Chapter 24

I feel Belliah join me.

"How does one break a ward?" She asks.

I consider the question—more to the point, I think about how to break this ward, one nearly as powerful as the one on the main gates, without utterly depleting myself.

I look at Belliah. At the small army behind me. And I smile.

" One does not break the ward," I answer. " We break the ward." I turn back to my people. "Fae—I need you. We have to do this together if we're to have a chance of facing what lies beyond. Step forward and join Belliah and me. Join hands and face the ward."

Slowly, a few fae step forward. One or two. and then three and soon a little more than a third of my force is arrayed around me, hands joined, waiting.

"Focus on the hinge—the convergence key. Seek the person next to you, open your mind to them. Link with them. Open your prana—open it wide. You must trust the person beside you, and you must trust me."

"How do we link with someone not our mate?" A male voice asks.

"Close your eyes and feel—feel prana. Feel minds. It is not a binding link, merely a temporary connection."

I do as I am instructing, connecting to Belliah. Her mind is a powerful force, and her prana a deep well, not wide but very, very deep. Hers is more white than gold. I link to her, and feel our prana…it doesn't merge, but connects. A tenuous, temporary link.

"Oh!" Belliah exclaims. "I feel you. It's…once you get over the weirdness, it's easy."

I feel the person beside me, a male fae, middle-aged, the fae version of an IT tech. His prana is almost entirely gold shot through with thin bands of white, and his well is…dense. Not a well at all, but rather more of a dense core.

I link to him and cast my senses beyond him. Slowly, I feel the chain extend, person by person until I can feel the multitude of them, link after link, each well and pool and core of power connected each to the other…and to me.

"Now," I call out, "you must remain open and connected. The chain must remain whole. If someone drops, you must close the chain again as swiftly as possible."

My voice shivers, echoes…almost sounding as if there are two voices layered together.

I realize, in some small corner of my mind, that I haven't told the others about the demense yet.

Mother's Spirit is speaking through me, I think.

I love you, Mom.

"Focus on the hinge," I say out loud. "All the power will be channeled through me. But you all must focus on the hinge. Do not waver. Do not doubt. You will not burn out as long as the chain is unbroken." I inhale deeply and hold it until my lungs protest. "Ready?"

I feel the chain blaze with power as they all focus on the hinge.

I draw my prana up through my belly, my navel, my chest, my heart, my third eye. All of it, the whole ocean, I pour it in a raging, white-hot torrent into the convergence key. And when my ocean is dry, I pull the chain-linked power through my hands, into my navel, and up, and out. Into the hinge.

Heat builds as the ward reacts, pushing back.

The hinge glows orange, and then red, and then white. The origin strands pulse and then flicker in a staccato pattern—short-circuiting.

A scream resonates across the chain, and the flow of power stutters, chokes, and then I feel a brief hiccup, hear a thump of a body hitting the floor, and then the chain closes once more, ever so slightly weaker.

The ward itself pulses, each pulse a little brighter, and the hinge is now a miniature sun glowing with violent, blinding incandescence.

Which is when I realize, belatedly, that when this ward breaks, it will explode. And, obviously, the more powerful the ward, the bigger the detonation.

And we are all standing right in front of it, less than fifty feet away. I have to protect my people. But how? How fast can I throw up a shield?

I suppose we're about to find out.

Now, my attention has to be divided three ways: the chain of my fae linked to me, our combined power flowing through me into the hinge, and now the impossible timing of putting up a shield in the instant between the ward breaking and the resulting detonation.

I feel another scream shiver along the chain, another hiccup, another thump of a body hitting stone, another weakening of the flow.

The hinge is about to go—the pulsing is frenetic, now, the incandescence physically painful, the heat of the ward's reaction intolerable, blistering our skin, setting hair to smoldering and the rock around the door melting into slag and magma.

A third hiccup.

A third death on my conscience—my people. They trusted me, and they're dying.

No. Can't think about that.

Focus, Maeve.

Help me, Mom .

In that third part of my attention, I think about wind. A wall of wind. Flowing not up or down, but toward the door. A howling, raging straight-line hurricane.

A fourth stutter.

The hinge bursts with an audible crack, the sound of a thick piece of glass spiderwebbing under titanic pressure.

Not yet—it's whispered in the back of my mind. My voice, not Mom's, but it's her spirit guiding me.

I focus with all possible intensity upon the hinge, the brighter cracks in the knot, the gaps where our power is overloading the glamour.

Time slows down. I watch the crack spread along the origin strand, which turns orange and then red. From the origin strand, the vein of red creeps slowly to another strand, and another, and then another, picking up speed with mathematical precision, and then the whole ward glows red instead of the white-gold of a glamour.

There's the briefest of pauses, then. A momentary lull when the whole ward blazes scarlet—it's the moment when a nuclear explosion occurs—before the roar and the heat and the light reach your eyes.

At that moment, I break the connection, yanking my hands free from Belliah's and that of the male on my other side. Abruptly alone, my prana surges in reverse, crashing back into the pit of my belly—metaphysically speaking. I push prana into my hands, as much as I can as fast as I can, holding the image of the wall of wind in my mind.

I wrap the image in a thick coating of magic, layer after layer.

There's a pop, an inverse of your ears popping from altitude. And then, all at once, a roar that shakes the very heavens, a twin explosion. The ward breaks with a concussion that will surely cause avalanches all along the Alpine range. And with it, or rather an infinitesimal fraction of a second after, the terrifying freight train bellow of a tornado.

I open my eyes in time to see a twisting vortex of hellfire spinning and howling horizontally, the wide mouth facing me, the narrow tip spearing into the jagged opening torn into the naked bones of the mountain.

The scent of blood fills the air, and the sound of screams—cut short.

Fire rages. Voices shout.

With a weak gasp, I release the wind glamour and it winks out of existence, and the flames gutter and swirl and dissolve.

Silence.

I look around me: the chain of fae still holds, hand in hand, broken only at me. Four bodies lie limp and prone, face down, their compatriots forced to stand over their bodies.

Four? I counted three.

Their eyes smolder—no, not their eyes, I realize…their third eye, the chakra above and between their eyes.

Alistair appears beside me in a blur of shadows. "No time to mourn the dead, my dear. We must advance while the enemy is stunned."

I use the sorrow gnawing at the pit of my belly as fuel to overcome my momentary paralysis.

"With me!" I shout.

Caleb howls, a long high mournful wail, and I feel as much as see six flashes of amber and then six more voices join the howl.

More amber flashes. A lion roars. A dog barks. More wolves join the howling. Soon, there's a chorus of predators snarling behind me.

Darkness washes over us in a wave, then. Coming not from me, but from the opening.

I draw my power and let it blaze through me, and my hair shines like a beacon in the shadows, and I feel Caspian beside me, and Stirling and Fin to either side and behind and Alistair at my back.

I march forward into the shadows, and the darkness feels cold and slick and oily, not a mere absence of light but something else.

I can see nothing around me as I move forward, stepping on rubble and melted slag from the doors, and then smooth stone underfoot.

I smell them.

I cast my mark of fealty and send it floating forward into the dark, shouting as loudly as I can. "IF YOU WOULD NOT DIE FOR THE TRIBUNAL, JOIN ME! TAKE MY MARK AND LIVE!"

"WorldBreaker!" I hear the shout echo and get picked up by a chorus of voices. "She's come for our souls!"

I want to laugh and cry. "Your souls?" I feel my mark hovering, floating. "Accept my mark. Join us. Do not die for their cause, but live for mine!"

I feel my mark flare, and the shadows twist and writhe. A figure emerges, hands raised—a fae female.

A male shifter.

A pair of vampires—two males, mated.

I stand in silence as they cross the black Rubicon, ten in total, mostly fae.

I turn to the last one to cross. "How many are there?"

She is old, ancient but weakened. "Too many," she whispers. "Their minds have been poisoned. Zirae, casts the Coil of Undying Death upon us all, day after day, to keep us in thrall to his power. When he releases us from the coil, we are weak with gratitude and desperate to do his bidding. No more will join us."

I recall my mark and hold it out to her. "I have experienced his Coil of Undying Death. He is a corrupt and twisted being, a monster who does not deserve loyalty."

She places her palm on the glamour and my sparrow imprints its outline on her chest. "It is not loyalty but fear holding them in thrall, my Queen."

"Fear is a poor motivator. Remove the fear, lose the allegiance." I clasp her hands in mine. "What is your name, grandmother?"

Her smile is bright, eyes glittering with unshed tears. "Lissaea." Liss-AY-ah .

"I am pleased to have you join us." I turn to face the others: six fae, three vampires, and one shifter. "I present you with the choice I've given everyone who has come to me: take my mark of fealty and fight for our cause of equality and inclusion in mortal society and an end to the selfish corruption of the Tribunal. Or do not take my mark and go your own way. Or, return to Zirae and face our fury."

One by one, they all take the mark and join the ranks behind me.

I turn to Lissaea once more. "What faces us, beyond this darkness?"

"Several lesser wards, beyond which wait squads of his guards. The intent is to weaken you personally and thin your ranks before you reach him."

"The others of the Tribunal?"

She shrugs. "Elias has abdicated his seat on the council and sent a message of condemnation of Zirae to all fae. Salome and Isis stand with Elias. It is likely they will side with you. The vampires are in disarray, divided, or at least uncertain whom they will support. I think Horeb and Toresh will side with Zirae while Freya and Amalfia will join you, but nothing is certain. The shifters I cannot speak to, for they keep their own counsel." She glances over her shoulder at the lone shifter who joined us, a seven-foot-tall male with a shaved head and a strange, uncomfortable stillness in his bearing. "Sorren. Do you know the disposition of the shifters on the Tribunal?"

The tall male regards me with cold, blank eyes. When he speaks, it is slowly, with a heavy emphasis on the sibilants.

"S-S-S-Sinoa, Hagonesss, Ch'assska, and Nomkhubulwane have long despised Zirae. They fear his greed and his power. That you share a mate-bond with an Alpha Prime will sssspeak to them in your favor. They will watch your advan-sssss againssst Zirae. If they find you worthy, they will join with your cause."

I exhale slowly. "And when they find out I intend to disband the Tribunal? What then?"

A shrug. "Who knows? They have sssat in power for an age. Will they give it up to an upssstart Once-Mortal Queen? A child? But…with immortal exssstinction so consssstant a ssspecter, and sssso many elder fae sssuccuming to age-sssicknesss? A radical change ssseems to many the only way forward. Even through the bloody nesssessssssity of civil war."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at his difficulty with the word "necessity."

It's not funny. Really.

"Thank you, Sorren."

I address the next question to no one in particular. "Are they all in one, like chamber? Together?"

Lissaea answers. "No. They only convene if there is a topic that the entire Tribunal must address. Zirae has warded himself in the council chamber with twenty of his most loyal fae warriors."

I nod. "And how will the others know what goes on?"

"The council chamber is glamoured. All that is said and done is communicated in real-time to the private chambers of each member of the council, if they are not in the chamber physically," Lissaea answers. "Their quarters are arranged around the central chamber. Did you see the Tribunal's insignia on the doors? The triangle is the council chamber, and the four members have their quarters together, foursquare, at each point of the triangle."

"Thank you. Any other information I should know before we advance?" I ask.

"Yes," Lissaea says. "Zirae has a means of travel, what you might consider a portal. He alone knows the secret. He can summon the portal and travel to any location of his choosing, in an instant, so long as he has physically seen the location. I have witnessed its use. He has devised a means of traveling through The Dreaming, I believe. How, I do not know. But know that if you threaten him too greatly, he will vanish. If you can kill him, you must do so swiftly, or lose the chance."

I nod. "I see. You have proven your value already, Lissaea, and Sorren. If you think of anything else, please do not hesitate to come to me. I am ignorant of many things in this immortal world, and I will rely on the knowledge and wisdom of others to make the best decisions."

Lissaea nods, and Sorren just regards me with cold, inscrutable silence.

I spy Saige hovering at the edges of the crowd, watching, and gesture her over. "What is an Alpha Prime?" I ask her, quietly.

She glances at Caleb, my Wolf, who watches with his tongue lolling, head tilted. He yips once, and Saige nods and then looks at me. "He is. Every pack has an alpha, its leader. The alpha is not just the oldest or strongest, but also the wisest. You are born to be an alpha, or you are not. You cannot become one. But there are, very rarely, shifters who are an Alpha Prime. A prime, such as Caleb, can command other alphas. It is an extra measure of power and authority. With it, increased strength, fortitude, and ability. It is why he can shift so swiftly. He can partially shift if he needs to, but he prefers not to."

"So the shifters on the council—they're all Primes, I assume?"

Sorren speaks up. The emphasis on the sibilants continues, but I quickly learn to tune it out and focus on his words. "No. Only Hagones and Ch'aska are Primes. Horeb and Nomkhubulwane are merely very old, very wise, and very powerful. Caleb, as a Prime, would be approached for a seat on the Tribunal, someday. That he fights with you to end something which stands to grant him untold power speaks much of his character. A pack grants authority to its alpha by choosing to follow and obey the alpha. They grant him or her the power. It is not taken. We shifters value character above strength." His cold dark eyes go to Caleb, panting at my side. "I am no wolf, Alpha. I am a serpent, and we travel our own road. Yet, I would join your pack, if you will have me."

Caleb rises from his haunches and pads over to Sorren, gazing up at him with amber-glowing eyes. Seeking, searching. He barks, once.

"Kneel, Sorren of the Serpent Clan," Saige says, her voice crackling with authority.

Sorren drops to one knee, head bowed. Caleb places one paw the size of a dinner plate on Sorren's chest over his heart, and an amber glow flares from Caleb's eyes and Sorren's chest. Caleb barks again, and this time it seems to echo, resonating. Sorren places his closed right fist over his heart and stands to his feet.

Saige smiles up at him. "Welcome, Sorren."

The rest of the pack crowds around him, even Sierra, still in wolf form, while the rest are in human form. They clap him on the back and pepper him with questions, none of which he answers. Sierra just sits on her haunches, watching.

She must feel my eyes because she glances at me. Her hackles rise and her lips curl back, a vicious snarl rumbling in her chest. Caleb darts at Sierra, a quick hard lunge that plants his shoulder in her chest to send her rolling. Caleb ends up on top of her, jaws locked on her throat, snarling.

I lurch forward, but Saige intercepts me. "No," she murmurs in my ear, holding me back. "It is his to handle his way. You must trust him with this."

I relax. "I trust him with all things."

She pats me on the chest. "Sierra has suffered much in her life. She has always known Caleb will never return her feelings. But he saved her life, coaxed her out of a feral state, and brought her into the pack. He holds her life-long loyalty, but her romantic feelings complicate it. And now you come along and claim his love, which she has long wished for herself. You can do nothing, Maeve." She looks up at me, soft, wild brown eyes searching mine. "Her anger drives her. Her pain drives her. She is the most cunning fighter of us all. Even Callahan fears to cross her."

I laugh. "Oh, great. And she hates me."

Saige laughs. "She only hates those she fears. Or, at very least, is threatened by."

"I'm not a threat to her."

A shrug. "She may not see it that way."

While we talk, Caleb has released her but keeps her pinned on her back with his forepaws, and it seems to me that they're communicating silently.

I leave Caleb to deal with Sierra and turn to the oily dark shadows.

No more stalling. Time to advance.

If I claimed I wasn't afraid, I'd be lying.