Chapter 26 #2
Inside, the heat singed her hair and skin. The stone stairway wasn’t burning, but it was filled with black smoke. She could see nothing but Amron’s boots before her.
Surely, no one could get through it alive.
She pressed a handkerchief to her nose, but the smoke still burned her throat and made her head spin. The heat was unbearable. Melia fell to her knees, unable to go on. Amron was nowhere to be seen, his footsteps swallowed by the roar of the fire.
“Help,” she whispered, certain that no one would hear her.
A hand shot out from the darkness and pulled her forward. She stumbled, struggling to get on her feet. She made the mistake of breathing in; it was like swallowing liquid fire.
Someone picked up the rag she’d dropped and pressed it over her nose. “Breathe slowly,” the carevna said.
“Where’s Ferisa?” Melia rasped.
Aratea motioned deeper towards the center of the building. “In the yard, Prince Amron caught up with her.”
Melia crawled forward, but the carevna grabbed her. “Don’t be a fool, we must go back.”
Before Melia could shake her off, the corridor leading to the terrace collapsed behind them in a fiery cloud. No time for anything but pure panic: Melia’s body sprang forward, her legs breaking into a run, her hands grabbing Aratea, pulling her along.
There was no roof to collapse in the courtyard; there had to be some air there.
The arch, filled with light, beckoned at the end of the corridor, the roar of the blaze behind them, the wisps of Melia’s hair flying about her head, catching fire.
She anticipated bursting into flames like a dry twig, or the whole building swallowing her like a massive pyre.
Despite her lifelong closeness with death, every fiber of her body rejected it as she dashed through the unbearable heat.
The carevna ran with her, aiming for the smudge of daylight nearly erased by the black smoke. Holding hands, they leapt out.
The fire, the burning embassy, the stone-paved courtyard, the heat all vanished.
Melia and Aratea landed on the hard, frosty ground.
A windswept, snowy plain stretched to the end of the horizon, where it melted into an indifferent gray sky.
A single dead tree stood a few paces away from them, black branches reaching up in a futile prayer.
Ferisa stood under the tree, as black and barren as its ancient trunk. Her long curls had escaped the braids and coiled around her head in a raven cloud lashed by the wind.
Amron stood before her, his sword unsheathed but pointing down, his gleaming hair the only touch of color in the desolate landscape.
“Throw it down,” Ferisa said, only it wasn’t Ferisa, it wasn’t her voice, it slid into Melia’s head without traveling through the air. “Kneel and I’ll give you what you want.”
“You have no idea what I want,” Amron said.
“Oh, you stupid boy.” The goddess laughed. “I can hear your heart beating the sweet amphibrach of her name: Li-A-na, Li-A-na, Li-A-na.”
“Stop it!”
Morana fell silent but the beat reverberated through the landscape, rattling Melia’s bones. She told herself it didn’t hurt. It didn’t.
“Kneel and you can have her,” the goddess said. “Take her out of my sight and I’ll forget about you for a while.”
“No,” he said.
The goddess stood perfectly still under the tree; only her hair moved in the wind. “You’ve always been a fool, Amron of the House of Amris. A brave fool, but a fool nevertheless.”
Amron stood stubbornly against the wind, and Melia waited for something terrible to happen. Surely, one didn’t refuse the gods and live to tell the story?
“This is not the last time we speak,” Morana said.
He turned his head away in mute rejection. It was a mistake: In a blink, the goddess dissolved, leaving a dark shape in her wake. Ferisa stood where Morana had been a moment before.
Flames exploded all around them.
Ferisa charged at Amron without making a sound. He saw her move: One moment he was standing before her, the other he was a blur of blue and gold, faster than Melia’s eyes could follow. He charged at Ferisa, ramming into her, throwing her off balance. The sword flew out of her hand.
Melia could hear the crack when Ferisa’s head hit the flagstones. The building was collapsing around them. Aratea pulled Melia’s sleeve, but Melia wrenched it back without sparing her a look.
“Amron please,” she screamed, “don’t hurt her.”
Amron grabbed Ferisa’s sword and threw it into the flames. “Run!” he shouted at Melia and Aratea. “What are you staring at?”
The carevna obeyed, dashing across the burning courtyard towards the main entrance, still free of the rubble. But Melia couldn’t follow, not with Ferisa lying there. She ran to her and cradled Ferisa’s head, looking for injuries. Her skull wasn’t broken and she was awake, if stunned.
“Help her get up,” Amron said. “And be quick about it.”
She thought he’d run after Aratea, but he stood there, waiting.
“Come, I’ll help you up,” Melia said softly to Ferisa.
“We must get out.” All the anger and betrayal faded away when old instincts kicked in, the familiar shape of her shoulders in her arms, the scent of her hair, the fire in her dark eyes.
It didn’t matter if the world was burning around them, Melia still owed her this much.
“I’ll convince Amron my father forced you to do this, as he’s forced all of us. Just trust me, please.”
Ferisa got up, nimbler than Melia expected her to be. She pulled Melia close and whispered, “I’m sorry, little raven.” Then she reached for her boot and pulled a stiletto out of a hidden sheath.
Amron was looking towards the exit, head turned away from them. Ferisa tore out of Melia’s arms, running.
“Amron!” Melia screamed.
He turned just as Ferisa reached him. The flash of metal aimed at his torso, the blade in its upward arc. Surely, there was no chance she could miss.
“No!” Melia screamed.
Amron’s hand shot out, grabbing Ferisa’s wrist, breaking the perfect trajectory of the blade, turning it inwards. His body pivoted in a fluid, almost dancing movement, using Ferisa’s momentum to spin her, twist her around, and bury the blade in her chest.