18. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Archer
The female’s sobs of grief rang in my ears long after Cliff turned our carriage back toward Rainsong.
I’d used my magic on her to calm her a little, after she’d watched me sever her beloved’s head from his body.
She’d needed that influence to stop screaming, to stop fighting, to stop trying to go to him.
“He’s gone,” the female Isoria had saved, the one who called herself Cassia, had murmured gently. She’d held her distraught companion as she cried and then, after I’d used my magic, she’d escorted her back into town.
The only other survivor, a male with horror and sorrow lingering in his eyes, had dipped into a bow and offered his gratitude in a rough voice, one that matched his haggard appearance. “If there’s anything we can do to be of service…”
I shook my head quickly. “It is the crown’s responsibility to protect you. Please, burn your dead immediately, and warn nearby villages as well. If there’s anything you ever need again, do not hesitate to send word. Our number is small, but we will fight with you.”
Now, I leaned listlessly against the carriage side, watching the golden sunlight that streamed through the window paint the death-lover’s face.
She remained unconscious, her chest rising and falling gently, her pulse a steady thrum.
As her supposed fiancé, I’d carried her back to the carriage and now cradled her in my arms like I cared.
It felt like an abomination, like betraying a part of myself to hold her and notice the softness of her body or the elegant curve of her upper lip.
You’ve been staring at her too long, trying to look lovelorn.
Disgusted, I dragged my gaze to the window instead, noticing how near we’d drawn to the capital.
Across from me, Owen was solemn, frowning into the distance as if replaying the successes and failures of our battle. Lily was uncharacteristically quiet, now that she was no longer fretting over Isoria’s state. She looked haunted, like she too could still hear the bereaved female’s sobs.
The death-lover stirred, making me tense. Her eyes flew open, meeting mine and widening in horror.
We’re not alone, I thought firmly, hoping she was coherent enough to understand my meaning swiftly enough not to give us away. Pretend this isn’t disgusting.
She didn’t respond, which concerned me for a moment, until she smiled dreamily and leaned into my chest. “You saved me.” As if the words brought back the memories of the fight in full force, her complexion drained of color and she sat up. “The male…he—he died and became a revenant.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond.
Her body trembled.
Unexpectedly, a pang of sorrow shot through me—not just for the male or the female he’d left behind, but also for this healer who carried the guilt of not saving his life. Who had drained herself completely to help my people that she’d passed out.
She’s a fire demon, I reminded myself stubbornly. Manipulative. Hateful. She’d rather burn all of Emberglade and everyone in it than save them.
But that wasn’t what she’d shown me in her actions. She could have healed only because she felt like she had to in order to conceal her identity and protect her life. She could have given up much sooner. And yet, she hadn’t. She’d poured every bit of her power into trying to save that male.
Like she’d cared.
She’s doing it to trick you into letting down your guard and trusting her. She has to be.
“You did everything you could,” Lily interjected, gently but confidently. “You were completely drained. And he was gravely wounded. It would have been difficult for a fully rested healer to save him, let alone one who’d just healed someone else and survived the revenants’ shadows.”
“And yet, it wasn’t enough,” Isoria said faintly, staring at her hands. “I should have done more. What if I could have sent a revenant on with my healing? We couldn’t test that, because I was too weak.”
“Not weak,” I said, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her into my side the way I assumed a doting fiancé would.
It made me annoyingly aware of the warmth and softness of her body.
“You were impressive, and you kept fighting long after other healers would have completely drained themselves and lost consciousness.”
She shook her head, unconvinced. When I turned to her, there were tears swimming in her eyes.
It sent a twinge of discomfort and confusion that rippled through my entire being—one I’d tried to ignore up till now.
The memory of her desperately working over the dying male was still vivid in my mind.
Maybe she did care. But did compassion for fae mean she cared about Emberglade itself?
That she wasn’t like the other phoenix shifters who longed to see us burn to ash?
Lily reached a hand across the carriage, clasping Isoria’s firmly and grounding her enough that the phoenix shifter shook off her pain and wiped away her tears. “You were magnificent,” Lily said firmly. “You saved Cassia’s life. You poured everything you had left into that male.”
“It was impressive,” Owen agreed. “Archer was right to hope maybe you could heal a revenant, somehow. If anyone could, it would be you.”
Misgiving prickled through me. Earlier, I hadn’t really worried too much about the possibility of Isoria getting hurt, as long as she wasn’t killed.
Now, after seeing her work, that seemed heartless of me.
Enemy or not, I wasn’t the sort of person to throw someone into harm’s way, was I?
And could I really expect a healer to work over a revenant that would be actively fighting to kill her?
“If she could have, she would have saved that male and kept him from becoming a revenant,” I admitted sadly.
“I was…overly zealous and hopeful, earlier. I certainly don’t want to have her try it again, not after all she went through and the risk it takes, given how close she has to be to heal. ”
Lily let out a breath, as if she’d been thinking like me and worrying for Isoria. “If only she could stop the revenants that way. Beheading is much more gruesome,” she joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“You’re the daughter of Emberglade’s general; shouldn’t you be immune to gruesome?” Owen asked, a rare teasing hint to his tone.
She rolled her eyes.
I settled back in my seat, trying to put distance between Isoria and myself.
Cliff was careful to find a part along the border where there weren’t any posted guards.
The jaguars would have been able to cross even without my presence, as they were animals, not the fae or fae-like creatures that the barrier was designed to block.
For a few moments after the pair stepped over the border, the carriage met resistance, pressing against an invisible obstacle.
But once the barrier detected my presence, it released its magic as if swinging open an invisible gate, permitting everyone occupying the carriage to enter Rainsong.
As we rolled through the streets, I studied the waking city.
Citizens were opening their shops, watering plants in their windowsills, or sipping coffee on balconies overlooking the main streets.
Anyone who saw us and the royal crest decorating the carriage doors bowed or curtsied, even if most never caught a glimpse of me through the window, though I noticed the careful distance they always gave Gorgeous and Fluffy.
Sometimes, I wondered if Cliff had given them such ridiculous names to try to make everyone else less afraid.
My use of magic in Blackshore was already weighing on me, Mortius’ curse returning with a vengeance. I ached to cloister myself in my room with a bottle of wine.
My despair felt like a yawning chasm of emptiness whose precipice I teetered upon daily, never quite falling in but never able to fully escape, either.
For such a hollow sensation, it also bore weight, the kind that rested in my bones, my blood, and my soul.
It made everything too heavy and too meaningless all at once.
Hopeless. I swallowed the urge to groan and leaned back against my seat, shutting my eyes to the world. I hated to see my people going about their mundane tasks, enjoying lives in the sunshine. And yet, I loathed myself just as much.
Thankfully, everyone else in the carriage was weary and unsettled, and no one pressed for conversation the rest of the way back to the castle.
Once Cliff pulled the carriage into the main courtyard, I descended with my friends and the death-lover, a wide, stupid grin plastered on my face as if we had been out partying the evening away in the city.
Our clothes were suspiciously dirty, but Owen had used his water magic to clean away any blood before we’d reentered the carriage, so that could be reasoned away.
Any exhaustion or pain would seem like sleep-deprivation and the beginning of some intense hangovers.
No one ever questioned us when we returned in the royal carriage and sauntered through the halls. I charmed every servant and guard we passed with my brilliant, false smile. They thought I was fun and entertaining, vain and empty, ridiculous and frivolous.
They’d never guess I was sneaking out to disobey my father’s orders—they probably imagined I’d been relieved when he’d pulled all his forces back into the capital.
Not meant to be a soldier, I’d overheard some nobles mutter about me, as if they’d ever seen a day of battle in their lives.
But they didn’t really judge me for it, not when they were pleased to be in the protected capital, enjoying the revels and pleasures of life as much as me.
Instead, they talked about what an entertaining reign I would have when I took the crown, what magnificent parties we would have.
They looked forward to the idea of excess without any truly important political matters to concern themselves with.
I swallowed back my disgust and loathing. Of them. Of myself. Of the stunning, confusing female at my side.
When we reached my quarters, I bid Owen and Lily a good day, and, without waiting for the fire demon to join me, threw open the door and vanished into the haven within.
Maybe, the god of death would finally be willing to answer me again.