Bloodsinger, page 27
Bone snapped. Kristoff dropped among the roots and lay in a heap, retching. The world stopped moving at that sound, and Aden with it.
Maleck roared Kristoff’s name like something inside him had broken, too, and the ice of shock and horror shattered from around Aden’s limbs. He ripped forward, lunged toward his father—and slammed to the edge of a tether Svan had flung out while he stood frozen, watching this terrible, endless moment unfold. A noose of power tightened around Aden’s throat, hurling him to his knees, choking and writhing. Maleck shot past him, wounded and staggering, but he almost made it to Kristoff’s side before an oppressive, eye-watering energy hurtled from Olaf’s hand and slammed him to his chest, pinning him to the ground as well.
With his arm outstretched, he could almost touch Kristoff's hand.
Panic sealed Aden’s throat when the Aeoprast stalked forward to stand over Kristoff, kicking his saber toward him. “Look at your pitiful sons, Tribune. Do you hear them crying your name? Do you still want to play this game?”
Panting, spitting blood, Kristoff struggled to rise, then broke down again. Cruel laughter burst from the Bloodwights on every side, and Aden’s thoughts became a cacophony. He could not do this, could not have his father back for one night only to watch him butchered by the Order he’d helped drive out to protect their kingdom, to save Maleck. He was not strong enough, not sane enough to watch him die again.
“I’m waiting, Tribune,” the Aeoprast deadpanned. “If Maleck is your family, why won’t you fight for him?”
Under the heap of Olaf’s wind still holding him down, Maleck struggled to raise his head and slowly swiveled it until he met Aden’s eyes, his face full of anguish and heartbreak and a terrible, mortal resignation.
Aden knew that look. Knew Maleck’s mind like his own.
“No,” he breathed.
Maleck’s fingers inched forward, closing around the fire flagon.
Aden cursed, struggling to rise, hissing, “Maleck. Maleck, don’t!”
“Bloodsinger,” Maleck said, and at the sound of his Name, Aden stopped fighting. “Forgive me.”
“No—”
“I love you, Allet.”
“No!”
Maleck broke the flagon against his armor.
Aden couldn’t fight the drawn-out roar of heartbroken fury hurtling out of him, the same word again and again, no, no, no, no!, carried forward until his voice cracked and lost all strength while fire soaked up the wind and grew to a heaving column of flame.
The noose broke from around Aden’s throat and Svan lunged to confront Maleck. Choking and gasping down on his knees, all Aden could do was watch his brother, a fire-wrapped warrior, twist on heel and slam a blow into Svan’s chest so hard it blasted him away through the trees, knocking his augments and his mask away. Then he morphed into a blur of battle, a death-god carving through the Bloodwights with sweeps and scythes of flame. They fell back, cackling as their brother fought back at last, bringing down the youngest acolytes of which he was always most powerful. He ripped the augment pouch from Olaf, and another flagon sailed through the air, smashing into Kristoff, breaking on his armor. The warm white glow of healing poured over his body, and he arched and gasped, rolling to his knees, stricken eyes fixed on the unholy sight before them. On Maleck, wreathed in both fire and shadow now, battling his way through the ranks of the Bloodwights like a specter of Nimmus.
They didn’t fight back. They were taunting him, drawing him in, forcing him to snatch up and smash more augments, more, and more—
He sent two of his brothers shattering backward through the forest at last, the stench of charred flesh and singed hair suffocating the wind. The rest broke rank at that and fled, leaving Maleck and the Aeoprast dueling with whips of fire like swords. They cleaved into one another, armor and robes sparking and dancing with flame, and in that moment Aden saw the boy who’d left them twenty years ago—the augur, the acolyte, heedless of danger and grim as the Undertaker.
The Aeoprast fell back, loosing a wild burst of triumphant laughter. “You made this almost too easy, Maleck. Come. Let’s feed you.”
Aden’s blood ran cold, and he staggered to his feet, shouting Maleck’s name; his words were lost in the torrent of the Aeoprast’s wind augment. In a blink, he vanished—but his wind remained around Maleck, who faced away from them, the fire low against his body, watching the way the Aeoprast went. He did not move.
“Maleck.” Aden took a step toward him, and Kristoff snagged him under the arm.
“Don’t—don’t, Aden.” His voice was low, anguished. “This was what they wanted. They made him choose it for himself, just like last time. There’s no turning back.”
“No!” Aden roared. “Let me go, stars damn it, I can still reach him!”
“You can’t, not now. He’s not himself anymore.”
In the breath it took Aden to summon a retort, Maleck pivoted toward them—and he saw it was true. This was not his brother, it was a creature wearing his countenance, blood spattered across his cheeks, his gaze brimming with a desperate, wild hunger Aden had never seen before…not even in Maleck's acolyte days. There was no love or recognition in his face, his cheeks sunken with a need beyond reason—a thirst for the augments around them.
Maleck flung out his arms, and the ravaging darkness screamed toward him, soaking into his armor like a cloak, and blinding daylight struck Aden’s face so hard he twisted his head away for an instant. When he looked back, Maleck had shed his saber harness and dagger belt, snatching up a fallen augment pouch instead.
Aden snarled, wrenching forward again. “Maleck! Don’t.”
His head swiveled back toward them, empty eyes resting on Aden’s face. All that remained in that stare was want and rage, dismissing them when he sensed they carried no more power.
They were nothing to him now.
A wind augment shattered. In the turn of a moment, just like his brothers, Maleck was gone—leaving only his sabers and a cruel breeze behind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE MOMENT CISTINE was in his arms, Thorne did not stop moving.
On every side, the war camp was a tumult, warriors and mirothadt and Balmond locked in battle. Dragonfire spewed across the dark rock; augments stormed the air. But there was no sight of the Bloodwights yet; somehow, Aden, Maleck, and Kristoff held them at bay.
Thorne would fall to his knees and thank them later. Right now, it was all he could do to clutch Cistine’s limp body to his chest, blink the blood from his eyes, and keep running. Corpses blockaded his path, his people and theirs all the same in death, a grisly echo of Braggos that knocked on the doors of his head and heart, the glassy eyes and gaping jaws vowing he’d see them again tonight when his own eyes shut. If he could even bring them to.
All for later. Right now, he had to get Cistine out of this camp before someone else saw Vandred’s body and realized what she’d done. What he could barely comprehend himself.
Fire erupted overhead, a streaming garland of heat that sent Thorne ducking back with a curse. Flaming shards of stone rained from the mountain face, and he slipped into cover for a moment, balancing in a crouch on his heels and settling Cistine in his lap. He brushed the hair from her face and gripped her chin, studying her closed eyes, her mouth ajar, and the blood…so much blood. He’d almost lost his stomach at the first glimpse of her around the bend in that path, the Bloodwight’s claws sunk into her body, scarlet pumping mercilessly not just through her armor, but from her lips, her nose, and her eyes.
And the power in her. He was no great augur, but even he had sensed the prism of augments around her body, a torrent and a storm. And he knew where those augments came from, but it was still impossible to comprehend what had happened in that short span of time she and Vandred were alone together after he saw Key and Bloodwight vanish up the path in a blast of wind.
The concussion from an earth augment rocked him forward almost to his knees, and he gritted his teeth. He needed to keep moving; the others could not wait for him forever where he’d sent them in retreat, Quill carrying his still-healing valenar, Ariadne and Sander guarding their backs.
If they’d even made it that far.
He banished that thought and staggered up, seizing Cistine closer to his chest. “We’re almost there, Wildheart.”
Urgency possessed him at the faint stir of breath from her parted lips, and he stepped from around the shelter of rock, gathering himself to run.
A blade touched his throat from behind. He froze, steel licking delicately at his leaping pulse.
“The Princess. I see now what she is.”
Adeima.
Thorne’s arms tightened around Cistine. He dared not move any more than that when the Chancelloress circled around his side, blade still at his neck. Dark tear tracks carved her umber skin, more silvering her eyes. Blood frosted her knuckles, saturated her armor, and crusted her chin. He’d passed her in battle, so many men screaming when they fell before her merciless blades, but now that he saw her closely, there was too much blood. Something had happened.
“I should have suspected the night Stornhaz fell, when you sent her away to her kingdom,” Adeima added. “Protecting the Key.”
The strength in Thorne’s knees gave way. Only one word escaped his clenched teeth: “Please.”
Adeima studied Cistine with grief-stricken eyes. “Bravis and the others will want to spill her blood on the nearest Door and replenish our flagons.”
“Adeima, I beg you…”
“A Chancellor does not beg.”
“For her, I will. I do.”
Adeima’s gaze turned from Cistine’s face to him, and unbelievably, softened. “I saw what she did. For us. For Maltadova…my Flamewalker. Even though it was not enough, I saw her.”
Maltadova’s Name, given so freely, sent anguish twisting in Thorne’s stomach. The loyal valenar of Yager Court defended each other’s Names and true titles by life and death; for Adeima to speak her beloved’s now could mean only one fate. “Adeima, I’m sorry.”
“We are all sorry today.” Yet with every word, her gaze cleared. “But it was she who tried. When the others recoiled, she stepped forward for my selvenar, even knowing they would all see.”
Frustrated fondness racked through Thorne’s chest. It was such a Cistine choice to make—to weigh the fate of kingdoms in the balance and still decide that in the moment, love and loyalty mattered most.
“Spill her blood, and we will have more augments. But the power that lies within her, that is a strength none of us possess. It may be enough to win this war if she learns to wield it.” Adeima stepped nearer, blade tightening at Thorne’s neck. “Swear to me you will train her, you will see her come into that might for our kingdom’s salvation, and it will be as if we never saw one another here.”
“I swear it.” There was no lie in him. What he’d witnessed in his Wildheart today… “I see it, too.”
Adeima let her arm fall. “Carry her to safety. Bravis and the others will hunt you, so do not show your faces again until she is ready to stand with that power in hand and fight for her own life before the Courts.”
Mutely, Thorne nodded.
“When you have need of the Hunters, we will answer the call,” Adeima added. “We keep our vows. And we stand with the Starchasers.”
The jolt of his Name unwittingly spoken had not finished racing up Thorne’s back when Adeima blended into the shadows, her parting words drifting back to him.
“For Maltadova. For us all.”
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, a many-layered echo against the mountains driving Thorne into motion again. He broke cover, tearing through puddles of fallen canvas and broken tent poles, through flaming heaps of matter and shredded corpses toward the edge of the rock and the bathing pool far below.
He was accosted yet again at the trailhead, not by an enemy, but by a burned, soot-covered, wild-eyed Sander. The High Tribune paused hacking down mirothadt to gesture Thorne over with a wild wave of his arm. “The others are below! They wait for you, Chancellor!”
“Not Chancellor anymore.” Thorne slid to a halt next to him. “Not with the powerful enemies we made today.”
Sander’s dark brows tweaked. “How many more of those can you afford?”
“We’re about to find out.” Thorne nudged shoulders with him. “Kanslar Court is in your hands now. You lead them. Keep them alive.”
Pain lit in that tawny gaze, though not resentment for the title. Of all his Tribunes, Sander had always most respected what it meant to lead. “Where will you go?”
“Somewhere we can heal and plan.”
The High Tribune’s gaze dropped to Cistine’s ashen, inert face; then he twisted suddenly, slamming his blade backhand into an augur racing toward them, the thoughtful peak in his brows turning to one of hard will. “Mira is in Holmlond. If you go to her, she will help you concoct a strategy.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, I’m just helping you clean up your mess so I can go back to the Tribunal where I belong.”
“Then take my last order to heart: survive what’s coming, and I’ll return with reinforcements at our back. Enough to win this war.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place!” Sander shoved him toward the trail. “And what are you waiting for?”
Thorne cast a last look at the carnage behind him, the battle he ached to save his people from. But he was only a man, and he was not enough, not alone; not without a plan and the right people to execute it.
So he went, the screams deadening as the valley walls rose around him. At the bottom of the trail, the cabal clustered around Bresnyar: Tatiana hanging from Quill with one arm around his shoulders to steady herself, Ashe and Ariadne with weapons out, facing the path. But Ashe’s eyes turned again and again to the opposite side of the gulch where the wind augment had dropped them at their arrival.
Ariadne spotted them first, eyes widening. “Is she alive?”
Too breathless for words, Thorne nodded when he reached them. Quill cursed with relief and pressed his hand and a kiss to Cistine’s brow, then whistled Faer up from his shoulder and helped Tatiana onto Bresnyar’s back. The others leaped on, one after another, and Thorne felt the weight descending on the dragon’s spine the moment he contacted the bone. And he still had three more to carry away from this mountain and across the others.
Grimacing, Thorne clung to Cistine while Bresnyar fumbled to rise, wings stroking the scorched air and lifting them up to the cleft. Timeless evergreens were smashed to kindling, decay ravaging the grass blue and black, the rock sundered in places and still smoking in others like a small army had gone to war in a dim echo of what raged behind them across the valley.
The instant Bresnyar settled in the furrows between the trees, Ashe lunged from his back and sprinted into the devastation, Odvaya already drawn. Thorne surrendered Cistine to Ariadne’s arms and leaped after her, hitting the ground in a wild run to meet the two men trudging toward them.
Two. Not three.
Thorne’s feet slowed along with his pulse, something strange and heavy squeezing his lungs, his guts, his heart. He recognized Aden first, matted and bloodied, wearing Starfall and Stormfury strapped across his back, the beloved sabers Maleck would never part from unless…
Ashe did not slow until she was abreast of Aden and Kristoff. Panting, she skidded to a halt. “We need to leave, right now. Where’s Mal?” She looked left and right, expectation clear in her posture and tone. Then confusion settled in, her head cocking when her gaze did not find him emerging between the broken trees or rounding the ruins of shattered earth where they’d fought the Bloodwights.
Aden watched her with raw eyes. “Ashe.”
She took several paces back from him, eyes still sweeping the cleft. “Maleck? Maleck, we need to go! Get out here!” A beat, in which only the stirrings of battle far away gave answer. “Maleck, gods damn it, answer me!”
Thorne’s knees buckled, and he gripped one of the few standing trees as grief’s cold fingers wrapped his heart and ripped it straight from his chest; his heart, the cabal’s heart, that strong and ever-beating presence that was Maleck Darkwind.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
“Ashe, look at me.” Aden’s voice was low, hoarse, but still a command.
She rounded on him, spitting, “What?”
“I’m sorry.” The pain in the words sent Thorne sinking sideways against the tree. “I’m sorry, I tried to protect him. I lost him.”
“You’re saying that you…you just lost my…my selvenar.” Ashe’s head snapped into a full tilt, a small, cold, disbelieving smile jerking her lips. “You lost Maleck?”
“He gave himself over to them,” Kristoff interceded, his voice far calmer than his son’s but his eyes stroked with the same agony. “To protect us.”
“Gave himself over to—”
“He has become a Bloodwight.”
The silence deafened.
Thorne was a spirit detached from his body, drifting upward on the teasing fingers of the icy wind that squeezed the back of his neck, and the mindless urge possessed him to shout for Maleck as loud as Ashe did, to cry out his Name on the wind, to summon him back as he had from battles, from breaking, from his own memories so many times.
But if he called, there would be no answer now; if Maleck had not already come when Ashe yelled for him like her heart was breaking, then it was true. His brother, his friend, his strong right arm was gone. And Thorne felt the pain of that like a limb truly ripped away, the agony sending him sliding down the tree all the way to his knees.
Aden reached out a hand to Ashe, and she jerked her body away at an angle, shaking her head. “No. He was getting better, he was walking out of that place. Away from them!”
“He didn’t want this,” Aden said. “He was afraid, I saw it in his eyes. But he took it into himself to save us.”
Maleck’s name escaped Thorne with what little breath he had left.
