Chapter 38 Onward
ONWARD
CEDRIC
The sun did rise on Dawnspire eventually.
It rose slow and golden, without a care for the fact that the ground below was still soaked in blood.
Cedric stood at the edge of the courtyard, his boots planted in churned dirt, the hem of his cloak stiff with dried gore. Early sunlight glinted off the remains of the shattered sanguinagi weapons, casting red-tinted shadows on the bodies that hadn’t yet been cleared.
The rest of the village had emerged with the breaking rays of dawn, some muttering words of apology or thanks, some working in stone-faced silence. Either way, Cedric did not begrudge their help in carting away the dead bodies. Even after spilling all their own blood, these cultists were heavy.
Cedric sighed as he laid the body in his arms onto the cart stationed on the southern side of the inn, trying not to look at the woman’s face as he did.
He didn’t need to see it again, not when her crestfallen look of surprise as he’d stabbed Ashrender through her heart would linger in his memory for many years to come.
Yes, she’d attacked him. Attacked her. Might have killed them both.
He still did not revel in the number of lives lost in the night. The number of lives he, himself, took. Even if that count ended up lessened by at least one, as he came to find.
After Elyria had delivered her dark justice to the innkeeper last night, Cedric had found the cultists’ pepper-haired leader writhing on the ground in the exact spot where he had left him, muttering nonsensically.
It was as though by piercing his spine, Cedric had inadvertently carved out a piece of his mind as well.
“Audaxus, I presume,” Cedric said, a sneer curling his lip. “Now would be a good time to start talking.”
The man ignored him, his dark blue eyes rolling back in his head, lips moving in broken murmurs. “I told him he was mad . . . never should have used that damn greenie, should’ve left the sanctuary alone . . . I knew they’d come for us . . . come for me . . .”
“Who is they?” Cedric had asked. “What sanctuary?”
The man coughed, blood flecking his lips. He didn’t even seem to register Cedric’s presence.
“They act so peaceful, but they hide so much. Not worth it. Not worth it. Not even for the veil.” His eyes finally locked on Cedric. “Tricky green bastards.”
And with that, his head had lolled to the side and the man succumbed to unconsciousness.
In the present, a melodic laugh drew Cedric’s attention, and he turned a corner to find Elyria at the front steps of the inn, sitting lengthwise on a stair, legs crossed at her ankles.
She picked at a yeast roll, her head turned toward the open doorway, where she was clearly conversing with someone just inside.
Like a reflex, Cedric found his gaze raking over her, searching for signs of the injuries he knew she had long since healed.
He shook his head, partially at himself for the unnecessary concern, and partially at Elyria and her supremely unhelpful position, blocking the inn’s entrance in silent protest.
He supposed there were worse ways she could portray her displeasure. She had been the one in favor of leaving the village to fend for themselves, after all. Said they should clean up their own mess.
Thankfully, everyone else—save for Sephone, who remained unconscious, and both Hargrave and Thibault, who were recovering from their injuries alongside her—had agreed with Cedric’s position that making a hasty retreat was hardly honorable.
As Avery said, it wasn’t as though the entire village was responsible for the attack last night.
It was only right to help clear some of the destruction before they left.
Cedric pursed his lips, his gaze moving past Elyria to the inn doorway, making out the very back of Young Shep’s head as he crouched over the injured trio.
They’d found Thibault just before sunrise, sprawled near the cold cellar, head bleeding, wrist broken.
His memory of what happened after parting ways with Tristan and Hargrave were fuzzy, but Cedric hoped that with rest he would be able to fill in some gaps.
There had been only so much they’d gotten out of the few cultists they found alive, after all.
Especially because they hadn’t remained that way for long.
Save for the pepper-haired man and his mad ramblings, all the other sanguinagi had bled out onto the gravel before being able to say anything much at all.
The problem with wielding your blood as a weapon, Cedric mused. Well, one of the problems.
A soft meow caught Cedric’s attention. Sid prowled toward Elyria, only a slight limp to her gait now, the wisps of dark smoke leaking from her wounded leg dwindling.
Blessedly, it seemed like the injury was healing.
The shadowcat crawled into Elyria’s lap, so large now that she barely fit there, even curled up.
“Stupid creature,” Elyria said with a smile, brushing her fingers through Sid’s fur with long, slow strokes. She broke off a piece from her roll and offered it to the cat, who sniffed at it before lifting her chin with a huff.
“Suit yourself,” Elyria said, popping the piece into her mouth.
Sid licked Elyria’s cheek, and Cedric’s chest felt suddenly tight.
“What does she even eat?” he asked, walking over to the pair.
“Damned if I know. But based on how much she’s grown in the past week, I’d say she’s got no shortage of whatever it is.”
He pursed his lips, taking a knee to pet the lanky shadowcat. “I think you might just be right about that.”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Sir Skeptical?” Elyria grinned. “I’m always right.”
Cedric let out a low laugh. “Any word from Kingshelm?” he asked after a moment.
She frowned. “I’ve sent off a few sparrows.
Nothing with details of exactly what happened last night, in case they’re intercepted.
But to inform Kit that some of us are returning.
I’ve yet to receive a message back, so I don’t know if they’re being received.
Perhaps my magic has finally reached its limit. ”
Sid stretched in Elyria’s lap, large paws kneading one leg in a way that might have been an attempt at reassurance. Then, with rapt fascination, Cedric watched as sharp, shadowy claws emerged and dug into Elyria’s thigh.
“Ow!” Elyria yelped, pulling the cat’s paw from her leg with a jerky motion that led Cedric to believe she was holding back from tossing the creature off entirely.
“I think she was trying to prove a point,” Cedric said, trying his best to smother a laugh. “And I don’t think you need to worry about the limits of your power here. She is proof enough, is she not?”
Sid dipped her chin twice, like she was nodding, and Cedric once again found his head shaking with disbelief.
Elyria’s emerald eyes narrowed, first on him, then on Sid. “Point made.”
Cedric saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He stood, turning to see Jocelyn emerge from around the side of the building, leading Fjaethe and Polonius from the stables.
“All set, Joss?” Elyria called.
Jocelyn nodded. “The village council has oh-so-graciously loaned us a larger wagon.”
Elyria scoffed. “Loaned?”
“Given. For our trouble,” Jocelyn continued, a dark laugh breaking from her lips on the last word.
“I’ve hitched it to a couple of the horses.
There’s more than enough room for Sir Tristan to shepherd our patients—and our prisoner—back to Kingshelm.
” A beat of silence. “Are you sure we shouldn’t all return? ”
Elyria’s head snapped up. “What?”
Jocelyn didn’t flinch. “Three of us are injured. Four, if you count your furry-ish friend, there. Now the two of you want to send Tristan back to the capital while the rest of us forge ahead to Elderglade. But I just . . . I don’t know. I have a strange feeling about it.”
Polonius exhaled and shook his mane. Cedric’s brow furrowed. “What about it is giving you pause? If anything, Audaxus’ ramblings only confirmed our inclination to visit the sylvans. And I was set to leave for Elderglade today anyway. We were always meant to separate.”
He couldn’t keep his gaze from flicking to Elyria, whose jaw ticked as she continued picking at the roll in her hands, little more than a mass of crumbs now.
“The only difference is in the makeup of the parties going in either direction,” he finished.
“Right, but that was before last night. Before we hit a rather massive bump in the road here on our search for Malchior.” Jocelyn swallowed. “I recognize it is not my decision, nor my place to even suggest it, but I think the smart thing would be to head back to Kingshelm and regroup.”
“And here I thought ye relished a challenge, lass,” said Thraigg, who strode out from the inn clutching a small plate in his broad hands, a rasher of bacon piled on top.
Cedric watched with amusement as Elyria pulled her legs in—eyes wide, Sid grumbling—and sat up straight, darting her hand toward the glistening meat.
“Fuck’s sake, Rev. Get yer own,” the dwarf muttered, pivoting so his back was to her as he hopped down the stairs, keeping the plate out of reach.
Elyria stuck out her tongue at the dwarf, then turned to Jocelyn once more. “Last night is nothing if not a confirmation that we are on the right track with Malchior. Why would we turn back now?”
“To live,” Jocelyn answered, matter-of-factly. “This was all one giant trap. Malchior knows about us. Knows about you. And if he—”
“Exactly, we’ve lost too much time already,” Elyria snapped, and Sid bristled, hopping off her lap.
“Who knows how much ‘later’ there will even be after this. The Cult of Malakar is embedded so much deeper in this realm than we could have thought. If Malchior gets to the other half of the crown before us, if he claims its power, there will truly be no stopping him.”
“We’ve been operating a step behind him all this time,” Cedric said. “We need to press on to Elderglade if there is any hope of getting ahead.”
Thraigg grunted in agreement.