Chapter 69
Emmerick
Icupped Amara’s cheek and said, “If we succeed, my hope is the stone will allow Lark and Dritan to wake.”
The tears she shed for me spilled over my hand.
“What of you?” she asked, shaking her head.
“Bring Elsedora. She’ll wake me.” I offered my mother a weak smile.
The glimmer of hope that told me I’d see my wildflower, my truest of heart, again made my chest swell.
But it did not matter whether I woke. If Lark could run that blade through the Death Origin’s heart and get Dritan out of there, then we would have succeeded. The Moirai would fall, the realms would be safe. El would be safe.
Darkness loomed, the blackening moon casting sickening shadows through the windows.
Amara stilled for a moment before understanding settled over her features. We didn’t discuss what happened if we failed—the dreary weight of the possibility already hung in the air.
Instead, she beamed at me and whispered, “I wish I could have shown you my love every day. But if I did it all again, I would change nothing. I am so proud of the man you’ve become. Corric would have been too.”
“We’ll have more time.”
A foolish promise.
I forced myself to focus on the Origins’ instructions as Amara commanded the Egress, “To Kruthin.” She would travel to tell the others our intended plan.
The Sources had us lay face up on the tile beside the table. Hating this bargain, I took Lark’s trembling hand. I wouldn’t let her fail—I’d given El my word to see her out of this.
“The relics and the stone will travel with you; do not lose them in Death’s domain,” Lira instructed. “Your bodies will reject the in-between if there for too long, so make haste. Princess, put on your carcanet. It allows you to keep your Reverist abilities beyond consciousness.”
With the sword sheathed at Lark’s side and the carcanet fastened around her neck, Astros looked down at us and asked, “You are certain you know the way to Caym?”
“Yes,” I gritted out. I’d been in that void with him often.
Swallowing hard, I awaited the Sethe curse. This time, as the Origins recited the verses in a language I did not recognize, I thought of all the torment Caym had caused us.
The dark vines from my fingers killing courtesans in a pleasure hall. King Sheffield’s horrified expression when I knocked him from his horse. Blood on my sword—life snuffed from lungs at his whims.
I held onto Lark and let that anger drag me to the depths of Death’s treachery.
I’d expected to see the gray void that Caym entrapped me in for decades.
Instead, my eyes adjusted to the darkness of an amber-veined cave. Molten viscous rock leaked from the cracks in the black walls encasing us. It looked as though we were within the volcanic shores versus atop them.
I’d been here before.
Caym, eager to break me, had dragged me to this depthless cave devoid of hope or joy. Judging by the weight of my limbs and the way the cavern seemed bereft of air, I knew we were not in any physical location in the realms. It felt different—not quite like being asleep.
Death seeped from the pores of the rock. Our bodies in suspension between life and whatever lay beyond it. I’d led us into Caym's domain.
My throat constricted, and my mind warred to focus on the tasks at hand:
Ensure Lark could wield the sword against Caym.
Get Lark and Dritan out of this place.
Hope that I made it out, too.
There was a redheaded spitfire out there that I still owed dinners to for eternity. Those future moments of peace fueled my determination, but I kept the rage at the tip of my tongue, ready to strike with venom.
Lira had made good on her promise; she’d allowed us into the Sethe curse with the relics.
The rest was up to us.
“I hear something,” Lark whispered into my mind. Her Reverist abilities, preserved by the carcanet, would benefit us.
Humming a response, I began to hear it, too.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud.
A heartbeat.
It beckoned us forward. Lark kept the Sword of Isolde at the ready as we slunk deeper into the tunnel ahead. Without weaponry of my own, I stalked beside her, ready to jump at any foe we faced.
The sound persisted, but its direction remained ambiguous.
“As soon as we find Caym, I will bend him to my whims,” she promised.
Doubt pressed heavy in my chest.
“We won’t fail,” she answered the unspoken question.
A chill ran down my neck. I’d always hated when Sybilla peeked into my head—the unnerving sensation had yet to grow on me. Though, Lark and I were kindred in our mission; she’d loved my son for all he was when I couldn’t.
“You have failed already.” A snarl behind us sent me and Lark spinning toward our enemy.
Before we could take an offensive position, the ground shifted beneath our feet. It cracked, and craters of molten, steaming rock formed, forcing us to leap apart. Landing hard, I crouched on a rock ledge just out of the lava’s reach as amber smoke surrounded us.
Caym stood yards away on a slab of volcanic rock and held one hand over Dritan’s mouth. In his other hand, he held a dagger dripping crimson blood.
A gaping wound on Dritan’s chest revealed his beating heart.
Sources save us. Yet they couldn’t.
He’d tear Dritan apart.
The Death Origin’s wicked grin chilled me to the bone—streaks of blood coated the matted blond locks of hair he had brushed back. His skin had worn away, revealing bone and ligament; dark claws had grown from his fingers—more monster than man.
Above the groan of shifting stone, Lark’s shriek cut through the cave.
My grip tightened on the rock. Dritan’s absent stare and lack of reaction to us told me he didn’t have long. I’d fought that fate for years—I’d known in my bones that this place would be my end if Death chose it.
Regaining my footing, I stood and leapt to the rock that Lark clung to, then steadied her. She’d never make it to the next ledge. But I could clear it. By a hair.
Jumping would give Caym too much time to act—time we didn’t have on our side.
“Dritan!” Lark shouted. Her panic did us no good.
“We will get him,” I reassured her with a hand on her back. “Focus. Stick to your plan. Make him pay.”
“Come, little Isleen, surrender the relics, or I’ll carve your lover’s heart out right here and he will breathe no more,” Caym taunted and ran his blade over Dritan’s left pectoral.
“I will surrender nothing to you,” Lark growled out with vicious intent.
Dritan jerked to free himself, only deepening the wound. Lacerations and bruises covered his skin, and his tunic was in ribbons.
I sucked in a breath, remembering the way Caym had tried to carve me up too, remembering the constant fight to get to Elsedora’s voice in that damned mirror.
Rage lit Lark’s green irises as Caym’s arm pulled back, preparing to stab through Dritan’s exposed heart.
Lark shrieked, and Caym’s dagger hand stopped, straining against her invisible hold. His mouth hung open. Our Source power could not be called here—but the carcanet’s ability took Death by surprise.
That’s it, I thought. A menacing smirk crossed Lark’s features.
“Don’t break focus,” I commanded.
I bent my knees and folded her arms around my neck, careful not to nick myself on the blade.
Inhaling a deep breath of tainted air, I used every ounce of strength to jump down onto a rock protruding from the bubbling lava.
Her grip tightened as we landed, her arms trembling.
Caym growled, straining against her mental hold on him.
There was a path of stones to Dritan. The ground shook again, breaking the rock beneath my feet. Lark gasped and slid off my back, clinging to me to gain her footing.
“Run!” I shouted as the stones before us began breaking apart. We thrust ourselves onto each shattering stone until our feet met the larger slab where Caym still held my son.
“You are mistaken to think you can control this place, little Isleen. No one ever leaves the home of Death alive.” A voice boomed from above, as though the walls of the cave sought to decimate us, too.
But that wasn’t true… I’d been here before.
Shadows vined from the sword, hooking onto Caym’s wrist and jerking him from Dritan. A guttural, rage-filled cry left Lark as she pinned Caym to the ground. I ran toward my son before he could fall into the molten rock below.
Dritan clutched his open chest and fell to his knees. “Behind you!” he choked out, blood dribbling down his chin.
I spun as amber smoke took the shape of three faceless, massive soldiers, each armed and a few feet taller than me. The ground rumbled again, and amber lava fell in droplets from the cave’s ceiling.
I cried out as molten rock slid down my chest. This place protected Caym—but that spurred my hope. We’d spooked him badly enough that the cave had called forth reinforcement.
Caym howled as I struck one of his soldiers with my bare fist; an obsidian sword clattered from the cave guard’s hand.
Swiftly, I retrieved the blade and shoved it through the guard’s lifeless chest, and he dissipated into a putrid cloud. Caym howled again before the next was upon me.
Good.
Hurting this place hurt him.
Another drop of burning liquid ran down my cheek. Hissing, I glanced at Larkspur. Soldiers descended upon her too, and she sliced through their armor. Caym’s laugh echoed against the gritty walls.
Lark let out a frustrated curse as she strained to both protect herself and keep her mental hold on the Death Origin.
I leapt out of the way of another obsidian sword. It caught my left arm, and the wound burned like none other I’d endured. Our blades clashed before the guard could land another blow.
A fragment of rock hit my chest again, singeing through my tunic. My right fist tightened on the hilt of my sword as I gritted my teeth against the pain and stabbed through the guard’s armor.
“You will suffer the death you’ve brought on so many!” Lark shouted.
Caym cackled, but Lark kept him pinned to the ground. She flipped the sword in her palm, readying to strike, but a downpour of lava hit her back, and she cried out, falling to her knees.
“I will ruin them all,” Caym hissed.
The walls crawled with shadows—no, not shadows.
Images took form, becoming horrifyingly clearer—Asterie striking at the Moirai attacking Van’s heels, the undead tearing apart the town of Kruthin. The roar of battle filled the cave. He was showing us our friends’ demises.
A figure with a red braid cut through the fray. Elsedora. Her arms grew weak, and blood crusted her cheeks. Battle worn and tired, she seemed on the brink of collapse.
“You thought yourself so wise—keeping those you love away from me, didn’t you, King Mattock?”
No… no, she cannot fall.
Lark had grown too focused on Caym to spot the dozens of rising soldiers around her or the horrid shadows of my worst fears cast on the walls. She knelt, raising the Sword of Isolde.
“Larkspur!” I warned.
I knew what consumed her.
That empty anger.
The desire to see all you hate burn.
It led nowhere. It clouded the mind with senseless suffering.
The walls grew closer… Elsedora grew closer. No, she could not be near here. Knocked from her feet, she slammed her head on a low-lying stone wall. Moirai leapt on her, pinning her down.
“No!” I shouted.
Dritan crawled through his own puddled blood toward Lark—the last thing he desired before death. I struck down the guards surrounding him, with a shaking arm and restless heart.
Elsedora. Please, please. Get up.
Lark’s attention flicked to where Dritan clawed his way to her; the whites of her eyes showed.
Her grip on Caym slipped, and he sat up, wrapping a clawed hand around her throat.
Amber smoke poured from his mouth into her nostrils as he wielded Death swiftly against her. The Sword of Isolde fell from her hand.
Then I saw an opening—a single path to her between descending guards. Moments to accomplish an impossible task.
I ran for it.
When I reached her side and grabbed the ruby pommel of a blade so familiar, so wickedly powerful, I could feel it thrum a pulse up my arm.
I thought of the orchard. Of the smell of sweet blossoms clinging to freckled skin.
And I struck.