Fire of the Forebears, page 38
There was still something to salvage from all this.
A Fidelis sent a burst of flame through a narrow alleyway, and she drew her sword. The rusty blade glinted red, even as the nearing storm darkened the sun, and a maybe foolish, maybe terrible idea came to her mind. She ran to the center of the tower.
“Kura!” Aethan glanced over his shoulder as he struck at a saja with his staff. The beast had climbed the wall, but he slashed it across the chest and sent it toppling to the ground below. “What…?”
She took in a deep breath, then let it out as she sank the tip of Ìsendorál into the wooden planks at her feet. The growing storm winds swirled around her, whipping her hair back from her shoulders and billowing her black cloak. “I—I’ve got to light the tower.” She’d drafted before, setting Ìsendorál’s blade on fire in the council chambers, and now the entire structure was full of saja.
“You…” He wanted to argue and she didn’t fault that. All the same, she ignored him.
She opened her mouth to speak, then realized she didn’t know what to say. What had Idris made her repeat? Strange, flowing words… she couldn’t remember them, so it didn’t matter.
“Come on!” Kura shouted, to herself as much as anyone. She tightened every muscle she had; she focused with all the strength she could muster. Nothing came—nothing beyond the whipping winds that pelted her with cold droplets of rain as the distant, rumbling thunder crept ever nearer.
“Kura…” Aethan hesitantly walked to her side. She saw it in his face: he was going to argue this time, and she was ready to give in. She was about to turn away, about to shove that stupid sword back into its scabbard where it belonged, but a guttural, raspy voice sounded above.
She turned, the wind tossing the strands of her hair across her face, and watched as a large flicker landed on the wooden beam jutting out over the river. The golden color of its inner wing feathers flashed as it settled on its perch. This was quite an old bird, with speckles of white marring the patch of bright red feathers at its throat, but it still carried itself with pride.
The flicker opened its long, wide beak to give another squawk. Somehow, Kura found herself captivated by the sound, and as she looked into the animal’s watching, grey-green eye, she felt in her heart that it was speaking to her. Not in words, not even in any sort of language that could be conventionally understood, but she knew what it was saying. It was a warning.
She shoved Ìsendorál into its scabbard and latched onto Aethan’s wrist. He stumbled as she pulled him forward, quite confused.
“What—?”
She didn’t answer. To try to put it all into words would have kept her from acting.
When they reached the ledge, Kura stopped, feet sliding against the wood panels, and involuntarily tightened her grip on Aethan’s arm. She had been about to jump off. Why on Ehlis was I going to dive off?
The flicker squawked and flapped its wings—flashes of gold on black—before taking flight. Its warning came again, just as strong and clear as it had the first time, but she’d had time to think about it now. The bird sailed through the air, swooping amid the currents as if it had been born among the winds.
Then it dove at Kura’s face.
She yelped and threw her hands up as she tried to swat the bird away. The smooth sole of her boot slipped, and with a lurch, she was standing on nothing. She lashed out for the ledge, but in a second it was out of reach—she was falling.
“Kura!” Aethan lunged after her.
A blinding light shot from the clouds. The cool autumn air flared hot, the force of it reverberating in her chest as the wind rushed past her, and every hair on her arms and neck stood up. For that instant there was nothing but the light. Then it disappeared, crackling thunder booming in its wake. The sound echoed in her soul.
She was still falling. She knew that, some part of her was screaming, but the rest was captivated by what she saw. It was lightning, and it had struck the tower on the lower level. Fire—bright, dancing, red-and-yellow fire—sprang up from the sides even as the wall fell to splinters.
Aethan.
There was time enough for that one thought, and in vague relief she found his figure framed as a dark silhouette against the flames engulfing the tower. Then reality set in—they were falling, both of them. She turned, the wind rushing past her face, whistling in her ears and making her eyes water.
The smooth surface of the river rose toward her like a great, lopsided hand. Kura screamed, covering her face with her arms, and crashed through the water.
It was deathly cold, and dark, and she couldn’t hear over the roar of the river and the gasping, pathetic sounds of her own fight to swim, to breathe. Still, she was moving—to where, she didn’t have time to wonder—and then it was over.
She gasped, throwing her eyes open as she struggled to her knees. Her cold, wet clothes clung to her and the wind sent a chill to her bones, but she was alive, the air stinging her lungs attested to that. She was on the shore; she was kneeling in the mud on the banks of the river.
Aethan lay on his back in the mud next to her, raking his fingers through his wet hair. He was laughing.
She met his gaze. Nothing was at all funny, but she found herself laughing along with him.
Footsteps crunched on the shoreline pebbles and she bolted upright, clutching at her sword.
“Hey.” It was a woman—a little past middle age, dressed in a simple shirt and trousers—and she approached with hands raised. “I’m here to help. We’ve pulled some others from the river.”
Kura heaved a sigh of relief, then pushed herself to her feet as heavy droplets of rain began to pelt her shoulders. Debris littered the shoreline, along with the occasional body. She grimaced and hoped to the gods the dead were all soldiers.
The woman laughed. “I thought y’all were crazy, coming in here against the king’s men as you did, but you didn’t back down, even after those beasts came to slaughter you, and we couldn’t just stand by after that.” Her eyes widened when they fell on Kura’s sword. “I heard the rumors, but… you’re the fonfyr, aren’t you?”
Kura was completely unprepared to give any sort of reply.
The woman grinned and pointed over Kura’s shoulder. “Foolish question, I already know!”
Kura turned, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks, to look at the river.
Thick, black smoke billowed from the burning hull of what had been Lâroe Tower. Dying saja screamed from within the listing structure as the rest ran from the flames and the heat; townsfolk from Lâroe met them on the streets and struck them down with rakes, logs, stones, anything within reach. A cheer rose in the distance, and she squinted through the flames to see rebels standing in the few boats that remained, throwing their fists over their heads.
Her shoulders sagged and she turned back toward the tower. She wanted to feel relieved, happy—anything—but she was unable to process any of it. The tower let out a shuddering creak, and then with slow, inevitable movement, the whole wooden frame crashed into the river. The smooth waters churned, sending long waves, which slowly rippled out from the wreckage to lap against the shore.
Aethan slipped in the mud, and both the woman and Kura jumped to catch him by the arms. His hands shook, and his knees buckled under his own weight. He smiled, embarrassed, but he didn’t try to brush either of them aside.
“I…” He swallowed. “I did too much, I think. With… with the river.”
“No trouble.” The woman slung Aethan’s arm over her shoulder and pulled him toward the log cabin that stood nearest the shore. “We’ve opened the house there for the wounded.”
Hope leapt in Kura’s chest, making her hands shake so badly she struggled to sheath her sword. Somehow she met Aethan’s gaze, and he nodded.
She bolted toward Lâroe, and even though she was gasping for air after running up the slight slope from the shore, she didn’t stop until she stumbled—weak and breathless—through the doorway of the house. It seemed to be someone’s home, with a small kitchen in the corner and a fireplace on the opposite wall, but all the furnishings—tables, chairs, cots—had been pushed aside to leave the space open.
Figures lay on the dirt floor, most of them wrapped in blankets, all of them packed together so that the few standing individuals had to tread lightly to move between them. Kura stared at those faces, her gut clenched. The wounded were all rebels, each of them marred by claws, arrows, or swords, some missing limbs. A few lay still, completely covered in sheets.
She staggered back and only caught herself against the doorframe. Her breath wouldn’t come. There were so few left. Renard had wanted to turn back, but she… she’d…
“Kura!” A voice rang out from the other side of the room, splitting through her jumble of thoughts like a ray of sunshine through storm clouds. It was Faron, standing beside the fireplace, leaning on a crutch.
Relief set her arms shaking, and she gingerly made her way around the other wounded to reach her brother’s side. His clothes were soaked, his lips blue with cold, and his left leg splinted, but he laughed all the same and wrapped his free arm around her neck.
“I knew you’d make it! Father was worried, but I wasn’t.”
She pulled out of Faron’s embrace and found her father lying on the ground at her feet, propped up on a pile of blankets by the wall. His face was pale, startlingly so, and his wet tunic stained through with blood from where he’d been struck by the arrows. But the arrows were gone, and a cloaked figure knelt beside him, whispering flowing words under his breath as he tended to the wounds.
A Fidelis.
“Father?” Kura knelt at his side and placed a hand on his arm. His eyes blinked open and found her face with a weary smile.
“There you are, girl.” His voice was weak and hoarse, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. “I shouldn’t have worried. I saw you fight…”
The Fidelis pulled back, wiping his bloody hands on a clean cloth. “He needs to rest, I—” Kura looked him in the eye, and he stopped speaking.
“Cynwrig?”
The man’s bulbous face grew tight, his green eyes widened—and then all expression vanished. “Hmm,” he grunted, and pushed himself to his feet. “You’re lucky we came, fonfyr.”
Kura rose, at a complete loss for words. A cloaked figure brushed past her shoulder: another Fidelis, moving among the wounded. There were four of them in all, tending to at least ten men and women. “…Thank you.”
Cynwrig grunted again and took a step away from her. “I can’t do anything more for him now. He’ll need rest, and then another healer to see him once he’s a little stronger.”
Kura nodded, tears catching in the back of her throat as she stared at her father’s sleeping face. So pale.
Without another word, Cynwrig strode toward the door. She watched him go, then slowly turned to look over the room again. Was this everyone? All she saw were the broken limbs, the bloody bandages—her family alive, while so many others lay dead.
But every face that turned toward hers smiled. Like she was their heroic leader, like she was—
Kura ran to the door and stumbled out into the rain. I did this. They followed me. She fell to her knees in the mud, clutching at her stomach as the raindrops mingled with her tears, but her mouth tasted like bile. They followed me, on a lie, and I killed them.
“Kura!” Faron’s frantic cry carried loudly enough in the deluge.
She was angry at first—couldn’t he leave her alone for one moment?—but when she turned to find him standing in the fire-lit doorway, leaning on his crutch, her heart broke.
“What’s wrong?” He hobbled a step into the rain, and she scrambled to her feet.
“Faron—” She tried to brush aside the tears before he could see, but his gaze met hers and his face fell.
“We did it, Kura.” He pointed toward the river with his free hand and struggled to give her a smile. “We got the supplies—two boatloads of armor and weapons, and grain that would be more than enough to feed our family for a year. Renard and a few of the others stole the soldiers’ boats, and then picked Father and me and others out of the river. Don’t you see? We did it.”
She laughed, then pressed her hand to her mouth as it came out as a sob. Was this what victory was supposed to feel like?
“Hey,” Faron said gently. He hobbled another step away from the doorway—farther into the rain—and pulled her into an embrace that was more a headlock than a hug. “It’s fine. It will all be fine.”
Chapter forty-two
Mortal Severance
Through the darkness, Triston heard water wrung into the bucket beside him, and then felt the comfort of a cool cloth pressed against his face. He groaned, taking the cloth into his hand, and forced his eyes open.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to wake you,” Féderyc said, sympathetically enough.
Triston shook his head, blinking until his vision cleared. The man was kneeling beside him with a look of worry that had become a fixed part of his regular expression.
It was evening; deep orange sunlight beamed through the narrow archer’s windows. He’d sat here all afternoon, then, somewhere between slumber and waking, as though he could simply sleep away what Merric had done to him. He let the cloth fall from his face. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the pounding in his head and the stiff ache in the rest of his body indicated that his rest hadn’t solved anything.
Triston tossed the old cloth over the edge of the wooden bucket. He’d sat still long enough.
“Wait,” Féderyc said, almost scoldingly, “what are you doing?”
Triston gritted his teeth and, grasping the chains beside him, tried to haul himself to his feet. His arms ached and shook with the exertion—he ignored that, but pain tore through his side. He grimaced and fell back to the floor.
Each ragged breath triggered a sharp, radiating pain that came from somewhere deep within his torso. Carefully, he tried to evaluate the extent of his injury, and had to smother a cry as he felt his left side. That rib was broken, and a few others were probably bruised as well. He let out a frustrated sigh, wheezing as even that motion hurt.
“Take it easy,” Féderyc said gently. “You’ve earned that much today.”
Triston shook his head, clenching his eyes shut as he prepared himself to try to stand again. “I’ve got to get out of here, Féderyc. He’s going to kill my father, he’s going to, to—I can’t just let him…”
“I know.” The man’s expression held both respect and apology, but Triston couldn’t help but notice how Féderyc stared at his swollen bruises, not his eyes. “I should be able to—I’m supposed to be able to…”
Shouts carried from beyond the window. They were men’s voices, rich with desperation and courage, and Triston recognized them in an instant: it was a battle. Metal clashed against metal, the sound echoing in sporadic intervals against the stone tower. Strength surged through his veins. Out there it could be the rebels, or his father’s own company, or—
He reached again for the chains. His fists clenched those cold metal links and, grunting against the pain, he pulled with all his strength. The ache coursed through him again before he’d gotten very far, but he gritted his teeth harder, pushing against it. It was agony, radiating into his core as if his whole body was on fire, and he couldn’t hold back his cry this time. He collapsed to the floor, pressing his arm against his side in some vain effort to quiet the pain.
“Triston.”
With some effort, he met the man’s gaze.
“I don’t know what’s happened to my connection with the Essence—I know it doesn’t always express in the same ways—but we’ve both still got Gallian’s blood flowing through our veins…”
Surprised, Triston was about to ask for more of an explanation, but Féderyc gripped his hand.
“It’s been done before,” he said, as though still trying to convince himself. “If things can conduct, then why not people? Just say this with me: Elaedoni, diau brýte nnan jema.”
Triston gave an exasperated grin. “Féderyc, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Oh, it shouldn’t really matter how you say it, anyway. Just so long as you believe it, deep down in the core of you, and don’t fight it.” He gripped Triston’s fist in his own. “‘Essence, move in me, make what is broken whole.’”
Triston opened his mouth to speak, amused and frustrated by this situation all at once. Féderyc’s green eyes didn’t waver. “Essence, move in me, make what is broken whole.”
Reluctantly, Triston began to repeat the phrase along with him. He didn’t see the use—the Essence was a powerful thing, for other people—but Féderyc was so insistent.
Suddenly, a spark of energy flowed from Féderyc’s hand into his. Triston looked up, startled, as the words fell from his lips. Féderyc didn’t seem to notice; his eyes were clenched shut and he still muttered under his breath, although now he’d reverted back to the New Tounge like he’d spoken the first time.
The energy flickered again, more than a spark this time—it was a power, flowing from Féderyc’s hand into Triston’s. It permeated every part of him, seeped into him like the warmth from a late winter sun on a cold day. But that strength wasn’t his, wasn’t Féderyc’s—it was something else, something deeper, something beyond him reaching down for him as he reached out for it.
But gradually, he began to feel something else. It was subtle, so much so that he almost didn’t notice, but there all the same: darkness, creeping into his soul like cold seeped into a warm room through an open window. He couldn’t name this, but he recognized it—like he was reading, for the first time, a word he’d only heard. And in some ways it felt right, like a part of himself he’d never properly understood until that moment.
Féderyc ripped his hand from Triston’s grip. Triston gasped, the tangle of sensations in his core tearing from him. He realized that Féderyc had been trying to take his hand away for some time, but only now succeeded.
