Chapter Forty-One
The following morning, after Moranya’s ritual to draw enough power from the mirror to sustain the realm in its absence, she reminds me of all the consequences should I fail to bring it home.
The waiting left me wanting to jump out of my own skin. Every second that passed could mean more death at my father’s hands.
Finally, when Moranya reluctantly hands me the mirror, I feel the hum of energy within it, like the vibration of a faraway storm.
Except the longer I hold on to it, the more I feel it holding me in turn, like a hand wrapping around my own.
But quickly, Moranya paces to me with a cloth satchel.
“You will only use it when you must. Promise.”
“I vow to be careful,” I tell her, wrapping the mirror in the cloth and tucking it inside the satchel. “And I will only use the mirror as we agreed.”
I can only hope I’m not too late.
The moment I step through the portal, I sense the proximity to battle in the air as if smelling smoke. I feel death as if it’s a tangible thing.
The scent of copper cuts through the sands of Razam like a blade.
As for me, it seems as though I’m in the ruins of an old tower, having stepped through an old window. Moranya’s portal. The tower is in a small forest clearing, and not far away both Miridranian and Razami tents are scattered between the trees and a set of hills overlooking the beach.
Past those, the battle rages.
As I draw nearer to the tents, metal clashes. I hear shouting in the distance, the clanking of weapons, and through the gaps between trees, I even get a glimpse of the chaos swirling before the shoreline.
I rush through the camp, past the medical tents. The sight of the wounded soldiers—so many of them—makes my stomach churn. I imagine the souls unstitching from their mortal tether, restless and discomfited with nowhere to go.
Another consequence of my borrowing the mirror, Moranya told me.
Without her using the mirror’s power to usher the souls into her lair, souls would float near their bodies, eventually fading away the way they used to.
Yet another reason I must return the mirror before the deadline—so that she can save them before they vanish altogether.
The final consequence: She would not have the mirror’s power to return Anton to life should he perish in battle.
I have to be fast.
I release a breath when I locate what must be a makeshift armory, finding Queen Sadira bedecked in shining plates of gold and thick onyx cloth alongside Prince Mantrin and Prince Veer, two of Sundar’s brothers.
“Your Grace,” I breathe. She turns, her dark stare narrows until she recognizes me. A few steps brings her to me, her gaze hard and otherwise impassive. It’s why I don’t expect it when she pulls me to her in a brief, stiff hug.
Before I can hug her back, she holds me at arm’s length. “Vastianna—”
I rush out the quickest version of the story I can: The bargain I made. What I can now wield. That she must let me—before it’s too late.
“And the consequences of all of this? For you?” Sadira asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. She cares, I realize. Not just for her country, for Anton.
She cares for me.
I swallow, thinking of the seductive nature of it. “I don’t know yet. But Your Grace, Sundar—”
She lifts her chin in pride. “My son is a hero.”
I hesitate, then decide against telling her about my and Sundar’s time together in Moranya’s Realm. I want to reassure her that I hope to save him, that I’ll try my damndest, but it’s a promise I am still not certain I can keep. I can’t break her heart all over again.
Sadira cups a hand on my cheek, smiling a little, even as a tear glosses her eyes. Then, without another word, she instructs Mantrin, who is built much like Sundar, to round up more fighters. “The battle is fierce, Vastianna. We will escort you safely.”
Gratitude swells within me. I have the mirror, yes, but I must use it sparingly. Not just to protect against the seduction of such power, but to prevent more death. Because I’m going to aim it at the one man who set us all on this path.
I am going to sever my father’s soul.
As for his men—surely some think they are merely taking revenge on the country that killed their king rather than fighting on behalf of his murderer. With my father’s death, I am hoping they will surrender.
All in all, the queen gathers twenty soldiers, all hooded and armored, strapped with weapons I don’t recognize.
But to see her steels my resolve, even more so as the queen herself is fitted into more armor, including a chain-mail hood draped with a thick black fabric overtop, her crown a simple gold circlet that arcs over her brows.
And for once, with her leading the charge, I allow myself a little more hope.
Thousands are locked in battle, the tide trailing blood into the sea. The sheer number my father brought is on a scale I never imagined, and worse still are the ships on the horizon. Another fleet—incoming fast. My stomach drops when I see just how many.
Multitudes of corpses litter the sand. Even without holding the mirror directly, I can almost feel every hovering soul as I pass—and more so as we make our way through the outskirts of the fighting, with Sadira’s soldiers fending off anyone who turns our way.
It isn’t long before we draw attention. A surge of soldiers pushes into us, slamming their swords against the Razami shields.
They are no match for the princes, at least, and yet I still see blades drag across flesh, blood welling from sliced skin.
Mantrin shoves me back with the queen, who has her own shield.
It’s the first time I see the faces of my father’s men.
Or boys, rather. Because the one fighting Mantrin can’t be older than fifteen, his eyes wide. I watch in horror as a stray arrow plunges into his chest, and the fear and shock on his face, the blood that escapes his lips…I vomit onto my feet.
The clash carries on for several minutes. Meanwhile, the queen expertly dodges anyone who makes it past Mantrin. The sound of cannon fire blasting from the beach launches my pulse into an erratic beat.
I watch as solider after soldier is killed, their lives cut short.
I feel their souls hovering, uncollected.
Then the sound of a horn wrenches my attention away.
My gaze latches on to a figure high on a black horse, there across the beach on a raised ridge before the Brisendali camp, where a small, rocky cliff juts toward the sea.
He wears a silver helm that peaks toward the back, a talon branching down across his brow and nose.
Gaps allow his gaze to spear across the field, and his armored hand clutches what looks like a pole arm.
I realize, upon squinting, that it’s a battle standard with the new Brisendali flag near the top—altered now to include his crest.
My father thrusts the standard high, then waves it eastward. Hordes of men rush over the sands and batter into the Razami line from the north—reinforcements that must have just arrived. Fear swirls in my stomach.
At least he doesn’t know who is coming for him.
The strategy, Sadira had told me, was for her to send the majority of her men toward his many ships docked along the beach—launching cannons, setting them aflame—to force Maksim’s troops to defend his supplies.
Meanwhile, Anton has taken a select group behind the cliffs with him to attack Maksim directly from the rear.
His goal is the same as mine: rid the world of such a demon in the hopes of halting the fight. Except if anyone notices their approach and signals an alarm, Anton will fail.
I have to reach my father before they do.
A projectile sings through the air, arcing down to the battlefield. Ten—no twenty—Razami soldiers hit the ground, even more following. My heart leaps into my throat, my gaze following the direction they are being shot from.
At first, I see nothing. Across the beach to the west is a forest that creeps overtop the jagged rocks overlooking the waves. The forest is providing coverage for the giant ballistae within. I pale. It must be a trap my father set, perhaps overnight.
There is no one to combat them.
When Crowns divide, and nations collide,
Blood will run, high as tides.
Again and again the Brisendali archers shoot, arrows lodging themselves into the thick of the fight, some lit with flames.
Mantrin breaks from our group and snatches one that still blazes, firing it back into the trees.
A body falls from a bough. Even so, more streaks of fire tear across the beach.
I watch in horror as soldier after soldier falls, Razami and Brisendali alike.
The arrows have no preference. Their only goal is to slaughter as many men as quickly as possible.
So much pointless death. Screams rip through my ears.
I grasp for the mirror wrapped within my satchel. I had vowed not to use it like this, but I can’t—won’t—let this happen. Can’t witness endless death. I have to do something—
Queen Sadira stays my hand.
“Not yet,” she says, then orders two of her men to gather a troop to attack the archers, but they won’t make it into the forest without being shot.
“It’s going to be a massacre,” I rasp. But then she directs my gaze toward the beach.
“Look, Vasalie.”
The ships I saw on the horizon have now arrived onshore. Except…the soldiers that emerge aren’t wearing the same armor. They fly the Brisendali flag, yes, but not the new one, altered with my father’s seal.
This is the old flag.
These are not my father’s soldiers.
A sweep of them rush the first ballista, clashing with the men there. Another ship slides up onto the beach and even more fighters emerge, this time followed by a small figure bearing King Rurik’s battle standard.
Sofya. She must have rallied the Brisendali council to her side. Convinced them to send reserves to fight for her—or rather, against my father.
Relief swells, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. The Razami soldiers guide us through another barrage of attacks, and all the while we step over limbs, weapons. Entire corpses.
So much death. I imagine the many souls stretching toward the mirror like withering flowers craving a last chance at warmth—
My attention is then wrenched away, like a knife slashed across my vision. It takes me a moment to realize what I am seeing—the glint of the sun, the shine of a glass sword.
At the sight of Anton, I am nearly brought to my knees.
He’s bedecked in pads of leather and plates of glass and steel, save for his face, salted sea wind fluttering the dark waves of his hair. But it’s his eyes that weaken my knees. They are fierce and bright and clear.
His spark has returned.
He is fully himself.
He treads fearlessly alongside Basile through a small clash of soldiers around the edge of the rocks beneath where my father sits tall on his horse, his focus in the opposite direction. He yells orders, and all the while, Anton makes his way toward him.
But my father is protected by his best soldiers, and the moment he spots Anton, he’ll call even more—because he himself is too much of a coward to face anyone head-on.
Already I watch as one notices him. “Over there!”
I can wait no longer. Mantrin, who looks so much like Sundar in this moment, sees what I do and nods. “I will cover you. Go.”
We aren’t far; we merely have to make it to the rocks several paces away. But there are so many between us and my father.
I unsheathe the mirror, clutching it in my palm.
The rush is dizzying, disorienting.
And then I see them.
Countless souls drift in the air like dandelion fluff, waiting for somewhere to go.
It feels like thousands of strings tugging on me at once, as if drawn to the mirror’s power.
Even as I move, they grasp for me, hands idly stretching out like moths drawn to light.
I ward off the guilt, though, and tell myself that the faster I move, the faster we finish this, the sooner Moranya can guide them to her lair.
I force myself to see beyond them. To focus, just as I did before.
A soldier comes into my line of sight, slashing at Mantrin. His eyes are wild, full of vicious, rage-filled hate. Mantrin blocks his first blow, but he’s knocked from behind, his knees hitting the dirt. The soldier slashes his sword.
With half a thought, I channel the mirror’s power—
And tear his soul from his body. A thin, translucent version of him torn from his physical self, disintegrating midair in a cloud of black.
His corpse topples to the ground.
I expect to be horrified. Instead it’s exhilarating.
It feels like freedom, this power. Like the justice I’ve craved for years, here at my fingertips. Every ounce of rage I’ve kept buried rushes forth, rage fostered over the years for my father, Illian, for men who prey and kill. Desire for vengeance, for setting the world to rights…
Anger burns through me as another soldier lifts a sword near us. I yank his soul free, then another.
A clench of my fist, and both souls disintegrate midair like mist.
A breath hisses from my lips.
I did that. I didn’t just kill them; I evaporated their very souls.
The Sands. That power, too, is mine.
Fear undulates beneath my skin at the enormity of it. Dimly, I remember my vow. I won’t abuse this power. I won’t let it overtake me, seductive as it is.
With shaking hands, I grasp the satchel, ready to put the mirror away. But then more attack, figures clashing and warping and blending into one another. Someone screams.
Mantrin.
Blood wells from his arm, a crimson, oozing gash that slashes up and across his shoulder. He falls backward, slamming into the ground. The soldier poses his sword above his heart, aiming for a killing blow. “Your queen is next,” he shouts.
Fury lights behind my gaze, and my vision turns red.