Chapter 2
Ileave the rebel’s body where it is and trudge into the valley. As numb as I’ve become to my magic’s vicious sting, it still leaves me feeling like a used dishrag left out in the sun for days. My joints creak, like they’re crusted over in muck, and a dull ache thuds through my head.
Up close, the rebel’s camp is in stark disarray. The tent’s loose flap blows in the breeze, revealing a shredded bedroll and upturned pack, its contents scattered across the ground. It looks like Osian attacked the fugitive while he was inside and grabbed his pack to search for something.
But what? I shake my head and sink to my knees beside Osian’s broken body. My fingers tremble as they hover over him. Seeing him like this twists my chest into knots. It almost feels as if I’ve seen him this way before, but that’s impossible.
“What were you doing here?” I whisper.
His vacant eyes reveal nothing. A long time ago, Osian and I shared everything.
He knew about my necromancy then, of course, but it never bothered him because it had little to no effect on his own life.
It wasn’t until I was assigned to be his Swynwraig—the magic wielder who can channel the Order’s power into him—that he revealed exactly what he thinks of my magic.
Befriending me is one thing. Working with me, it turns out, is quite another.
I place my fingers on his throat. He has no mark, not like the rebels, but it’s still the quickest—and most reliable—way for me to channel my other non-Order magic into him.
“Please don’t hate me for this. I just can’t let you die, Osian” I say, my voice breaking.
I think of his smile, his laugh, and spin through dozens of memories in quick succession.
Each one is like a spark in the darkness, the light I follow when I lose my way inside my broken mind.
I know Osian better than I know myself. He’s the brother I never had. And because of that, I know he’ll live.
“Anadl einioes.”
Another flash of pain shoots through me, harsher this time. It’s too soon after the previous spell. I gasp and press my fingers harder into his throat, willing my magic to flow into him, more permanently than ever before.
Osian trembles. A rush of relief hits me. It worked. He’s here. He’s alive.
I release my hold and sink back on my heels, digging my fingers into the dirt. His chest rises and falls with a deep, gargling breath that shakes his entire body. Suddenly, he sits up with a wild light in his eyes. His golden gaze lands on me.
Realization sweeps across his face.
Then he’s on his feet, his expression contorting into anger.
“No.” He scrapes at his neck, where the fugitive cut him, but the wound has already closed. Only a line of blood remains. “Tell me you didn’t, Angharad. Tell me you didn’t!”
His rough shout echoes through the valley. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I hastily wipe them away before he can see them. I knew he’d be angry. Still, a part of me hoped he’d sweep me into his arms and crush me against his chest, like he used to back at the academy.
Before he decided he reviles what I can do.
“I’m sorry. I had to.” I stand on wobbly legs, desperate to reach for him. But I can tell by the look on his face, that’s the last thing he wants me to do. “How are you feeling?”
He gapes at me incredulously. “How am I feeling? I’m feeling pissed off, Angharad. That’s how I’m feeling. When the Order assigned you to me, I told you I never wanted you to raise me, that I don’t want to have anything to do with that fucked up magic.”
I flinch.
“I couldn’t let you die, Osian.”
Despite my every effort, tears spill down my cheeks again.
The weight of everything that’s happened in the past few hours presses down on me. Tracking Osian across the wild borderlands, finding him dead, killing his murderer, and now this. I feel like I might crumble beneath it all. It’s too much.
Osian’s gaze sweeps over me, then he groans. “Oh, come on, Ang. Please don’t cry. I know why you did it. I just wish you hadn’t. You know how I feel about your magic.” He exhales. “I told you I never wanted you to use it on me.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, looking away.
A long pause follows. “How long do I have, do you reckon?”
“If you were anyone else, I’d say fifteen minutes. Half an hour, if you’re lucky. But…”
“But what?”
The ache in my throat makes it hard to speak. “I’ve only ever brought back strangers. You’re different. I know you better than I know myself.”
His gaze hardens. “You think I’ll be like this for a long time.”
A flash of irritation pushes the sting of his reaction aside. “I just saved your life. Most people would be glad of that.”
“I’m not alive, and you know it.”
I sweep my gaze across his face. From the strong curve of his jaw to the curl of his blond hair across his brow, to the golden glint in his eyes. Nothing is different from the thousands of other times I’ve seen him. He’s as beautiful as ever.
“You look pretty damn alive to me,” I say.
He sighs, his hands hanging heavily by his sides. “Admittedly, I don’t feel like the walking dead.”
“The others often mention a tingling in their limbs, especially their fingers.”
“None of that. Yet.”
“That’s a good sign,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Except I don’t want to be stuck like this.”
“Hmm.” I clench my teeth against a sudden wave of dizziness.
Osian takes my shoulder, holding me still. But he keeps me at arm’s length, and there’s a hardness in his eyes I don’t like.
“How many memories did your magic take from you this time?”
“I don’t know,” I answer in a rasp, the ache between my eyes sharpening. “I never do.”
He nods, his gaze moving over the camp like he’s suddenly remembered where we are and why. “What happened to the rebel?”
“He ran off when he spotted me. Apparently word has gotten out about my magic.”
Osian frowns but says nothing. Instead, he stalks into the rebel tent, pokes through the mess, and pockets something too quickly for me to make out what it is.
My vision grows dark at the edges, and the wind begins to sound like the discordant tolling of a bell from the land of the dead. Screams fill my mind.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard them, and it only happens after I push myself too far. Sometimes, I think I really am hearing the dead. They’re angry at me for what I do.
They know the wicked truth of my magic. I can do far more than raise the dead.
My knees buckle, and I hit the ground. Dew-stained grass brushes against my face, cold compared to the heat burning through me.
Then darkness fills my vision until it’s the only thing I know.
I wake in my soft bed in Caer Draen, the familiar scent of the sea drifting through the cracks in the aged windows.
The sound of seagulls fills the air, and a bell chimes in the distance.
This one does not sound like doom, and the screams of the dead have quieted in my mind.
I breathe in and let it all wash over me.
Home.
But then memories of the night before crash into me, shattering my brief peace. I clench my teeth, hating the way my heart twists, like a fist has suddenly squeezed the life from it. Last night I killed someone. And I resurrected Osian.
I release a shuddering breath and force my eyes open. If I’m here, that means he survived long enough to get us back to the city. I was unconscious. I wouldn’t have made it to my bed without him.
A folded note rests on my bedside table. I lift it to my eyes, angling it to catch the pale light slanting through the window.
Dearest Angharad,
Welcome back. We are pleased to hear of your success in resurrecting Osian in a more permanent manner, although we understand what a toll this powerful magic must have taken on you.
Once you have recovered, please come see us in the study, where we will be working all day. We have much to discuss with you.
May the stars never be forgotten,
High Swynwragedd Seren and Lowri
I sigh and crumple the paper in my fist. I don’t mind being summoned, and I expected it, but I hoped the note came from Osian, not the High Swynwragedd. Their words suggest he’s still alive, but I can’t be certain.
Quickly, I wash my face and dress in a clean pair of plain brown trousers.
Over them, I pull on a long tunic the color of the rolling hills, ending mid-thigh.
A fitted bodice comes next, the collar threaded with fine golden swirls that catch the light when I move.
I throw my Order cloak over the ensemble and clasp the front with the star emblem all Order members wear.
We may have lost our stars, but they will never be forgotten.
The corridor outside my room is empty. Gray light filters through the windows, and the bell tolls twice, alerting the city that it’s nearing midday.
Most Order members are busy with their assigned tasks, or out on missions that take them far from these halls.
I hurry down the long stretch of carpet toward Osian’s room.
The most important Order members are housed in the expansive South Wing, one of the four gilded stories.
Osian and I were lucky enough to be assigned to the same floor.
Well, I think it’s lucky. Osian might not agree.
His door sits second to last at the end of the hall. I knock, and the sound echoes in the silence. I let several moments pass before trying again. Clearly, he’s not there. That or he knows it’s me, and he’s avoiding me.
Sighing, I drift back down the hall, passing gold-framed portraits of High Swynwragedd and Rhyfelwyr of the past. The Order has served for several hundred hundred years, since the stars fell and our gods died, an event that threatened the very fabric of our existence.
At the grand staircase, I pass a group of Rhyfelwyr dressed in battle leathers.
Their cheerful chatter suggests they’re returning from a morning in the training yard rather than a mission against the growing rebel threat.
They scarcely glance my way. Most never do.
Rhyfelwyr rarely mingle with us Swynwragedd unless absolutely necessary.
They especially avoid me. Having magic rooted in death seems to carry the same stigma as walking around covered in shit.
No one wants to get near it, and risk me rubbing it off on them.
As promised, Seren and Lowri are tucked inside the study, their spines curved as they lean over the worktable, poring over a stack of documents. Neither elven leader hears me enter, even when the click of the door echoes through the lofted space.
The study serves as their personal library.
Despite its modest size, they’ve managed to wedge in four towering bookshelves overflowing with books and scrolls.
More stacks litter every exposed surface, and the one bare wall has been papered over with an enormous map depicting the entire continent, including the two warring kingdoms, the borderlands, and the rebel lands.
A narrow strip of sea leads to the human islands—or what remains of them. Someone has drawn a question mark beside each. Something lives on those islands, but we don’t know what. Every scouting party we’ve sent to investigate has never returned.
I clear my throat.
Seren’s head snaps up. Her glossy hair falls in perfect waves around her delicate shoulders, only the pale tips of her ears breaking through the rich amber.
Like most elves, her eyes match the color of her hair, and when she focuses them on you, it feels as though flames might leap from her gaze and burn you to ash.
Lowri is no less imposing. She wears her wavy black hair to her waist, where a belt holds seven tiny daggers.
I’ve never seen her without them. Rumors claim she has a better aim than most of the Rhyfelwyr.
Her dark pupils nearly consume the whites of her eyes, an unsettling mirror of the night sky.
She earned her position as a High Swynwraig through sheer cunning and furtive violence, though no one has ever proven she orchestrated the poisonings of her rivals.
Some say we could be twins, but I don’t see it. She’s far more arresting than I could ever hope to be.
“Sit.” She points at the only vacant chair, caged between them.
I cross the room, carefully stepping over piles of books. When I ease into the chair, they turn toward me in unison, like they’re one person split in two. I’ve been here many times, having been welcomed into their inner circle years ago, but they’ve never looked at me like this.
Like I’m an insect to be studied.
I clear my throat. “Osian, is he all right?”
Seren drums her long fingernails against the wood. “This isn’t about Osian.”
Surprise flutters through my belly, edged with fear. “Please don’t tell me he didn’t make it.”
“He made it,” Lowri replies, her voice as cold as the bitter winds of the north. “But his target did not.” She lifts a brow. “It seems you’ve been keeping something from us, Angharad. When were you going to tell us you can kill by touch?”