Winter Heart, page 41
Men dressed in black, that cursed Fade symbol on their arms, appeared from the doorways surrounding him. Rohyr sighed, resigned. His day was only getting worse.
"Alright. Come on." He picked up the nearest pitchfork and stood, waiting for one of them to make the first move. I thought I was done with you lot for a while. He thought to himself just as three of the men came at him with terrifying speed.
He parried each one of their attacks, one by one. The pitchfork in his hand was extremely sturdy, and inwardly he was grateful for its fine craftsmanship. He was used to handling two weapons at once- his axes- and something in him was suddenly even more irritated with Fane that he would rob him of his favorite weapons. If I die today, Rohyr thought, striking an assailant in the ribs with the pointed end of the pitchfork, I am going to find him in the afterlife and kill him again. It was this thought that kept the fire under his feet, bringing him a new wave of rage every time one of those Fade rats took a swipe at him. Wherever he’s run off to, he better hope he survives so he can die at my hand.
The barrage never seemed to stop, as more and more enemies continued to appear in every doorway. Rohyr realized, just as he finished another one of them off and stepped over his body on the ground, that they must have had a number of them on the inside of the castle. There was no way that all of the men here were at that recruitment. He observed, silently seething. Just as he thought this, the tongs on the end of his pitchfork bent against one of their ribs, rendering his makeshift weapon useless. Rohyr growled and took off across the courtyard, grabbing whatever his hand landed on first- in this case, it was a broom, which didn't last long. He made his way through every single tool that found its way into his hands, breaking every one of them on skulls or ribcages.
The string of curses that was on constant loop in Rohyr's mind were just getting longer as he resorted to running into the ice gardens on his left. At least in there, he wouldn't be in such an open area. Predictably, the Fade followed him, weaving their way between the finely carved ice animals.
Rohyr absolutely loathed to use magic, but he allowed some of it to slip through his hands as he extinguished all of the floating lights at once, plunging the gardens into as much darkness as the sunset allowed.
Rohyr took a reprieve behind what he knew was Niamh's cottage, at the edge of the gardens. He remembered it from when he’d carried Fane there that night the idiot got himself poisoned. Rohyr paused. He was the idiot now.
Rohyr was still in no shape to be fighting as hard as he was. His shoulder still held a sharp, hot ache, and he was sure he’d ripped all the stitches out at this point. As good of a healer as Niamh was, the human body still needed time to heal afterward, if the wound was serious enough. Rohyr had definitely not taken that time.
The magic twisted in his heart, writhing angrily, as if letting him know it was unhappy at being unused for so long. This is why I keep you contained to my axes. He thought, directing it at the magic inside of him. You cause me too much trouble otherwise.
He had none of those threads that Niamh was always going on about. He didn’t need them with as often as he used his magic. Which was never.
Rohyr allowed more to seep through his skin to cover him in the darkness, letting him catch more of his breath. His magic, wild and untamed as it was, roared against the boundaries of his skin, pushing to be let loose.
You're cursed, remember. His magic was his last resort. The one thing he’d left when backed into a corner as he was now. It mingled with grief, grief that nearly swallowed him whole if he used it for too long.
Still, he already brought it from its deep well. Might as well use it now.
Rohyr peeked from behind the cottage, watching the Fade look for him. There were about fifteen in all. His magic deepened the darkness around him, as he let out the breath he was holding.
They wouldn’t find him for a while, if he could help it. Perhaps he could keep them in the garden and take them out one by one.
He held this position, waiting for the right moment when one of the poor saps would walk by his hiding place.
Until Crowe walked through the entrance to the garden, and looked directly where Rohyr was waiting.
Rohyr swore. He stood up, rallying magic to his palms. It was a deadly kind, full of bloodlust and pent-up hatred, shame, and rage. It was the opposite of Niamh’s. If he laid a hand of this on someone’s chest, it would stop their heart. She would be ashamed of him if she learned he’d discovered it. Only used in the most desperate of circumstances. Like this one. He didn't even want to tell her how he learned it, and he hoped she would never ask.
Rohyr stepped from his hiding place, standing defensively as the men nearest him ran to attack. He shoved his hand into a chest, and the man died before he hit the ground. The others must not have realized that he was playing the game with a far deadlier weapon than they were, because they kept coming. Rohyr slayed every one of them with the killing magic in his palm. He couldn't do this for much longer. Just as healing magic took much energy from the user, this killing magic arguably took more. The only reason he was able was thanks to the fact that his reserves were overflowing from being neglected for so long.
Rohyr rallied a huge amount of magic and carried it to one of the closest ice statues. He used the prism effect of the ice to refract it into the entire garden, lighting the whole of it in green light.
Every man that was within two feet of an ice animal died.
Crowe merely watched him with a wicked, twisted grin on his scarred face. He stalked closer, as Rohyr doubled over from the sudden strain of the release of so much power at once. Rohyr breathed heavily. That was too much. He thought. He didn’t mean to use so much at once. The air was permeated with the scent of his magic. The scent of the wild- pine, moss, with an undertone of smoke. He’d almost forgotten it.
"It really is a shame that you won't join us, sir." Crowe said, coming to lean down near Rohyr's left ear. "Your talents would be of good use to us."
Rohyr glowered at him, still breathing heavily and trying to keep from fainting. He said nothing.
Crowe, being the gentleman that he was, stepped back and waited a moment for Rohyr to catch his breath. Get a hold of yourself, you cursed thing. He said to his magic. It snarled at him inwardly, like a wounded animal. Do you want us to die right now? In this garden? If I die, you go with me.
"I have to say," Crowe continued, "All these nights that you've been hunting down my men, one by one- We've watched you and the Prince. You both fight well, and you had me worried there for a while." He inspected his fingernails on his uncalloused hands. Hands that forced others to do his dirty work for him. "However-" He sneered, glaring at Rohyr and drawing one of his knives from its sheath. "We are so large in number now that we have no need to worry any longer."
Rohyr's last threat clearly motivated his magic more than he intended, for he felt power and strength returning to him at an overwhelming speed. Like a shot of adrenaline, his magic coursed through him, forcing him to stand and take a deep, gasping breath. It's about time.
This seemed to excite Crowe, bringing an eager gleam to his eyes.
Crowe struck. Darting forward with his knife leading, he went for Rohyr's side. Rohyr dodged out of the way, spinning to take refuge behind an ice bear. The knife came straight for his head, catching on the paw of the statue. This guy is fast. Rohyr thought to himself. He tried to gather killing magic to his hands, as before, but his magic, for all its posturing, was not cooperating.
Rohyr certainly had some choice words for his magic, but he was concentrating too hard to voice any of them. Crowe was relentless in his pursuit, shooting around the other side of the ice statue faster than Rohyr could move out of the way. He only barely avoided a knife swiping for his left rib before he darted behind another animal.
Some of the statues still glowed green from where his magic touched them. He took advantage of this by gathering the leftover magic back into his hand. No use in killing himself by draining all of his magic just yet.
Rohyr took advantage of his hand-to-hand combat skills, integrating his magic into his fists as he struck Crowe across the jaw. The man barely winced, though the blow caused him to stumble backward a bit. Crowe smiled, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Did you enjoy our little Festival gift to you, woodsman?" He asked, smiling as if he knew some great secret.
"What does that mean?" Rohyr growled, standing at his full height. His shoulder twinged even as Crowe watched him with a gleam in his eye.
"Did you enjoy seeing your older brother?" Crowe goaded again, flipping his knife to his other hand.
"That was not my brother." Rohyr said flatly. My brother is dead. He didn't have the time nor the patience for this interaction, though his mind flashed back to that moment in Wolfrau. He did see Rhŷn there, but he’d assumed at the time that it was merely the effects of too much drink.
"We thought that a dip of poison would motivate you to find us quicker." Crowe said, "If you’d just drank some of the Sap, you wouldn't have had to suffer this long."
Rohyr didn't reply, merely feinting to the left before striking on Crowe's right. This didn't catch the man off guard as Rohyr hoped, though he did take a step back.
"Your little healer could only do so much against our efforts. You still feel it, don't you? The poison coursing through your veins."
No one had told him who healed him – since he woke up alone in that room in the castle. He knew Niamh, he thought he remembered hearing her speak to him during however long that period of darkness was. And Rohyr knew her magic.
"There's no poison." Rohyr said again. Crowe was only trying to get in his head. Rohyr trusted Niamh with his life, and she wouldn't leave a healing unfinished. Enough of this.
"It's clearly slowing you down." Crowe swaggered toward him. "Perhaps you trust yourself too much, woodsman. There is far more to this than-" Crowe couldn’t finish his sentence before Rohyr landed another blow, this time right in his diaphragm. Crowe felt that, doubling over breathlessly.
"You talk way too much for your own good." Rohyr said, shoving Crowe into a statue of an eagle, its wings spread over their backs. He heard the crunch of the ice under the man's spine. That should have bought him a few seconds, at least.
Just as Rohyr stepped back and was rallying magic to his palms again, Crowe shot forward, taking the split-second opportunity to run his knife through Rohyr's thigh. He bit his lip, stumbling back. Does he feel no pain? He thought to himself. That was a stupid move. Days without physical activity took its toll on his mind and his body, apparently. Fane was rubbing off on him. He couldn't keep going at this pace for much longer. Rohyr took cover behind a snow leopard, close to the door of Niamh's cottage. Though Crowe didn't seemingly feel pain, he did take a moment to catch the breath that Rohyr took from him, giving Rohyr a moment to address his magic again.
You’d better cooperate this time. It merely laughed at him, trying to bury itself further inside his core. As if he didn't know where to find it when he needed it. You and I both know that I never wanted you in the first place, but you're my last resort. It's either you help me and we kill this guy or we both die and you will never be used again. Is that what you want? His magic fluttered slightly, as if considering this possibility. In answer, it gathered itself to his legs, taking away the pain of his newly acquired wound before jumping into his hands again. His veins glowed green underneath his skin. The undertone of smoke in his magic only grew stronger, filling his nostrils.
That's better.
With a renewed energy that he knew would only last him so long, Rohyr emerged from behind his refuge. He darted across the garden, heading straight for Crowe. With a handful of killing magic, though not as potent as before, he struck hard and fast right below Crowe's ribs, sending the man doubling over in what looked like real pain. A blow like that would have severed some nerves somewhere.
With the borrowed moment, Rohyr snapped off a long, wickedly curved claw of ice from the eagle. Just as Crowe straightened, Rohyr drove the claw deep into the man's heart.
All was silent for a heavy moment before Crowe fell back to the snow.
"We've only...just begun...woodsman." Crowe breathed, "You've not seen the depth and width of the Fade, only just the surface. We-" he coughed, blood flowing down his chest. "We will find you, wherever you are."
With that, Crowe died. His blood pooled in the snow, melting it beneath him.
Rohyr stood, winded. The world spun around him.
That was far more of an inconvenience than he’d planned. The warm wetness on his shoulder told him that he did, indeed, rip all his stitches out, and his body sported even more wounds for Niamh to fix later.
He knew without his magic having to complain to him that he lost too much blood and expended too much energy. He crumpled to the snow only a moment later, darkness overtaking the world.
60
TO MAEWYN, IT LOOKED as if Niamh had her arm down Maire's throat up to her elbow, lost in a trance of magic. For Niamh, all went dark as her magic brought her into the healing with it.
Just as it was when she’d dueled with Maewyn, Niamh’s healing magic mingled into illusions. Memories. Voices she didn’t recognize filled her mind, overlapping and flowing over one another like waves.
Niamh was suddenly standing on an ocean shore, the cool of the water lapping at her bare feet. At the sound of a cry, she turned to look behind her. Maire, or at least a younger version of her, stumbled down the dunes of the beach, sand kicking up in her wake. She looked to be about ten or eleven. Maire plunged into the waves, desperation lining her face. She was only a few steps into the ocean before she collapsed, frantically clawing at the wet sand beneath her small hands. She wailed into the open air, her tears flowing freely down her reddened cheeks. Niamh couldn’t make out what she was crying, the memory already fading.
Another memory overlapped the one before, now a slightly older Maire, a young Maewyn in tow. That same scene she’d seen in Maewyn’s memories. The people in fine white linens drifting by, the sound of the carriage wheels clattering against cobblestone. Only this time, Niamh saw the looks those people were giving the two children. Unkind, piercing looks of contempt. Heard their judgements. Over it all, Maire’s voice drifted into her thoughts, distant and thin.
...save myself.
No one...coming...
The scene changed. Another door opened to a cold, dreary room looking out to a storm. Maire stood in front of a desk of dark wood, staring out to the wind-tossed sea beyond through the window. She was older, a young woman now. Her white hair poured down her back as she stood in front of an older woman, sitting at the desk, her face sharp and hardened by life.
"You must be better." The woman hissed, bringing her hand down hard on the desk, making Maire flinch. "You’re deficient in every meaning of the word."
The woman rose from the desk, stalking toward Maire who stood staring ahead. "Your only value is that pretty face of yours. If you can convince some nobleman to marry you for that, perhaps he will look past every one of your failures."
Niamh winced as she heard the crack of a rod against skin, saw a young Maire's eyes well with tears, and within a second it was gone.
"Maire." Niamh spoke aloud, her own eyes filling with tears.
"Maire." Her voice was drowned out by Airem's. He sounded younger, brighter somehow. A look to the left revealed a wide, empty beach. They were both wearing attire appropriate for a ball or a party. Maire wore delicate swan feathers in her hair. Airem lifted Maire's white hand to his lips, keeping his eyes on hers.
Maire. Niamh thought into the void of memories. Where are you?
“...Here...” Was the reply. Niamh sat in a plush seat of red velvet and gold, at a fine table of marble. “We’re pleased to host you here.” A male voice said at the head of the table. A man gestured to Maire at his right. He wore a crown of twisting golden antlers on his brow. Niamh couldn’t see his face. Something about the vision obscured his features. The man, a king, Niamh guessed, rose and held out a genteel hand to Maire.
She refused it, keeping her own delicately folded in front of her.
"My cousin and I are grateful for your hospitality. But we must be on our way. Immediately. " Maire said, her voice deadly quiet and masked behind all the manners of a lady. She stood, her movements stiff and guarded.
The king nodded, seemingly good-humored.
He laid a gentle hand on the future queen's lower back, ushering her toward the doors to his palace. Niamh’s skin crawled at the touch.
Maire didn't flinch.
"Not to worry, my Lady Maire. I hope that we will be seeing each other again soon." The king said, his voice dripping with false honeyed words.
Maire nodded, motioning for Maewyn to join her in boarding the carriage that awaited them.
The last touch of the golden-haired king unsettled Niamh in a way that she couldn't name.
Maire... Niamh called again, closing her eyes.
Finally, after what seemed like seconds and days all at once, Niamh opened her eyes to a new scene. Though this felt different than all the others. She stood in long green grass, a wide open ocean stretched as far as the eye could see beyond. Upon further inspection she saw she was standing on a cliff, its sheer faces dipping into the ocean far below. Gulls cried as they floated along the cliffs. The sound of the waves crashing to the rocks was a distant, but soothing constant. It was a place that Niamh had never seen the likes of before.
As she gained a sense of her bearings, Niamh's eyes fell on the only other person there. Her white hair flowed behind her in a silky mass. It was a warm, soft white somehow, mixing with the grasses and tendrils flying in the soft wind. As she approached, Niamh saw that the other young woman had an elegant profile, the smallest laugh lines spread from the corners of her eyes, softened cheeks that looked as if they had been kissed by roses. Maire. But it was Maire as she should have been, one untouched by the cruelties of life.
