Chapter Forty-three
THEA
‘ Y ou carry yourself like a queen, Althea Embervale,’ the first Fury said, her expression unreadable.
The three goddesses were fierce and radiant before Thea, eyes ablaze like molten gold. The eternal guardians of the Great Rite, of the midrealms themselves.
It was only in their ethereal presence that Thea remembered that their names weren’t known – that after all the legends told across the ages, their names had not lived on.
They had not been honoured in title or individual esteem.
Rather, the force of them had been reduced to a woman’s anger, a woman’s rage.
The Furies.
And yet together, they formed a triarchy unlike anything the realms had ever seen. They stood in front of Thea now, unwavering against the advancing tides of chaos, determining the fate of men, and now Thea herself.
‘Did you not hear me, Althea Embervale?’ the Fury spoke again. ‘I said you carry yourself like a queen.’
Embervale… Pain throbbed everywhere, and Thea’s voice was hoarse, but she lifted her chin when she addressed the great gods before her. ‘No,’ she told them. ‘I carry myself like a Warsword.’
A slow grin spread across each beautiful face before her.
‘A new Warsword stands before us, then, sisters… One who can command storms as well as blades, it seems.’
‘How?’ Thea managed to croak. ‘I thought I had to choose.’
‘And you did,’ the Fury replied.
‘But…’
‘But you were not born to wield steel and steel alone. We have never seen such fortitude of mind, body and heart before… It takes something more to reconjure magic that has been stripped away.’
Thea was a trembling mess, shock settling into her bones. ‘Does this mean… Does it mean that I can be both? Both Warsword and storm wielder?’
A knowing smile tempted the Fury’s lips. ‘Who’s going to stop you?’ she said.
Those words washed over Thea like a distant dream, and she found that she could only stare, the remnants of her thundersnow fading quietly around them, until there was only an endless expanse of white. Slowly, the pain she had felt so intensely only moments before ebbed away.
Looking down, she realised that although she was still drenched in blood, she had both hands.
A soft cry escaped her as she turned them over before her, examining each and every finger and the lines of her palms. Thea wasn’t ready to tear her gaze away from the hand she thought she’d lost. She could move it freely, every finger bending to her will, her clenched fist as strong as it had always been.
‘It happened,’ the second Fury told her, watching her with fascination. ‘In a way. Lift your sleeve.’
Unable to find her words, Thea pushed the ragged, stained material up. Around her wrist was a horrific scar, thick and ugly, mangled as though the torn flesh had been melded back together with little skill.
The third Fury addressed her. ‘You will feel it for the rest of your life.’
‘And my sister? My friends? My…’ The word caught in Thea’s throat.
‘Alive.’
Relief barrelled through Thea, and it was only then that she tried to swallow the rock in her throat and look up, taking in the sight of the gods before her, the gods that had created every nightmare she’d just endured.
The three Furies stood side by side, emanating glory and immortality, power and wisdom. They were alike in so many ways, and unlike in so many others. Untouchable and yet everywhere all at once. From their beauty and grace alone, they could have been sisters.
The thought was fleeting as Thea met their assessing gazes with one of her own. There was something otherworldly about them, but Thea couldn’t pinpoint what made them so. It was not the flecks of golden ferocity in their eyes, nor the intricate, shimmering armour they wore over long skirts…
Her vision blurred and it took every last shred of willpower to keep herself upright. ‘I passed,’ was all she managed.
‘You did,’ the first Fury allowed. ‘It was quite a Rite…’
She watched Thea as though she were a specimen to be studied, her gaze flicking to the jewelled dagger Thea couldn’t remember sheathing at her belt. Her fingertips tingled with power as she touched its pommel.
‘It’s a beautiful weapon,’ the Fury said, her expression unreadable.
‘It belongs to a fellow woman warrior,’ Thea heard herself say, wishing Audra was here to witness the moment.
‘Yes, it does,’ the Fury replied, before tearing her gaze from the blade.
With a wave of her hand, Malik’s dagger of Naarvian steel materialised at Thea’s belt once more, leaving Thea lost for words but for the hoarse Thank you that managed to pass her lips.
‘Your efforts were valiant. There are few who can face themselves as well as their nightmares and emerge whole on the other side.’
Thea felt anything but whole. She doubted she’d feel like that until she saw Wren, Cal, Kipp and Malik for herself.
She doubted she’d feel anything until Wilder wrapped his strong arms around her and they could speak those words they’d held back to one another…
Warsword to Warsword. But Thea kept those thoughts to herself.
The second Fury spoke next. ‘You will be honoured with all that a Warsword of the midrealms is owed.’
Thea let out a breath, but didn’t dare speak. Not yet.
‘The rulers will bestow their gifts upon you when you return to their lands. But there is one piece we present you with here and now…’ The third Fury stepped forward, her empty hands outstretched before her.
A great sword materialised there.
Its blade gleamed, honed to perfection, its sharp edge tapering elegantly into a lethal point. It had been crafted masterfully, exuding an aura of both beauty and power. Thea could barely breathe. For how long had she dreamt of this moment? For how long had she imagined a blade of her own?
‘Are you ready to take your Warsword vows?’ the first Fury said.
Dazed, Thea nodded. ‘Yes.’
Light danced on the flat of the blade as the Fury spoke her next words. ‘Hold the sword and you will hear the words. Make your oath now.’
Heart pounding, Thea reached for the blade, wrapping her hand around the hilt covered in supple leather. At the contact, an ancient magic swept over her, words forming in her mind just as the Fury had promised.
She found herself speaking. ‘I, Althea Zoltaire —’
‘But that is not your name, storm wielder…’ the Fury offered in gentle reprimand.
Thea faltered, adjusting her grip on the blade. Her magic hummed in response to that foreign power, stirring within. She listened again.
Her voice was stronger this time. ‘I, Althea Embervale, pledge my sword and my life to the protection of the midrealms.’
She felt the depth of that promise in her bones, and the rest of the words fell from her tongue in a steady stream.
‘In the light of the Furies, I swear my allegiance, my loyalty, to casting the evil from these lands. I will hunt. I will punish. I will kill. Any and all who threaten these kingdoms. My blood, my steel, are yours. I vow that in the end of days, I will answer the call.’
As her oath left her lips, Thea gripped the sword fully in her hands, the rest of the strange world fading away as she gauged the weight of it.
She’d never seen a more beautiful blade, had never held something that fitted her so perfectly.
The sword sang in her grasp, and she felt the whisper of its magic, its origin.
‘Naarvian steel,’ she breathed before she could stop herself.
‘Yes, storm wielder. Naarvian steel. The last of it, mined straight from the source. You are a Warsword now.’
The Fury touched the tip of her finger to the sharp point of the blade, and suddenly Thea could see it unfolding…
The star shower with which the Furies themselves had struck the kingdom, a blur of bright, brilliant streaks across the night sky.
The crater forming deep in the earth below, singing with their power, their magic.
Now, Thea held it in her hands. At long last, she’d found the missing piece of herself… and it had been forged with blood and steel.
She bowed her head. ‘Thank you.’
‘And yet, this is not all you ask of us,’ the third Fury said. ‘Not all you had hoped for in the Great Rite.’
‘No…’ Thea whispered.
‘Then ask what you must,’ the Fury told her. ‘You have one question.’
Thea lowered her new sword to her side, her body still singing with the weight of it in her palm.
She met each Fury’s gaze, pushing her shoulders back.
They could grant her time, a life to share with Wilder, with the family she had made along the dark and stormy road.
This was the moment she had waited for all her life, the opportunity to take fate into her own hands and master her own destiny.
And so she took it.
‘What are your names?’ she asked, her voice quiet yet firm.
Their expressions mirrored one another, and told Thea it wasn’t often that the great Furies themselves were surprised.
‘That is not the question you came here with.’
‘No,’ Thea admitted. ‘It’s not. But it is my question all the same.’
‘No man who came before you asked such a thing.’
‘I’m not a man.’
A long, lingering silence followed.
‘Why do you ask it now?’ the first Fury asked her at last.
Each of her own titles surged through her. Thea. Althea Nine Lives. Althea Zoltaire. Althea Embervale. Shieldbearer. Guardian. Wraith Slayer. Shadow of Death. Warsword. Heir.
‘Because there is power in names,’ Thea replied. ‘And women whose might is etched in history deserve to have their names carved there too.’
The Furies exchanged looks with one another, a silent conversation taking place between them before the third stepped forward. ‘This is all you ask?’
‘It’s all I ask.’
The goddess nodded. ‘Then I am Iseldra.’
The second came forward next. ‘And I am Morwynn.’
The first Fury, the one who had addressed her as the Rite had faded around her, smiled now. ‘And I am Valdara.’
Iseldra, Morwynn and Valdara…
‘It’s an honour to meet you.’ Thea bowed low. She wondered if it would be the only bow she ever made of her own free will to those who had earnt it, rather than out of obligation.
‘The honour is ours,’ Valdara said.
The trio of goddesses watched her intensely and silence pulsed in the gulf that opened up between her and the Furies. Thea’s fingertips tingled, with her magic or theirs, she didn’t know.
At long last, she turned to leave, to put the Great Rite behind her.
‘Althea,’ Morwynn called her back. ‘Regarding the other question you had.’
Iseldra gave Thea a knowing look. ‘Immortality.’
‘We are glad you didn’t ask it,’ Valdara said, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘For we would not have granted it to you.’
Stunned, Thea could only stare at the goddesses before her. She didn’t know how much more her heart could take.
‘You will do more than enough in the time you have left,’ Valdara continued, her voice laced with kindness.
But Iseldra gave Thea a far sterner look. ‘There is too much love in your heart for you to be an immortal.’
Thea’s stomach bottomed out. ‘I —’
Morwynn raised a hand, silencing her. ‘You cannot live forever without love…’
Valdara came forward again, fitting her palm over the fate stone that rested beneath Thea’s shirt. ‘And you will love no other.’
The piece of jade warmed against Thea’s skin under the Fury’s touch, and she stared at the gods. There was more to the words leaving their lips, she was sure of it, but…
‘Go now, Althea Embervale, Warsword and storm wielder of the midrealms. There is much to do.’
Thea’s grip on her Naarvian steel sword tightened, and despite the ache in her heart, she knew there was no convincing them.
You will love no other.
‘Thank you,’ she told them, bowing her head. ‘I will aim to be worthy of the honours you have bestowed here.’
As the words left her lips, thick white mist swept in, obscuring the Furies from her view, lifting her into the air in a whirl of snow and light. Moments from the trials flashed before her as her body was pulled through time and space, the frost-kissed wind tangling her hair, stinging her cheeks.
Then she felt the ground beneath her boots.
Not the slippery glass surface of the lake, but real, solid earth packed with snow.
When she moved, she felt it – the Furies-given strength, speed and agility – click into place.
It was surreal, to suddenly have such power behind every movement, as though her body were too fast and strong for her surroundings all of a sudden.
She marvelled at it for a moment. She had been strong before, fitter and faster than she had ever been in her life. But now? Now she was unstoppable.
As she took another step forward, she felt something close around her arm.
She glanced down and gasped.
Her Warsword totem.
Made of perfect steel, it shone bright in the ethereal afterglow of the Furies: two crossed swords, with a third cutting down the middle.
Thea ran her thumb over it, almost not daring to believe that at long last, she had one of her own.
But hers was different to those she had studied so intensely before. Her totem had an addition she’d never seen.
Behind the three blades were streaks of lightning.
‘What the…’ she muttered, dropping her hand to her side, her wrist twinging slightly with the movement.
I’ll deal with that later , she decided.
The only thing she wanted to do now was to see Wilder, to throw herself into his arms and rejoice in her victory, in their victory.
She knew she would never regret her question, her choice; the Furies themselves had told her as much.
Thea knew in her heart that whatever fate awaited her, she would rather live a single year with Wilder Hawthorne than face a thousand lifetimes without him.
Slowly but surely, the swirling mist receded, revealing a crisp snowy day beyond.
But Wilder wasn’t there.
In his place was an army.
Harenth’s army, to be precise, with King Artos at its head.
Thea tasted iron on her tongue as she marched towards the king, her hand resting on her Naarvian steel blade, her Warsword totem gleaming in the winter sun.
In that moment, she forgot everything. Who she was meant to be, who Wilder was to the crown.
She forgot the politics at play and all that mattered in the world kissed by darkness around her.
Only one thing, one man, mattered.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded, the thunderstorm brewing within. ‘Where is my —’
‘Prisoner?’ Torj Elderbrock finished for her.
Out of nowhere, the Bear Slayer stepped between Thea and King Artos smoothly, clasping her hands in his, squeezing them hard in warning.
‘Congratulations, Warsword Zoltaire,’ he said.
‘On both the Rite and your triumph here. We know we have you to thank for the traitor Wilder Hawthorne being apprehended once more. The midrealms owes you a great debt.’