Chapter 62
Elsedora
“They rose from the crypts!” Prince Regon spat blood into the snow at the guards’ boots—not insultingly, but of necessity. “I swear it!”
He was pleading with the men, and I wondered what we’d missed.
Terrible gashes ran along the right side of his face; he’d been cut to ribbons. It looked as though the Lynx had mauled him. Though by all accounts, he’d shown up that way.
Said vicious creatures growled low at the intruder, but Emmerick raised a hand and said, “Shoo!” The giant felines obediently slinked away, chattering.
When Regon’s gaze landed on us, his knees hit the blood-marred slush. “King Mattock, please.”
He fought collapse—too much blood had been lost.
“They were monsters from our worst nightmares. My father is dead. Algarnd lies in rubble. Our people fled to the countryside, but it’s futile. Please. I beg you. Send help.”
Making an armed move into the West Corridor could spell war if what he said wasn’t true. Regon had never played Haag’s games before, but I had to be certain.
I leaned down, narrowing my stare and tilting the young Prince’s head to the side to assess his wounds. Regon’s lids were hooded as he held precariously onto consciousness. We could not be too careful with the West Corridor rulers.
I hummed. “If what you say is true, how did you get here?” There were no Egresses in the West. Bringham had long held to his stance against them.
The iron cart on the pulley system used to raise visitors up to the castle still swayed. He’d come from below. “I was with him,” a male voice barked. Hurley rounded the castle, seeming on a mission. “Sources. I was looking for you.”
A wound cut deep across my nephew’s torso, though not so deep as the Prince’s. With wide eyes, I hurried to him. “What happened?”
“They were Moirai... I remember their ghastly faces from that arena as a boy,” Hurley huffed out.
“We fought through as many as we could. I’d built a secret Egress to visit Regon, but had to ward it for fear of letting any of the dead through.
The effort of fighting them drained my Source magic.
I could only heal him enough to get him up here. ”
Hurley’s face grew a few shades paler as he knelt and lifted Regon with one of his shoulders, back to his feet.
Fuck.
We needed to warn the rest of the realm. We needed to act quickly. The Moirai would come for us next.
“How?” I knew he wouldn’t know, but my shock made my boots feel frozen to the mountain grasses.
Moirai... We were dealing with the Death Origin’s creations. Again. But Caym was not even awake. It shouldn’t have been possible.
Hurley had been a boy when Moirai nearly leveled Sahlmsara—they had trapped him in the arena with the rest of us.
I’d thought I’d lost everything then.
Now, at the cusp of reclaiming something good for myself, I faced a new grim fate.
Emmerick turned to his guards, ordering them, “One of you, Egress to Luz. Tell King Darvanda and Queen Wymark that the West Corridor is under attack. The others, tell our Constable to ready our arms for battle and lead them west. Send flyers out to scout where the threat is coming from.”
His commands held my attention rapt—the steady-handed former Constable, preparing for war. I didn’t wish this on him so soon after he’d begun to warm to the idea of ruling.
Emmerick whistled to the Lynx. “Follow the guards,” he ordered them.
Regon leaned his weight into Hurley. “I need to get him inside and stanch the bleeding,” he blurted out, with shaking hands.
As I helped Hurley support the Prince’s weight, my jaw slackened and my hopes plummeted. We were so fucked.
“My father,” Regon gasped; blood rushed from his cheek.
The wounds didn’t stop at his face. They traveled down his torso too.
The dead had tried to tear him apart. “I think my father released them somehow. He has been acting so strangely. He knew this was coming. He sent all our troops away.” His voice grew weak and his eyelids heavier.
Hurley patted the Prince’s good cheek. “Regon—love, stay awake. Stay with us.”
The Prince lost consciousness, and we held him upright. “Supplies? Apothecary?” Hurley asked Emmerick.
Em stiffened, and I sprang into action. I knew this castle, and I knew this land—I’d be by his side to protect it.
“Help Hurley carry him, and follow me,” I said, realizing that Em might not know where the healer’s ward was. He took my place and aided Hurley in carrying Regon inside.
“What happened back there?” I asked Hurley, who strained to lift the Prince over the entry threshold. Regon was limp now, feet dragging across the onyx marble.
“As Reg said, the Moirai rose from crypts all over the city. Thousands.” He huffed as we hurried down the hall.
“Which direction are they headed?”
“When we got out of there, they were destroying the city,” Hurley answered. “Most civilians who were lucky enough to escape fled south. But the Moirai headed east. It was a massacre, Aunt El… worse than when they ran through Sahlmsara.”
Shit.
Emmerick and I met each other’s gaze over my shoulder. They would hit the smaller townships first—Kruthin, Kullworth. Belray.
We entered the healer’s quarters; I couldn’t leave the poor boy like this—as much as I ached to head to Luz.
I rummaged hastily through the shelves to find vinegar as they set the young Prince down on the table. The healer was out, and we didn’t have time to waste.
I could hear the musicality of my mother’s Brennac instructions guiding my hands as a girl when injured Source-wielders had shown up at our doorstep.
“Pour this over his wounds first—it’ll help prevent infection,” I said and handed the bottle to Hurley.
With shaking hands, he did as I’d told him. Regon groaned in his sleep, eliciting a wince from my nephew; his tender heart had a lot of explaining to do but not now.
I waved Emmerick closer. “Use the same charm you used on my burn this morning, only focus it deeper. Work on his torso and I’ll handle his head.”
Emmerick nodded before gold flared in his palms.
“Thank you, thank you.” Hurley hunched over the table. His head rested on Regon’s unmarred shoulder.
My nephew had both the softest nature and strongest resolve. I reached over and tipped up his chin. “Dear, let us work. Gather bandaging, a few rolls, and some ointment. We won't be able to close the wounds entirely.”
Hurley’s eyes welled up, but he scurried off to a cabinet to rummage for what we needed.
I summoned the Wind to my palms—invisible and unruly, but effective. Emmerick and I got to work on stanching the bleeding. My first charm barely repaired the ligaments in Regon’s cheek. I started again, focused deeper, and finally the bleeding ceased.
Emmerick struggled with the boy’s torso; his brow furrowed with concentration.
Regon had lost so much blood. I crossed the room to the shelves to find healing tonics and palmed a green vial. “Prop him up,” I instructed.
Emmerick lifted the Prince, and I carefully poured the tonic into his mouth, holding his chin. Regon gurgled for a moment before his reflex to swallow kicked in.
To my relief, the Prince’s breathing began to even out.
After we bandaged Regon, I finally assessed Hurley. “You should drink a vial too. It’ll help heal those.” I pointed at his tattered torso, and he nodded. “Dress the wound and put on ointment. He’ll need to stay here and rest. He should wake, but it may take some time.”
“How did you know what to do?” my nephew breathed out, slumping against the wall.
I offered him a sad smile. “Before Source-wielders were exiled to the Sahlms, refugees came to Lamoreaux, fleeing Phynnic persecution. Most of them arrived like this. I helped my mother treat them—though then, I was only on bandaging duty, since I didn’t think myself capable of Source magic. She taught me what to do.”
Emmerick’s gaze bore into me, his expression unreadable. I didn’t enjoy talking much about those times.
I’d driven a clear wedge between before and after my exile to the Sahlms. Slowing down enough to think about before only heightened the sense of loss that had plagued my early years as an immortal.
“We need to get to Luz,” Emmerick urged.
Despite my mounting panic, there was a warmth to the word “we.” A promise that, this time, I wouldn’t face the horrors alone.