Burn of the Everflame — Chapter 65

65

DIEM

n two days, we’re all going to be dead.”“I The voice hung in the air, echoing through the wooden rafters of the otherwise noiseless council meeting room. Its owner—the new governing council representative from House Hanoverre—sank back in his chair, knotting his hands in his hair.

“Actually,” he went on, “we’re dead already.”

“We are very much alive,” I said. “And we’re going to stay that way.”

The gathered faces stared back in patent disbelief. The news that Ophiucae was alive had been a hard blow for the council to take, but they initially remained optimistic, trusting in my promise that I had a plan.

Then came the other confessions: That he was a Kindred. That he might be headed for Lumnos. That he had at least two—maybe three, four, or five —realms’ worth of Descended as his soldier-slaves. With each revelation, their faces grew paler, their voices less steady. And when I told them I no

longer had magic to fight him . . .

That had silenced them all.

My advisors had reacted the same way. Though hours had passed since our morning meeting, their faces still wore the stunned, disoriented look of a person staggering in the wake of a bomb. Only the mortals had taken the news in stride. Magic had never been their savior, and its loss would not condemn them now.

“We’ve been preparing for this,” my mother said. “We will defeat him.”

“How?” someone asked. “He’s immortal. He can’t be killed.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be killed,” another said hesitantly. “He’s a Kindred.”

My mother’s palms hit the table. “Are you mad? He wants your kind dead. Why do you think so many of my people joined him?”

“The Kindred spoke to Diem,” Luther said. “The real ones—the ones we worship. They gave Diem their Crowns so she could stop him.”

“Why are we here?” Norwick Benette asked. “The power to command the Royal Guard still lies with the Crown. What are you asking the council to do?”

“I’m asking you to fight,” I said. “Go back to your communities and gather as many as you can to join our army.”

The Althiena woman recoiled. “But that’s why we have an army—so we

don’t have to fight.”

“The army might not be enough.”

“Maybe it would have been, if you hadn’t let so many of them defect,”

Garath muttered. Though he’d been forced to cede his place on the council to Eleanor, it had not stopped him from attending the meeting and injecting his vitriol every chance he could get.

Aemonn sat behind him, eyes cast low, avoiding his brother’s accusatory stare. The progress he and Taran made last night seemed to have vanished in their father’s presence.

“I gave everyone in the army a choice,” I said, bristling. “I will not lead an army of slaves. I’m not like him.” Those final words echoed in my thoughts, rattling through me like a question my bones and blood could not answer.

“We don’t know how many Descended Ophiucae has forced into his army,” Alixe cut in. “That number is only going to get higher the longer we wait. If we make our best and biggest stand now, we could end this war in a single battle.”

“You want us to fight alongside them?” the Althiena woman asked, nervously eyeing my mother and the Guardians seated behind her.

“The rebels are terrorists,” Garath said. “They shouldn’t even be here.”

“Would you rather they leave and lower our numbers even further?” I asked. The Althiena woman looked down, embarrassed, but Garath kept up his usual sneer.

“He’s right,” Cordellia said, “we shouldn’t be here. We should be living in peace on our homeland, unbothered by the lot of you.”

Garath rolled his eyes. “It has been thousands of years since the Kindred arrived. Will you people get over it already?”

“We’ll get over our oppression when it’s over,” she fired back. She sank back against her chair, shooting Auralie a cross look. “Remind me again why we’re fighting for these pricks?”

“You’re fighting so we don’t hang you for your crimes,” Garath retorted.

“At least they’re fighting,” Aemonn said under his breath.

Garath shot a look over his shoulder. “Silence, boy. No one came to hear you talk.”

Aemonn’s eyes went dark. His face emptied of all emotion, and his shoulders crept forward, back hunching and body shrinking. As his gaze began to drop, it cut to Taran, who scowled in disappointment.

Suddenly, Aemonn stilled. “No,” he said loudly.

“I said silence,” Garath snapped.

“No,” Aemonn said again. His spine slowly straightened. “The Guardians don’t have magic.” He pointed to the Ignios refugees. “They don’t have homes. Most of Diem’s army doesn’t have godstone weapons.

You have all of those things, Father. They’re fighting—when’s the last time

you did anything but talk?”

Taran’s eyebrows flew to the sky.

Garath shot Aemonn a scorching glare. “How dare you—”

“Why was he allowed to keep his godstone weapons?” the Althiena woman demanded. “Ours were confiscated by the Crown.”

“So were House Corbois’s,” Remis said, frowning at his brother.

“He took them off the Corbois members of the Royal Guard,” Aemonn

said.

“You little traitor,” Garath hissed.

“He’s not the only one,” the Hanoverre man admitted. “Marthe confiscated the godstone weapons you gave to the Royal Guards in our family, too.”

To my dismay, rather than looking outraged, many of the other Embers nodded with similar confessions.

“Do you not understand what’s at risk?” Luther snapped. “Sophos is gone—no mortals, no Descended. No one. Everyone in Meros that didn’t flee is now his slave. Same with Umbros. Maybe others, too. Ophiucae is wiping out realms one at a time. If we don’t stop him, there will be no Emarion left.”

A heavy silence filled the room as the truth of it settled in. Even the mortals looked shaken. Until now, Ophiucae had been a not entirely unwelcome distraction to pull the Descended’s focus off of them. Most mortals had kept their heads down, perhaps secretly hoping Ophiucae and the Descended would fight each other out of existence. But, as history had shown too many times, a fight for power always cost the powerless most in

the end.

“So how do we stop him?” Norwick asked.

“We launch an offensive,” Alixe answered. “Instead of waiting for him to get to Lumnos, we gather every person who can swing a sword or wield magic, and we march south until we find him.”

I nodded. “He’s building his army realm by realm, so we’ll do the same.

We have Lumnos and Ignios here already. I’ve dispatched riders to the other realms with orders to join us.”

“I told my people to keep a safe distance at sea, but safety means nothing if they have no home to return to,” Obaneryn called out. He rose to his feet. “I’ll send the winds for them. They will fight.”

Doriel stood, as well. “The only Descended of my kind left are the ones in your army, but I will join them. I will fight.”

I gave them both a nod of respect. It was a relief to see that, for once, my pathological mercy had led to something good.

My attention moved to Drusila and Symond. “The Centenaries’ help would be invaluable,” I prodded. “If you can shield our soldiers’ minds from Ophiucae, it might mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

I could tell my request surprised them. The ability to choose, to consent, was a muscle they had rarely been permitted to use.

Symond refused to look at me, his features as stony as the wall he stared at. “I already gave you our answer in Umbros. You have cost us enough.”

“Symond, this could cost us everything we have left,” Drusila said. “I

have to protect my child.”

Symond flinched.

“Think of Yrselle,” I begged. “She wanted you to—”

“Yrselle is dead,” Symond shouted. His glare snapped to me. “Because of you. They’re all dead because of you. Our people, our gryvern, my—”

He stopped himself, then stood and knocked his chair aside, sending it tumbling end over end until it cracked and fell apart. “Fuck you and your

war,” he snarled, then stormed from the room. Drusila sighed, looking as if she might say more, but after a moment, she rose and followed him out.

“Wonderful,” Garath muttered. “Your leadership will go down in the history books . . . if there’s anyone left to write them.”

Aemonn shot to his feet. “I will fight,” he announced.

“Sit back down,” Garath sniped. “Your magic is pathetic, and you’ve barely lifted a blade. You’ll embarrass the Corbois name.” He pointed at Taran. “If anyone’s going to represent our family in battle, it’s him.”

Taran looked stunned. Garath was toying with his sons, dangling his respect to drag Taran back into the fold and make Aemonn jealous. This was no doubt how he’d controlled them both for years. He’d made his love, or at least his approval, something that could be earned through obedience to him and him alone—and something he was willing to bestow on only one son at a time.

Taran and Aemonn exchanged a wordless look. I couldn’t tell whether Garath’s plan was working. There was no fondness in the way the brothers locked stares—more of an air of challenge, a test, each of them waiting to

see who broke first.

“I’ll fight,” Taran said, standing.

My heart sank, and so did Aemonn’s shoulders.

“But I’m not fighting for House Corbois,” Taran went on. “I’m fighting for my family. The Bellators. Zalaric.” His gaze returned to Aemonn. “And my brother.”

Taran’s tone rose on the final word and lingered—a question. A hope.

Aemonn turned to Garath. His hands were visibly trembling, color draining from his face. His usual callous confidence made a strange kind of sense now—no threat could rattle him, because no enemy had ever loomed larger than his father.

“When I killed that mortal boy, the accident in Lumnos City—I pretended not to care, because you told me that a Corbois shows no weakness. And when I begged you to help me find his family so I could at least repay them for their loss, you said, ‘A mortal’s death is beneath a Corbois’s notice.’ If all that’s true . . . then I’m no Corbois, either.”

Aemonn’s gaze rose to me. “I owe a life debt to that boy. This is how I repay it.”

“I suppose this means I have to fight, too,” Zalaric said, gesturing to Taran and Aemonn with a sigh. “Someone has to keep these two focused on

killing the enemy instead of each other.”

“I’ll fight, as well,” Remis said, rising.

“Are you certain, brother?” Garath said. “You won’t last long without any mag—” He placed a hand over his mouth, smiling smugly. “Blessed Kindred, I almost said too much.”

“Without any magic, you mean,” Remis said. “Since I lost mine to a bonded bargain.”

An audible gasp rose from the Twenty Houses. Even Garath looked surprised. While he’d controlled his sons with cruelty, he’d controlled his brother with secrets. It appeared all three of them were ready to be free.

“Perhaps I won’t last long, brother.” Remis said the word with a cutting snap. “But our ancestors did not choose a phoenix as our sigil for us to cower. These old bones are not yet too feeble to swing a sword.” He looked at Luther. “And I will always come when my family calls.”

The other House representatives exchanged looks, none moving to stand. House Corbois was not the influential force it had once been, and with the Embers’ leadership still so new, no one was eager to commit their families to war.

“The people of Emarion have done horrible, unforgivable things to each other,” I said. “There is so much to be ashamed of, and so many reasons to hate. But look around this room today—everyone has a voice and a vote.

No one is hoarding power for themselves, no group is forced into submission because a different group says it’s their place. We have the power to decide our own fate.” I looked from face to face. “I know you’re scared of how this ends. I’m asking you to see this as a beginning instead.

The start of a new Emarion, a future we can be proud of.”

Norwick Benette gave me a weary look. “Some days I think you kept me alive just to get me killed in a more painful way.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “House Benette will fight.”

The Althiena woman half stood, her legs remaining bent as if they might betray her and fold at any moment. “I suppose we must, too.”

The Hanoverre representative gave a resigned grunt. “Might as well, since we’re dead either way.”

Not exactly enthusiastic endorsements, but it was the momentum we needed. With the largest Houses joining in, the others rose in quick succession.

“I’ll speak with the Ignios noblemen,” Nidara said. “I’ll convince as many to join us as I can.”

“I’ll go back to my village and do the same,” said the Unhoused Descended’s representative.

“So will I,” Henri’s father said. “I’m no good with a blade, but I know who in Mortal City is.”

At last, the only people seated were the Guardians. They had fought with me before. I realized with uncomfortable clarity that there was no guarantee they would do so again.

Cordellia stared at me, arms tightly crossed, ignoring my mother’s adamant whispers to stand. Her dark brown eyes smoldered with indignation at Garath’s earlier insults and the lifetime of mistreatment he had so flippantly told her to get over.

Hurt was a stubborn weed. Left unchecked, it spread with abandon. If the hands that tugged at its roots were the wrong ones, the deeper they’d grow. Sometimes, it spread so fast, pushing out so much other life, the only solution you could see was to set it all ablaze.

“So this man wants to control you all,” Cordellia said icily. “He wants to tell you where to go and what to do. He’ll give you orders that only benefit him, and he won’t give a damn if it kills you. He’ll even decide what’s acceptable for you to think. Everything you’ve built, he’ll take for himself, and if you don’t submit to him, he’ll kill you.” Her glare slid toward the Twenty Houses. “Where have I seen this before?”

“What was done to the mortals was wrong,” Eleanor said. “We don’t want your kind to suffer anymore. Isn’t that right? We’re ready for change.”

She looked around hopefully at the other Descended, some of whom nodded, some simply looking away.

Cordellia let out a wry, breathy laugh. “You know, I met Vance before he was a Guardian. His wife was a painter. A good one. You put her work next to the thing she painted, and—” She whistled. “Identical. No training, just natural talent. She couldn’t afford paints, so she’d take flower petals and crush them up to make her own. She liked to paint the same flowers she used—she told me it was like giving them a chance to live forever.”

Cordellia smiled sadly. “Real sweet lady.”

She leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. “Twice a year, Vance would come to Arboros and spend every spare coin he had buying her the most brightly colored flowers in the market. That’s how we met—

his eldest was the same age as my twins. They’d play together while he shopped. After my girls died, his wife painted the most beautiful portrait of them. It was the only thing I took when our home—”

Cordellia choked up. She looked down at the table, clearing her throat to play it off, though when she lifted her head to speak again, her eyes were lined with silver.

“Vance was a different man once. He was a man who loved his children and bought his wife flowers. The monster he’s become is the monster you all made him.” She pointed at Eleanor. “You say you’re ready for change.

Maybe I should be grateful. But if I’m really being honest, all I can think about is how many good people had to die for you all to catch the fuck up.”

Cordellia dragged herself to her feet and turned her head to me. “So help me gods, if there isn’t peace for the mortals when this is over . . .”

“There will be,” Luther cut in. “You have our word.”

I squeezed his hand and nodded.

“Then we’ll fight in your war,” Cordellia said. “But I’m giving my word to every person in this room—my war doesn’t end until there is.”

THAT AFTERNOON, I took to the skies on Sorae. I flew first to Montios, where Alixe’s rider had already arrived, though two hours of searching for the Montios Descended had done him no good. Only when I arrived did they emerge, and only when the rider left would they speak a word.

I explained the dire situation, the battle that stood before us, and how critically I needed their help. When their council met—the very same group that had inspired me to transform my realms’ governance and abdicate my Crowns’ power to the people—they voted a resounding no.

The attacks in Sophos, Meros, and Umbros had rattled them deeply, and they feared doing anything that might draw Ophiucae’s attention. They were convinced they could stay safe as long as they stayed out of sight.

I reminded them, with increasing fervor, that their place in the mountains was more precarious than it seemed. One strike of Ophiucae’s magic (or one well-placed rebel bomb) could bury them in a tomb of snow and stone.

I reminded them that their silence would not spare them from an enemy who judged them for who they were, not what they did, and that Ophiucae would come for them eventually—and when he did, there’d be no one left to save them. I reminded them that being the last to die still left them dead.

I reminded them that courage is a virtue.

But I was unpersuasive. The centuries they’d spent in search of enlightenment had left them no better, wiser, or kinder than any other selfish human who feared their death. In the face of self-preservation, their piety gruesomely transformed.

Restraint is a virtue, too, they insisted. It’s righteous to protect our own instead of risking their lives for those who do not share our ways. The Blessed Mother called us to isolate for this very reason.

I’d lost the letter from their late King, and in its absence, they insisted my interpretation of his cryptic words was wrong. Even what the goddess Montios said to me on the island was dismissed. A personal calling for you, they claimed, not an order for us.

The peril of giving every person a voice was that sometimes, the worst ones spoke the loudest.

The more I rebuked them, the further they entrenched. With their minds made up, and with my singular vote on their council too small to make a difference, there was nothing I could do. The worst part wasn’t knowing that if I failed, their deaths were inevitable—it was knowing that if I succeeded, they would take it as proof their choice was the right one, and they would never change.

Dejected, I flew back to Lumnos, my frustration simmering into something more complex. Months ago, I’d scolded Henri for saying that change could never come without violence. Now I was shouting at people to fight. I wasn’t sure if I was the one who lost my way, or if Henri had been right all along.

When I landed, my mother and brother were waiting. I put my disappointment aside, and we held each other’s hands as we walked the long miles back to Mortal City, telling stories about Andrei along the way.

We did our best impressions, barking out his favorite lines—which, so often, were the bits of wisdom that had guided me through my hardest trials.

We fell quiet as we turned down the footpath to the blackened circle of earth that had once been our home. When we reached Andrei’s gravesite,

Teller held our mother close, I clutched her hand, and together we let our tears flow for the man who had comforted us, protected us, loved us, chose us.

He gave up everything for me and Mother, even though we didn’t share a single drop of blood. For Andrei Bellator, love was enough to call us family, and for his family, he would do anything. Sacrifice anything.

And though he wasn’t perfect—who was?—gods, was I proud to bear his name.

I knelt on his grave, and I finally let go of the strength I’d been trying so hard to maintain. I let myself feel it all—the grief, the anger, the loneliness, the fear. I let myself mourn all the lives I wanted but couldn’t have, futures where Andrei was alive, Ophiucae was good, and Luther and I didn’t have the Kindred’s curse standing between us.

And I also let myself hope. Against all reason, I let myself believe that somehow, some way, there might still be a happy ending for us all.

Because hope was a spark. And sparks, when nurtured, could light a fire no darkness could overcome.

With that spark cupped fiercely in my heart, I led them down the river to the house Luther had built, and we wept all over again, this time with tears of joy. We planned our post-war antics: Luther and Teller fishing out on the sea while Mother tended the garden and I lost myself in books. We debated which of us Taran would insist on joining, and wondered whether his massive body would capsize Father’s boat. We planned dinners in the yard and holidays by the hearth, surrounded by the loved ones we’d collected from so many different walks of life. As we did, my anger at the Montios Descended slowly turned to pity. Their isolation might have given them temporary peace of mind, but it had robbed them of this beautiful, precious thing that could happen when you opened your heart to a world that was different than your own.

We talked, we apologized, and we forgave. Not all families stuck together, as we’d so painfully seen, but Bellators did. For Andrei, and for ourselves, we did.

And when we made the long walk back to the palace, I realized that somewhere along the way, I found the place where I belonged, and it wasn’t

in any realm or building.

Home was people.

The people who chose me, scars and all.

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