling lips.
“It is a shame when carnage lives and wisdom dies.” Evandor picked a loose string from his shoulder and strangled it into a ball between his fingers.
“It is a tale I have heard many times, and it makes me apprehensive to lift books instead of swords. But, if I shall live to see the awakened Era of Light, may I be safe behind a nook, gleaning some bloody quiet.”
Evandor flicked away the mass of string. Those green eyes were on me once again.
My skin crawled, and I tucked my face beside Alistair’s steady arm.
“I cannot blame you for your discomfort, Rhoswen. This is a lot to take in, I know.” Evandor counted.
“Battles, elves, conquest, and now a prince, who was supposed to hate your kind, is actually on your side.” When my eyes grew wide, he added with a grin.
“Your handsome lord told me.”
I gave Alistair a look that begged clarification.
“I had my speculations,” Alistair began.
“The Potion of Disguise does not give off such light as when you’d trade faces, but I did not know what else it could be. My speculations were confirmed when you were dueling Evandor.”
“What of the duel?” Evandor asked me, lifting his chin.
I held Alistair’s hand tighter and broke my oath of silence.
“I may have added a bit of muscle to one arm when we were dueling.”
“Ha, thank the gods! Here, I thought I was damn right weak.” Evandor laughed again, the red-sodden mist twirling beside his breath. He added.
“Not to say you are weak, my dear, but we need to keep working on your form. A bit of practice, and you could be one of the best. Especially with that magic of yours.”
“You serve the gods?” Vaelir asked.
“I do.” I sought the confidence I aimed to equip earlier.
“And you are an elvish warrior?”
Evandor laughed his witty laugh.
“Ah, so perhaps she is not so surprised after all.”
“An elvish warlord,” Vaelir amended.
“What is your name, child?” In this moment, Alistair’s uncle looked at me with—not care—but perhaps an indifference he hadn’t given Alistair.
“Rhoswen Fallen, my lord.”
“Who do you serve, Rhoswen? To whose name do you swear oath?”
“Deception,” I said, plainly, ignoring the chills hiking my skin.
“Years of study, and I have never heard of such a god.” Evandor’s forest of knowledge admitted betrayal.
I could not make eye contact with my brother as I spoke.
“Deception has not chosen many.”
“At least that is what you’re made to believe,” Vaelir added.
“Now, about Tharen Crest—”
“I am marked by Shadow as well,” I uttered.
Alistair’s hand tightened around mine.
“Shadow?” Vaelir’s brow heightened again, graceful, judgmental, and somehow gentle.
“How can one be marked by Shadow but chosen by gods?”
“I cannot say I know.” My mind began to throw anxious thoughts, but Alistair held me steady.
“I was chosen as a child, though marked mere months ago.” Courage. I raised my chin to the elvish warlord before me.
“But, I will say, it appears even god-worthy blood can be marked by Shadow, Lord Vaelir. Bearing the blood of man is not a curse in itself.”
Alistair’s thumb glided along my skin.
Here, I saw a similar distaste on Vaelir’s face that he’d given Alistair. Teeth showed.
“Someone who does not understand the custom of elves would speak without wisdom.” Vaelir’s tone matched detest.
“Do not defend my nephew, Miss Fallen. Any defense should be given through his acts, not pleas.”
From on high, something drifted, descending from the clouds, damned from the Everlaides. Deceit melted past my skull and nestled into the cradle of the dark.
Away for moments, his eyes twisted behind mine, and a prince stands before you. And you… You stand beside those who were created of Sentient and Light.
This man is Alistair’s uncle, an elvish warlord. And, evidently, Evandor is on the side of the gods.
Hmm. Deceit’s nails tapped against my mind. Do not be so sure, Princess. It is not only the God of Deception who deceives.
Vaelir marked me again, then buried his hostility in a tomb, uplifting his steady temper.
“Tharen Crest has been overrun and is now elvish territory.”
To the matter, Evandor clasped his hands at his back and straightened his spine—a prince in sheep’s clothing.
“Captain Tynan and his men will not be far behind,” he said.
“I thought the battle might strike enough fear into the men that they’d wait some days before journeying home. But, they believe the battle to be a grand success. When I left, they had begun to pour wine in celebration.”
“Damn tyrants,” I swore.
Evandor softened his gaze.
“Yes, Rhoswen, they are.”
Deceit hissed. Be wary who you trust. Be wary the man who speaks in perfect answers. Charm is cheap from the mouths of liars.
Alistair released my hand and crossed his arms over his chest.
“We had prepared for Tynan’s men to return so soon. The Chosen’s attack was an opportunity for delay. To fortify. But we’ll be ready. And with Cindermoor taken, we are in a better position to defend the elvish territories.”
A grunt escaped Vaelir’s lips beside a quick nod.
“We will continue to advance our soldiers to Tharen Crest. It will be fortified beneath the remnants of Light and the God of Sentient. It will become a second haven and a stronghold for our people.”
“And the Amulet of Light,” Evandor chimed.
Alistair and Evandor exchanged looks.
Tense fingers slipped into dark hairs, Alistair shifting the strands. I saw the scar on his ear.
“Evandor and I will continue our search,” Alistair said to Vaelir.
“The amulet remains in the west, we know. We have exhausted territories from the Viking sea to the west, past Sariem. It is close. We will find it.
“And once it is brought to me,” preemptive delight shone in the elvish warlord’s eyes.
“the king and Shadows will not be able to stand against us.”
The end of days. Deceit’s teeth ground together.
Questions were torture in me.
I had tried to keep my lips sewn, but questions clawed me inside. Gods, Shadows, king, princes, elves, havens, the amulet. I was a woman in the dark.
“What is happening?” I asked in a jolt.
The three men looked at me and then each other, as though none were prepared for a such a question. As though no words can grant clarity in what, I assume, was months in the making. Years.
Evandor began adjusting the ends of his sleeves, then lifted a hand, flicking grime from beneath his nailbed. His shoulders fell back, his spine loose.
“Rhoswen,” he paused, then began tapping his fingers in a rhythmic cadence.
“I am sure you, too, have seen that the dark of the day is lasting and growing darker still. The mist thickens beneath the choked sky. The Shadows converge, and they are growing stronger. They consume without knowing they are full, and they will not stop until there is nothing left of Andrael.”
Evandor marched in a small stride, thought compelling a pace, and the confinement of our proximity hindered him.
“The king and his people, they do not understand that.” There was a soft bite in the prince’s voice.
“They believe their souls will be saved from the day of reckoning. I do not know if the gods will vanquish their creation, or if they will let us die off in darkness, but I personally do not care for either option.”
Evandor glance to Alistair and Vaelir. He began to lift his palm, seeming to offer a chance for another to speak, but he stopped himself halfway with a whisk of his hand and continued in a swift breath.
“The king needs to be stopped.” Evandor’s pointing finger stabbed the air.
“His work with the matron and those who swear loyalty to the Shadows will be the ruin of this realm. He is building an army, Rhoswen. They call it the Harken of Shadows, where the dark congregates at the castle’s old cathedral. The House of Tenebrous. She stays with her children, losing herself for days watching, listening, learning.”
“What of Maisie?” I asked.
“She is safe,” Evandor assured, giving an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“It is a promise I made to your lord, and it is a promise I will see through. She will be kept safe.”
Vaelir parted his lips, uttered a word, but Evandor outmatched the elvish warlord. Vaelir breathed out a low note—not quite a growl, but harsher than a breath.
“What my father intends to do is still unclear. But, from what I’ve been able to understand, the king wishes to use the Shadows’ strength to wipe out the gods for good. To be strong enough to rip the gods from their haven while killing any remnants of them throughout the lands—church ruins, traditions, magic, elves, god servers. And the Shadows are loyal to the crown,” he claimed.
“Or rather, the crown is loyal to them. Gold might endure through the ages, but men die. The Shadows will not always have a need for him, and when that day comes, they will finish their work, ending the era of man.”
It was Alistair, with raven eyes and black-feathered hair, who then looked at me. There was something in his eyes, a dapple of something seeing past a realm of shadow and darkness, despite the gravity of the prince’s words. With him, there was a hope.
“The crown will fall from the throne. The slavery of elves will be eradicated.” Alistair spoke softly, though this did not diminish the weight of his words.
“The Shadows will be drowned in light. Man will be made to pay for their sins, but Andrael will not fall. We are marking the beginning of the end of days, Rhoswen. We are going to save this realm from eternal darkness.”
…
I twisted the last of my gowns and filled my bag, the leather screeching in the torment.
Wood creaked behind. I turned to find Alistair leaning against the doorframe. His tattered attire had been discarded, and he, just as Evandor, clad himself in black of the night.
Seeing him, my lips began to curl, but my trepidations held down the ends.
Alistair lifted himself and slowly stepped towards me. Fingers trailing along my arm, his kind touch fell down my skin. Blushing warmth sank into my cheeks when I saw his soft smile and deep eyes.
“Are you ready, Rhoswen?”
I listened to the silence one last time.
This place, it had never been so quiet in the months I had stayed. Men often schemed, and Catriona boasted her slurs with drink in hand, Neil scorning her from behind. Shadows would twitch in corners of leaden where torches were untouched by Jones’s bony hands. There were enemies crafted in these halls, and, too, friendships. Freya’s yellow hair could not be dimmed, not even by the dark—the very dark that Maisie could not be torn away from.
Henry’s blood still stained the cellar, though one might mistake it for any number of wines stored in the barrels. A nearby laurel branch held onto a corpse by a string. The knolls were still covered in sunken footprints where corpses chased the god server and the lord’s aunt.
I was not fond of the memories here. Not all of them, at least. There were a few I’d keep close to my heart, so long as it beat.
I took Alistair’s offered hand. He swept me into his arms and blessed me with a kiss.
“I am ready,” I said with certainty, because I was certain. There was nothing left for me here. There were no men to deceive, no brothers or sisters to fight with, and no lord to kill.
The days of Shadows, the dawns of darkness, they were not what they used to be. Something was unraveling, on the precipice of change. The days opened before me, perhaps compelling me from the shadows. The days had changed me, and, in honesty, I was afraid. In the dark, I knew my face, and no one else did. I took comfort in this, but I needed to step away from the dark to bring the light.
The god too had not been the same as he was. This deity, drifting through the ages. His chosen, a fallen princess, was marked by the looming downfall of Andrael. And a lord, the man Deceit’s servant was sworn to tear down, still walked with air in his lungs. And he was not only man, but of elvish blood.
My boots scraped the floorboards, guided by Alistair’s steps.
I looked at my quarters one last time, seeing the mirror where I had practiced the residents' faces, not knowing just how much I would change in their company.
Down the banister, I memorized the swords and engravings on the walls. The sage sofa, the bookcase in the corner, and I reminisced about the hearth’s warmth beating against the ebony tiles.
Alistair took my other hand at the estate’s door.
“Are you certain about this, Rhoswen? There is no turning back from here.”
My feet stretched, raising me to my toes, and I set my lips upon Alistair’s cheek. His dimple showed.
“Yes, Alistair. Let us go starve the darkness.”
The hinges grinded. The door opened, and a gentle breeze brought a scurry of dead leaves to dance around our feet. The brisk air brushed my jacket.
The laurel wood breathed ancient breaths across the estate’s land, and the reddened mist still glowered at our feet. The sky hung low, suffocating Andrael between clouds and dead land. And still, there was something amidst.
A hope.
Evandor and Vaelir were saddled on their horses, their eyes ravenous with anticipation. At my coming, Evandor equipped his smirk.
I glanced at the stone statue of Amelia, and I saw a very odd sight—she was smiling. Her arm lifted before her, palm risen, in kindness. She tilted her stone jaw downward, and her cradlesong wrapped me. Protect him, she said in the notes.
Alistair’s hand was secure around mine, our fingers barred together.
Deceit was with me. You now enter the end of days, Davina Torrance.
My feet guided me onward.
I stepped beneath the threshold I could not turn back from, to pluck away my father’s fingers, one by one, to bring Andrael into lighter days. Here we stood—the crafter of faces, the dark lord of elvish blood, and the creator of deception.
It was myself, Alistair at my side, the god in my head…
And the Shadow at my back.