34
VERY WRONG INDEED
SAERIS
EDINA OF THE fucking Seven Towers.
I would have felt like a complete asshole if I hadn’t made the decision to give Fisher the book. I would have read the note she’d left for him and known immediately I had failed some kind of test in her eyes. And sure, the female was dead, but I still wanted her to like me. I was in love with her son, after all.
Stupid though it might seem, I wanted to be worthy of him in her eyes.
I was itching to read the book from cover to cover now, but Ammontraíeth was abuzz with preparations for tomorrow night’s ball, and even my own chambers provided no privacy. Every five seconds, someone new knocked at the door with an urgent question.
Which flowers ought to be placed on the dais?
Should the wine be laced with newborns’ blood or adolescent virgins’ blood? (I had answered definitively that the wine should not be laced with any blood, and that anyone found bleeding newborns would be chained to a post and left outside to greet the dawn.) Did I wish for the Lords of Midnight to be seated at my table for dinner, in a place of honor?
Did I wish for music before the petitions? If so, what kind of music?
Did I have a specific dance set in mind?
It went on and on and on, and all the while, the book felt like a tenton weight tucked into the front of my shirt.
The book held answers, important answers, and all the Evenlight Ball nonsense was getting in the way.
Fisher had gone back to spend more time with Foley after he’d found me in the library. Carrion had eventually shown up at my chambers, Simon at his hip and a cocksure smile plastered on his face. The second Fisher returned at last, I grabbed the book and my blades and made the announcement: “Come on.
We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Fisher smirked. “We only just got here. Don’t you have royal decrees to sign? Important decisions to make about the big party—”
“I need quiet. I can’t think here. I’m leaving a note about the ball. I’m delegating all decisions about the party to Tal. He can deal with it. I just need a moment’s peace, and I’m not going to get it here.”
“I definitely want to be back for the party. I want to see who you appoint as Lord,” Carrion said, looking up from the book he was reading. “The new outfit that Yanice promised sounded amazing, too. I desperately need to expand my wardrobe.”
Trust Carrion to be thinking of his appearance while the rest of us were trying to prevent the end of the world.
“All right, then,” Fisher said. “You don’t have to twist my arm. Let’s get you back to Cahlish for the rest of the night. I have plenty to take care of there, myself. As soon as we’re back, I’ll open a shadow gate and find Lorreth. I wasn’t going to fetch him until morning, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to come home early. I’ll open one for Renfis, too. He’s bound to have reached Ballard by now.”
“That thing is making me feel weird.” Carrion squinted at the null blade, eyes full of suspicion. It sat on the edge of the bench in the forge, its graphite-colored blade unmarked, despite the fact that I’d spent the past hour trying to shave off a
little of its metal to test its composition.
I could precisely sense what kind of metals and alloys other objects were comprised of now. The doorknobs. The window latches. The snuffers the fire sprites used to put out the candles. The various weapons dotted throughout the estate. I knew what all of them were made of without even having to think about it. But trying to get a read on the null blade made me feel like I was falling headfirst down a dark hole every time I turned my mind toward it. The sensation was unsettling, to say the least, and left me feeling unbalanced and nauseous.
“I know. I don’t like it either,” I said.
“We should bury it.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t really an option. We need to know what it is so that we can figure out how to render it useless. Right now, I’m barely able to affect it with my magic. Fisher can’t affect it at all.” That had been a troubling realization. He’d tried to push it from one side of the bench to another when we first got back to Cahlish, and nothing had happened. “We’re going to have to face Belikon’s forces at some point, and if all of his guards have these blades, we’ll be screwed.”
Fisher had left to open the shadow gates for Lorreth and Renfis—he’d done a commendable job of hiding his concern over his inability to move the blade, but I’d seen it lurking behind his brittle smile. He hadn’t experienced anything like the null blade before, either. The fact that they couldn’t be shattered with a god sword was extra concerning to everyone, as well. In the recorded histories of Yvelia, no weapon had ever withstood a direct strike from an Alchimeran blade.
“Mm. I say we bury it and figure that out if and when we need to.” Carrion scowled at the dagger even harder, trying to balance on the back legs of his chair. “If the problem isn’t causing immediate issues, it’s always been my policy to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Bury your head in the sand, you mean?” Edina’s book sat on the shelf along
the back wall. What I wouldn’t have given to already be halfway through the damned thing. I wanted to be alone when I cracked it open, though, and the very worst thing you could do with Carrion is let him suspect even for a second that you didn’t want him around. You would never be rid of him if you did that.
“No. All I mean to say is that there’s really no point in worrying about an issue if you can worry about it later. Or y’know. Just put it off.”
“Mm. Like how you’re doing with your birthright?”
Carrion wobbled, nearly losing his balance and toppling backward. He grabbed the edge of the bench and saved himself in the nick of time. “Excuse me?
My birthright? What the hell are you talking about?”
I gave him a long, pointed look. “Your throne, Carrion. At some point, you’re going to have to think seriously about the fact that you are the rightful heir to the Yvelian throne. You—”
“I have already said that I have no interest in pursuing that job, Saeris.”
“And that would all be well and good if there were a kind, benevolent king ruling the realm. One who cared for his people and wasn’t sacrificing their lives left, right, and center for his own ends. But that doesn’t seem to be the case now, does it?”
The forge was still open to the elements along one wall—for ventilation, Fisher had said, back when he’d first brought me here—and the light breeze had been steadily blowing gusts of snow into the workshop for the past hour. Fat snowflakes settled on Carrion’s shoulders, the white a stark contrast against the black of his shirt and the vivid auburn of his hair. He splayed his fingers, giving me a helpless look. “A couple of weeks ago, I was a thief and a black-market
trader.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Carrion ignored me. “My entire living memory was of Zilvaren, and all of the people I had known there—”
“You were always the Daianthus heir, Carrion. You were trapped in a realm you didn’t belong in.”
“And now, all of a sudden, I’m dragged here, to a place I had no real notion of, and I’m expected to fight for a crown I’ve never seen, and a royal seat I know very little about, and a people who do not know me or care one bit about me?”
“You’re wrong about that last part, sire. Very wrong indeed.”
Archer.
He had entered the forge while Carrion had been rambling. He was carrying bowls of stew on a tray toward the small table on the other side of the hearth, but he had stopped now and was regarding Carrion very seriously. “The Fae and folk of Yvelia might not know you, Master Swift, but they care about you a great deal. In many houses, prayers are offered up for you daily, and have been ever since your parents, well . . .” He grimaced. “Since your parents were taken from us. Rurik and Amelia Daianthus were kind and just monarchs. They cared about the small folk. From Ajun to Western Dow, people dream that one day the Daianthus heir will return, and the cruelty they suffer at present will come to an end.”
It was the most I had ever heard Archer speak in one go without him stammering nervously. His voice was pitchy and squeaked in places, but it did not waver.
Carrion stared at the fire sprite. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but for once, the male was silent, no quick comeback at the tip of his tongue. When he didn’t say anything, Archer gave him a small, polite bow, and then took the bowls of stew over to the table, where he set them down and waited, with his back to us. He was so small—only three feet high or so. His diminutive stature often reminded me of a child, though he was older than me by considerable years. Maybe, actually, it was how innocent he seemed. Of all the Yvelian creatures I’d encountered since coming through the quicksilver, the fire sprites seemed to be the sweetest.
When he turned around and smiled at us, the sadness in his flame-filled eyes showed his age, at last. “You have come home during troubled times, master,” he said. “You have seen so little of your kingdom. You do not know it,
but it does know you. It knows your blood. Your family has ruled over Yvelia for generations. The Daianthuses weren’t always perfect. Your ancestors made their fair share of mistakes, but they always fought to correct themselves when they veered from the path. And they always put their people first. I know, in my heart, that you will do the same, Master Swift. After all, it’s in your blood.”
Carrion had turned a ghastly shade of gray. He looked like he was about to throw up at any moment. His eyes followed Archer as he carried a bowl of stew and a spoon over to him, but he wasn’t seeing the sprite. He was a million miles away, back in Zilvaren perhaps, or drawn elsewhere, to the corners of this realm he hadn’t even seen yet.
“For you, my lady.” I had followed Carrion’s lead and allowed my mind to drift; I hadn’t noticed Archer bringing me my stew, either.
“Thank you, Archer.” I took the bowl, smiling distractedly, when a thought occurred to me. “Archer, you’ve been here at Cahlish a long time, haven’t you?”
The sprite looked startled. “Oh, I, uh—yes, my lady. Since before Master Fisher was born. But I assure you . . . I love my position, my lady. I don’t . . . I wouldn’t want to leave.”
“Archer, I don’t want you to leave. Why would you think such a thing?”
The sprite shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. “Well, it is known among creatures such as myself that when there is a new lady of a house, she often likes to replace the staff with members of her own household and such. It is known among creatures such as myself that a new lady of the house might mean having to find a new position.”
“Oh gods, no, Archer. You don’t have to worry about that, I promise. I don’t have any staff from my house. I didn’t even have a house back in Zilvaren—”
“It’s true,” Carrion said. “She was as feral as a hellcat. She would slink through any open window and take a nap when she could.”
I gave him a look. “Yes, thank you, Carrion. The point is, I wasn’t asking because I wanted to fire you. I only wanted to know if you’d been here before, when Edina was still here. But I suppose you would have been if you took your
place at Cahlish before Fisher’s birth.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, absolutely. I knew Lady Edina very well. She was quiet. Very considerate. Always thinking of others. A very graceful female, too, my lady.
When she moved, it was as though her feet never even touched the ground.”
His tone had turned wistful, his eyes glassier than normal. The fire within them seemed to glow a little hotter. “I didn’t know that she was an Oracle. Not for a long time. Some Seers become distant as their gifts grow. They know too much.
They see too much. But not Lady Edina. She remained exactly who she had always been. Even when that monster sent for her, and she had to go . . .” He shook his head. “She was sweet about it. Didn’t put up a fight. She was scared, though. I could tell. You know, she used to love coming to this forge, too!” He brightened as if he had just remembered this fact. “She knew nothing about metalwork or the workings of a forge, but she would come and sit in that chair, yes, that one, the one next to yours, and she would say that she was visiting with a friend. I never understood what she meant, but . . . but!” He held a stubby index finger in the air, and I noticed for the very first time that Archer only had three fingers, plus his thumb.
“Her favorite flowers always grew here, out in the courtyard, along the far wall. I used to pick them for her. She loved the smell. Wait right here! I’ll fetch you some.”
“Archer! Archer, it’s okay. It’s cold out there, away from the fire!”
He paid me no heed, bolting out of the forge. In less than a second, he was up to his knees in snow, and then little more than a glowing spark of light smoldering in the dark.
“The fire sprites are dying out. Did you know that?” Carrion spooned some stew into his mouth, eating with far less fervor than usual. He barely seemed interested in his food at all, in fact, which meant the situation must have been dire indeed.
“I didn’t know that,” I confessed. “How do you know?”
He jerked his left shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “A water sprite
told me.”
“Oh? What else did this water sprite tell you?”
“That it was rude to pry into other people’s personal conversations.”
“I see that lesson didn’t stick.”
“What’s that supposed to—”
A ball of fire ignited in the courtyard outside, a pillar of flaring orange in the dark. I dropped the spoon I was holding. It landed with a clatter in my stew, splashing food all over the bench. A weapon. I needed a weapon. I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on and charged outside, arms pumping as I sprinted.
“Help!” Archer’s terrified cry rang loud in my ears. “Help!”
The fire sprite was past the large live oak that sat in the middle of the clearing; his body was wreathed in flames . . . and there was a feeder lunging at
him.
“Archer!”
My blood sang a hymn in my ears. Magic tore up my right arm, my runes flaring bright blue in the dark. Copper coated my tongue. My canines. Gods, my canines had grown so long in my mouth that they sank straight into my bottom lip.
It took but a second to cross the clearing, but it was a second too long. The feeder had Archer by the arm, and it was trying to drag him back over the wall.
In life, it had been a male. A tall one, with long, warm brown hair that reminded me of Ren’s. Now that I was closer, I could see that there were war braids in his hair—and he was wearing worn, brown leather renegade’s armor as well. My heart skipped a beat at the possibility—was it him? Had something awful happened to him while he’d been gone? But the feeder twisted unnaturally at the waist, turning a full one hundred and eighty degrees to look back over its shoulder as it attempted to scale the wall, and I saw its features.
A broad, flat face, with a wide, square jaw. Crooked nose. Lips that were too thin, and torn to shreds besides. The male had been dead for days before it had risen. And the rot . . .
Oh, gods.
“Infected! It’s infected!” I skidded to a stop five feet away from it, alarm rattling my nerve endings like a jailer rattling a set of keys.
Thick black veins spiderwebbed beneath the feeder’s sallow skin. Its eyes were completely black. A strange white light pulsed through its waxy throat and glowed within its chest. Its arm was on fire now, but for some reason, the rest of it remained unaffected by Archer’s flames.
“My Lady!” Archer wailed. “Please!”
The fire sprite was a ball of fire, his black, rock-like body kicking and scrambling at its center. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t get free. The feeder bared its teeth, snarling, and then it sprang up the wall, holding on to the thick vines of ivy that covered the face of the stonework with its free hand.
I reacted without thinking.
I threw the blade I was holding—not Erromar or Selanir. The null blade. I must have grabbed it from the bench. Fuck! I sent it sailing through the air, praying as it flew . . . and then rocked with relief when it speared the feeder through the shoulder and pinned it to the wall. My relief was short lived. The second the dagger struck the feeder, it sank into its body, as if it were being absorbed. The monster threw back its head and unleashed an unholy shriek that sounded more like ecstasy than pain. Muscles bulged along its back, multiplying, its biceps doubling in size. It was responding to the blade somehow. Growing.
Becoming stronger.
Horror warred with amazement inside me. “What the fuck?”
Archer whimpered, hanging limp in the feeder’s grip. The sprite was made of solid rock and was as heavy as one of the small boulders that lined the banks of the Darn, but the feeder lifted him as if he weighed nothing.
“It’s taking him! It’s going over the wall!” Carrion shouted behind me.
If it managed to vault over the top of the stone wall, it’d be over. Archer would never be seen again.
This time, I took Erromar in hand. I leaped up the wall after the feeder, determined to take its head, but as I lashed out with the sword, metal singing
through the air in search of its mark, the feeder let out an ungodly roar and shoved backward, the vines it was clinging to ripping free from the wall. Both the feeder and Archer came toppling backward . . . onto me.
I hit the ground first.
My head lit up with pain, thoughts fracturing and then shattering completely as the feeder slammed into my chest.
“Saeris!” Carrion wasn’t far, only a few feet away. He had Simon in his hands
and was charging— “Carrion, be careful!”
I wasn’t fully Fae. A bite from a normal feeder probably wouldn’t do much to me—not that I was a hundred percent sure on that—but it could definitely kill Carrion. And this was no ordinary feeder. I hadn’t been there on the banks of the river at Irrín when those infected feeders had attacked. I hadn’t seen the devastation they had wrought, either, but I knew how quickly the rot spread. I knew how easily it passed to the living and the dead alike.
“Don’t touch it!” I yelled.
I needn’t have worried. The second Carrion got close to the feeder and tried to pull it off me, it snarled, batting him away.
It happened so fast.
Carrion hit the corner wall of the courtyard, a winded “Guh!” coming out of him as he tried to right himself. Behind him, the vines choking the crumbling brickwork suddenly bloomed, a thousand tiny white flowers exploding open and wilting right before my eyes. Dried petals rained down on the smuggler, landing in his hair as he shoved away from the wall.
“My lady!” On his back, Archer kicked his feet, trying to stand. The feeder had rolled off me and was on all fours, prowling forward across the dirtied snow again, hoping to secure a better angle of attack. Black ichor dripped from its awful, shattered teeth as it came.
My right hand ached, my magic pulsing, begging to be released, but Fisher’s voice was still clear in my head. He had unleashed his magic upon the infected
feeders he had faced along the banks of the Darn. Renfis had, too, and neither male’s power had injured the infected. On the contrary, the feeders had absorbed their magic and taken it into themselves, and the very last thing I intended was to give this motherfucker free magic. I’d already given it the fucking null blade.
“It’s going to spring, Saeris!” Carrion called. “Watch out. I’ll clip it—”
“Carrion, no! Stay back!”
As he said it would, the feeder sprang. It wasn’t the smuggler that I watched leap forward to tackle the maddened monster back to the ground, though. It
was Archer.
“Run, my lady!” he cried.
Flames filled my vision as a harrowing, pained scream tore through the
night.
“Archer! No!”
The feeder sank its teeth into Archer’s neck and tore it wide open. I wouldn’t have known a fire sprite’s body could be penetrated by tooth or blade, but I watched as it happened, horror scaling my spine like a ladder.
Jets of glowing orange-yellow magma spewed from Archer’s throat. It glowed so bright that it burned my eyes as it sprayed all over the feeder, landing on its chest, face, and arms. The feeder didn’t react at all to the—
Wait.
No. It was reacting.
The monster convulsed, its ink-black eyes widening as an awareness that hadn’t been there before returned to it. Its jaw hinged, too wide, opening and closing, its mangled, black stump of a tongue protruding from its mouth as the feeder let out a silent scream. Its waxy skin started to melt from its body.
Wherever the glowing hot magma touched the fell creature’s body, the black, knotted veins beneath the surface of its skin bulged to the surface and split open, disgorging the foul-smelling decay within.
Ichor hit the snow in viscous ropes. It behaved similarly to the quicksilver at first—gathering, probing, seeking—but then it began to smoke. To bubble. To
boil.
Language was a foreign concept to the putrefied mind of a feeder, and yet it sounded as if it were trying to scream for help as the rot blistered and burned inside it. It spasmed, fingers twisted into hooks, falling back into the snow . . .
“Archer!” The fire sprite’s flames had gone out. He lay on his side, his legs twitching, only a few small fissures in his craggy skin still lit from within on his arms and his chest.
“Fuck me,” Carrion whispered. He was on his knees next to the sprite in a heartbeat. “Is he dying?”
“I don’t know! I—” I reached out, not knowing what to do, not sure if I should, or could touch him. In the end, I didn’t have a choice. Archer needed our help. My palms hissed, skin singeing, as I took hold of him and turned him onto his back. The sprite’s eyes were open, though the flames that normally danced within them had almost all gone out.
Archer opened his mouth, gasping, but only a gravelly rasping sound passed his lips. His throat was a mess. Embers burned there, around the edge of his wound. A kind of molten rock ebbed sluggishly from the rent left behind by the feeder’s fangs—it smelled terrible, like the very vapors of hell itself. The sprite’s hand opened and closed in the air, groping for something, anything, his cooling eyes full of fear when his gaze met mine.
“We need to get him inside,” I bit out. “Is it dead?” I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the feeder.
“Yes,” Carrion answered. “It looks like that stew. That null blade is all that’s left of it.”
“Okay. Good. Can you run and—We need something to lift him with. He’s too heavy.” Tears burned my eyes. My throat was aching horribly; forcing myself to speak felt like regurgitating razor blades.
“Fuck that,” Carrion growled. He crouched down at the other end of Archer’s body and looked me square in the eye. “You get his hands. I’ll get his feet.”
The sprite tried to pull away as we lifted him from the bitter ground; even this close to death, he didn’t want to injure us with his heat. But we were single- minded, and the forge was only fifty feet away. The burns would hurt, the scars would be ugly, but we weren’t going to leave our friend to die out in the snow.