Chapter Twenty-Three
I’ve arranged the people you need. Do not be reckless.
Note found in Klement’s room
By the time the servants had cleared away the dishes from a hearty meal of local favorites, Einar felt as if he was slowly losing his mind.
Dinner had been an intimate affair, served in Gwynira’s private study to the handful of them who were left.
With the palace nearly empty of Imperial nobles, she had told the servants to cook whatever pleased them, which had delighted Naia and, amusingly enough, Inga.
She had developed an obsession with tealberries and had kept an entire tray of little tarts to go with her after-dinner cider, which was being served to them in sparkling crystal.
It was all very sedate and normal, and his skin itched from the inside with the overwhelming need to do . . . something. Anything. The Emperor was coming to Rahvekya, and Einar was taking drinks in a library as if it was any other day.
Naia reached out and grasped his hand. “Relax,” she murmured. “I know what the Betrayer feels like. The Stalker, as well. The moment either of them comes near my island, I will know. We will know.”
His agitation must have become noticeable—or Naia simply understood him. He turned his hand to twine her fingers with his, hoping the touch would ground him. “I only wish there was something I could do.”
“That’s the worst part of a situation like this, isn’t it?” Aleksi mused. “People fear the paralyzing shock of a surprise attack. But not many fully appreciate how difficult it can be to sit and watch and wait as your inevitable destiny slowly rolls toward you.”
“At least it gives us time to fully activate our defenses.” Gwynira swirled the wine in her cup. “Arktikos has been hard at work.”
Perhaps he should have insisted on overseeing the final check of their defenses. Having a task might have kept him focused—
No. Because the only thing worse than sitting here amidst cider and tarts would be standing out there, where he didn’t know what was happening to Aleksi and Naia. Until Sorin was dead, it would be a struggle to let them out of his sight.
“The last of the nobles left this morning on the ship heading to South Harbor,” Gwynira continued. “They would have been useless in a fight, and while I can’t say I’m fond of any of them, I don’t hate most of them enough to want to watch them die.”
“And the locals?” Naia asked.
One of the serving girls who had become a particular favorite of Naia’s—Tilly, Einar thought was her name—came to refill Einar’s barely touched glass. Gwynira narrowed her eyes as she watched the girl. “I tried to convince the servants to board the ship as well, but most refused.”
Because they would not leave their goddess . . . or their prince. Einar saw the truth of it in Tilly’s totally unrepentant little smile and the almost defiant curtsy she offered to Gwynira before returning to the table that held the drinks.
Gwynira shook her head before continuing. “But Agata has been visiting the nearest villages with her wife to make sure they are prepared to evacuate, if necessary. It seems even they are unwilling to abandon their king.”
She gave Einar a look, one dark eyebrow lifted in an elegant arch, and he scowled at her. “We are not having a coronation while we wait for the Emperor to attack.”
“Of course not,” she said, somehow making the words sound as if she didn’t agree at all.
Einar was saved by Arktikos’s arrival. Gwynira rose and crossed to meet him at the door, and Isa stepped into the silence, leaning closer to Aleksi. “I never thanked you, did I? For bringing me back.”
Aleksi smiled at her. “If you must thank me, it should be for something I did while in full possession of my faculties. Not a happy accident.”
“No.” The denial was shocking in its vehemence. “That is precisely why I should thank you. Because you did not choose to do it because it was smart or expedient. It was a reflection of your true intentions toward Gwyn.”
After a moment, Aleksi inclined his head. “Then you are welcome.”
“I have something for you.” She gestured, and a young man brought forward a bundle wrapped in gray velvet and tied with ribbons. “They were meant as a farewell gift, but . . . I figure you could use them before then.”
Aleksi took the bundle. Beneath his nimble fingers, the ribbons and velvet yielded, revealing two sturdy scabbards. One was small, containing a dagger, while the other was sized for a sword.
He placed the smaller blade on the table, and began to draw the sword from its housing, only to pause when Isa reached out.
“Careful of the blades,” she warned. “They are like mine—of both the Void and the Dream.”
Aleksi arched one eyebrow and drew the blade several more inches. The folded steel seemed to vibrate, singing and whispering of Creation and Destruction in turn.
It was a precious gift, not only in its rarity but in its intent.
In offering Aleksi these items, Isa was making herself—and, by extension, Gwynira—vulnerable.
She was essentially announcing that she believed that he would only use these weapons as protection, and never, ever turn them against her or her lover.
“I should not accept them,” Aleksi told her quietly.
“No, you must. I will brook no argument.”
“Then it is my turn to thank you.” Aleksi offered her a wide smile, made all the more brilliant because it was genuine. “It is a most generous gift.”
She looked down at her lap, where she had wound her fingers together nervously.
“I feel I have a bit more insight now into how people can be, and that’s because of you and your friends.
And I’m glad. Not for my own sake, you know, but for Gwyn’s.
” When Isa looked up, her eyes were glistening with tears. “I’ve never seen her smile this much.”
For the first time, Einar truly understood that Isa was like Naia—someone who had woken abruptly in a world she did not recognize.
Her life had ended for the first time in a different era, one where Sorin ruled with absolute power and she was trapped in the nightmare of his court.
Happiness must have been a fragile thing in those years, and whatever scraps Gwynira and Isa had managed to steal had been torn away from them when Sorin had found a way to banish Isa to the Endless Void.
Inga set aside her tray of tarts and leaned forward to touch Isa’s arm. “We all know what it is like to be betrayed by Sorin. If you and Gwynira can help us stop him from doing even more harm? That makes you family.”
Isa nodded, the tears spiking her lashes now. “I wondered . . . if there might be a place for us in the Sheltered Lands.”
“Thinking of relocating?” Aleksi asked softly. “I might have heard something to that effect.”
Inga’s eyes brightened, and she clapped her hands together with such force Einar flinched at the sound.
“Oh, come and stay with me. The Witchwood is beautiful in the summer, and my palace has plenty of room for guests. And . . .” Her smile widened.
“I have a full smithy. I would love to see how you craft your blades . . . if you’re willing to show me. ”
Gwynira returned, this time with Arktikos at her side.
“The blockade has been deployed, and soldiers stationed around the villages closest to the palace. Smaller contingents have been sent to the more distant settlements, and evacuation plans are fully in place.” She propped her hands on her hips. “We are as ready as we will ever—”
Naia gasped and bumped the low table as she jolted to her feet. Her water spilled across the red cloth, darkening it until it looked like a pool of blood spreading over the surface.
Aleksi frowned. “Naia—”
They are here. It wasn’t Naia’s voice, wasn’t anyone’s voice. It simply echoed through the hall, a feeling more than a sound, thunderingly loud in its actual silence.
Einar started to reach for her, and the wall exploded.
Instinct took over. Einar lunged, shielding Aleksi and Naia as debris shot through the room. In his demigod form, Einar was large enough to shelter them both—but he did not need to. Chunks of stone stopped a handspan from them and tumbled to the side, as if blocked by an invisible shield.
Of course rocks would not fall on Naia on her island.
Power pulsed through the air, and another crack sounded, as if some giant beast had grabbed a massive handful of the castle wall and flung it inward.
The huge stones that had made up the palace tumbled to the side before they reached where the three of them huddled—but the rest of the room was not so fortunate.
It came to Einar in flashes, in the scant moments before Naia’s firm hands pushed him upward.
Arktikos had thrown himself over Gwynira and Isa, unwavering even as debris rained down on them.
A disheveled Inga popped up from beside them, her gaze fixed across the room.
Moments later she was scrambling to where the small body of the serving girl had landed after the initial blast.
She ducked as a third explosion tore through what was left of the wall, exposing the room to the cool night air. A wind whipped through the room as Aleksi and Naia scrambled to their feet—
“You!”
The primal scream of rage cut through the night like shards of glass.
Einar staggered under the force of it as shadows lurched around them and the room seemed to shudder.
He turned in time to see Isa streaking toward the opening in the wall, shadows punching debris from her path.
Her dangerous knife, the one that writhed with the power of the Dream and the Void, flashed in her fist as she raised her hand.
Magic crackled again. An unseen force swatted her to the side, sending her flying back toward Gwynira with enough force they both tumbled to the floor.
Laughter filled the night, and flames jumped without warning, illuminating the gap in the wall and the man who stood in the center, eyes alight with pure joy.
Sorin. The Emperor. The Betrayer.