Chapter 32 | Ravinica

Chapter 32

Ravinica

ALONE IN THE COLORFUL portal tunnel, I had no idea how the rest of my mates would make it. Can you carry a body—Elayina and Arne—through the realms? What about dragging someone like Kelvar?

My journey took me longer than the first two excursions, the directions and space all muddled with my warring thoughts. At one point, I thought I’d be trapped in this otherworld forever.

At the end of it, when the light finally showed itself and allowed me to grasp it, I had no idea how long I had walked through the magical hall. It could have been five minutes or five months.

I ended up tumbling through the sky again, dropping a few feet onto the soft grass of Kiir’luri’s forest floor. For a moment, I was utterly alone. Anxious as I got to my feet, glancing around at the fluttering trees and swaying branches of this alien planet.

Then Sven appeared from nothingness, with Magnus still holding onto Kelvar. Grim and Arne arrived next, falling from a point in the sky above my head and landing next to me in the circle of elfstones. Corym came last, minutes later, holding Elayina tight against his chest like a frail babe.

We were silent as the usual wave of dizziness swept through us, one and all.

Hersir Kelvar hacked a cough. Blood trickled down his chin. He held a hand to his side, which seeped with red through the fingers of his black gloves. The Whisperer winced when Magnus let him go, falling onto his back to stare up at the sky with a dazed expression.

Grim let a writhing Arne go, and the iceshaper flopped to the ground in a bed of leaves, crying and shouting incoherently.

Corym glanced down at Elayina in his arms. Greenish color came to her cheeks—much better than the gray before. She looked to be healing before our eyes.

Our group was in a sorry way. The mayhem of our multiple situations arose all at once in a rush of voices and concerns.

Magnus started the tumult, gripping Kelvar by the lapels of his dark tunic. “Why did you do that, old fool?!”

The Whisperer only responded with a rattling cough, more blood dripping down his sharp chin. His gray eyes were losing color fast. I knew he was on the way out.

It was one of the most intense outbursts I’d seen from Magnus. His indifference was what had stuck him with the title of “sociopath.” This was entirely different. He showed true worry on the lines of his pale face, and our group huddled in—save Arne, who was sobbing in his own world off to the side.

The odd relationship Magnus had formed with Kelvar was clearly reaching a boiling point, driving him mad with questions the older man refused to answer.

And now he might never get them.

My heart hurt for my men. Arne, Magnus, Corym. The utter loss that threatened our group hollowed out my soul. I didn’t want to make this about me—to blame myself for their troubles because of my rebellious act of opening the portal. But Elayina would be fine if the portal hadn’t been opened to let in the dark elves. Frida would have never gone looking for their assistance with her ill-advised plan of redemption and vengeance. Kelvar wouldn’t have taken a sword in the gut.

Magnus shook the Whisperer again, yelling, “Why do you continue to help me?!”

Kelvar groaned from the jostling of his wounded body, screwing his eyes shut. I wanted to reach out and calm Magnus—

“Because that’s what fathers do , you fucking idiot! They protect their young!”

My hand stopped inches from Magnus. A sharp exhale of breath stilled me. Kelvar’s words had been gruff, wrapped in pain.

Sven and Grim murmured something under their breaths, almost like a prayer to the gods—or a curse.

Magnus stopped shaking Kelvar. He stared down at him, aghast, confused. “W-What?”

The Whisperer grunted and kept his eyes closed. When he opened them, I saw the dewy gray pools in a new light.

Gray like Magnus’ eyes. A slightly different hue, yet their similarity was more apparent now than ever before.

“You lie,” Magnus croaked, his voice weak. “I did the research, Whisperer. My father was Fell McKordan. A man I never met.”

Kelvar let out a bloody chuckle, spitting a glob of red off to the side. His face was covered in sweat. I wondered how much longer he could hold on.

“The story’s l-long in telling, boy. Don’t suppose w-we’ve got the time for it, alas.”

My breaths were heavy, my chest ready to implode with grief for Magnus, for Arne. I had not had time to console Arne over the violence we’d just witnessed—hadn’t even formulated what I was going to say to him, what I could say to him. I was at a loss.

Magnus kicked me into gear when he looked over his shoulder at me. “Silvermoon?”

The expression on his face was torn, grief warring with confusion warring with helplessness.

I’d never seen the bloodrender like this. Didn’t even know how to react at first, other than to furrow my brow and wonder, What can I do? Why are you looking to me , Magnus?

Then it struck me. He was looking to me because I was his silvermoon, his shining beacon, and I was the only one he could look to for assistance in trying times. And that sincerity, that need , got my mind working, juices flowing. I recalled a time when Magnus had been injured from the bloodletting tests done to him by Tomekeeper Dahlia. The leechings.

I had given him my blood freely. It not only invigorated him, prompting me to ride the pierced man even on his recovery bed, but I later learned it helped expel the poison in his bloodstream.

Somehow, my blood had rejuvenated Magnus Feldraug. Turned him potent, virile, and allowed him the strength to fight off his leechings next time, and to escape his bindings.

Magnus had special blood because he could use it to make his magic more powerful. The academy wanted to test that ability and weaponize it.

But I had special blood because I could use it to make him more powerful. His body, his vessel.

Abruptly, I went on my knees next to Magnus, crawling forward to loom over Kelvar. “I have an idea.”

I pulled out one of Kelvar’s wicked daggers from his tunic-sheath and nicked my palm. As blood welled and beaded, I hovered my hand over Kelvar’s wounded side.

He frowned up at me. “What are you d-doing, girl?”

“Way I look at it, Hersir, it’s not going to matter if I fail, because you’ll be dead anyway. But if it works . . . ?”

“If what works?”

Magnus growled, “Just let her operate, old fool.”

“I th-thought the elf was the h-healer.”

Corym shook his head. “A gut wound like that? Surefire death, Whisperer. Even my capabilities are useless. Plus, I have nothing to work with here.”

“Grand,” Kelvar croaked, and finally gave me a begrudging nod when I pinned his eyes with mine.

I carefully moved his bloody palm and lifted the tunic of his shirt, showing a gaunt, pale body beneath. The stab wound was jagged and deep, coated in black veins, pumping thick red rivers and already looking like it was infected with dark magic. It had surely gone deep enough to strike his internal organs.

Hesitating, I chewed my lip, staring down. Wondering if I was making a horrible mistake.

“If you’re going to do it, d-do it!” Kelvar yelled.

I let out an anxious yelp and slammed my hand down on the cut, mixing the blood in my palm with his grim wound. Smearing my hand on him, I made a disgusted face from how slippery and sticky it was.

Kelvar seethed, gritting his teeth, baring them, slamming his eyes shut again as he twitched.

Nothing happened. When I removed my palm, the bleeding resumed.

I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry . . .”

“Just wait,” Magnus eked out. He bent lower, examining, and pointed. “Look.”

Squinting, trying to see past the muddled view of Kelvar’s bleeding gash, I noticed the black veins close to the injury were starting to recede. They were growing fainter.

“Holy shit,” Sven said above my shoulder. “It’s working.”

My jaw dropped, unable to comprehend what this meant.

As more seconds passed, the puncture looked less grisly. It wasn’t healing his flesh, but it was certainly doing something to the magical infection I assumed was coursing through his bloodstream.

Kelvar’s rattling wheeze softened. His breathing came easier, his body stopped trembling.

Then a voice, ancient and whispering and feminine, croaked from outside the huddle in an awed tone of reverence.

“Lightbearer . . .”

Lady Elayina had awoken. She was upright, hunched over like a crone, showing her age in the slow way she shuffled around the elfstones.

Kelvar the Whisperer was propped up against one of the stones, choking down water from a stone bowl Corym had found when he wandered off, returning minutes later after finding a nearby river.

I was kneeled across from Arne, holding his hands, commiserating with him in silence. The iceshaper had his head bowed. His tears had dried. He was giving a prayer to the gods—to Odin to bring Frida to Valhalla since she had died in battle; to Hel, if Odin wouldn’t listen, wishing Frida a peaceful slumber in the underworld; and to Freyja, the Vanir goddess who chose half the warriors who died in battle to go to her sacred meadows of Folkvang.

I did not know where Frida would end up. At least she has more options in death than it appears she had in life.

Frida Gorndeen had faced a depraved, violent end for her reckless, idealistic notions. We’d all seen it. I knew that even if we could return to Midgard and find her, whatever powers my blood held would do nothing for her.

In my soul, I knew I could not resurrect someone from the dead. I was no necromancer, no draug-raiser. I hardly understood myself at this point, and was more baffled than anything.

I was not supposed to be special. Gods above, I couldn’t even wield magic or runeshape less than a year ago!

And now this? Kelvar was going to live from a “surefire death” wound as Corym had put it, because I had gotten some crazy idea to mingle my blood with his?

What does it mean? What in Hel am I?!

Elayina had called me “Lightbearer.” Her eyes had opened while she rested in Corym’s arms, mere moments after I had performed my miracle on Kelvar.

I did not know what that meant, other than a pretty title from the convoluted tales, legends, and prophecies she had once told me about.

I needed a refresher on those prophecies, because so much had happened since then. The serpent’s shadow? The Lightbearer? The one who walked, the one who flew, the Winged One? There was too much to parse, and my mind was going in a million different directions.

The seer was in no condition to speak or tell me more at the moment. Even if the power of the trees in Kiir’luri had awoken her out of her coma, she still looked weak, frail, and sickly.

I wasn’t sure how we were possibly going to escort her anywhere. Unless we carry her. I mean, we’ve already done it once.

We recovered in the circle of elfstones, biding our time while night ended and a sapphire-emerald dawn bit at the horizon, signaling a new day.

Most everyone had fallen asleep abruptly; chins drooped on their chests, heads on the spongy grass and soft leaves. Our exhaustion took hold.

I dozed off with Arne’s hands entwined in mine, both of us lying back against tree trunks. I hadn’t apologized to him or said I was sorry about Frida’s death. Not this time. I knew it wasn’t what he wanted or needed. How could it help? How can I possibly console someone over the loss of a sibling they once held so dear?

We held watch, Sven taking the first shift, and then I lost track of who followed him because I was out. The warmth of Alfheim nestled deep in my muscles and worked out the aches, helping me to drift off.

At some point, a rustling sound caught my attention, snapping me from my dead sleep. My eyes flicked open, finding Grim, Sven, and Corym standing at the front of our group. Magnus was shielding Kelvar the Whisperer toward the back, with the Hersir looking like he actually had some color in his cheeks again.

I hurried to my hands and knees, then my feet. Arne was quickly rising next to me.

Branches and bushes were pushed aside.

Jhaeros, Hunter-Chief of the Northern Kirr wood elves, had returned. He wasn’t alone, this time his entourage numbered more than before. It seemed he had brought his whole Skogalfar tribe to the elfstones to inspect the disturbance in the blood-spirits from our arrival.

For some reason, my heart lifted when I saw him. Even though he had threatened us with death, I was relieved he was here. Because what was the alternative? What if the dark elves are waiting at the portal in Midgard to kill us the moment we return? We can’t go back yet—not so soon.

We had expected Jhaeros at some point, though no one had said anything. We weren’t exactly trying to hide.

“Took you long enough,” I muttered to myself, earning a snort from Sven beside me.

Corym spoke in his regal tongue to Jhaeros.

The bronze-hued warrior flared his nostrils, pointing his spear and waving it around behind him, evidently angry at something. Though I couldn’t understand his guttural words, his body language was clear enough.

He was not a happy camper.

Corym said, “He’s not overjoyed we’ve returned.”

“I could guess,” I said. “Is he going to kill us, or what? I thought you were a prince. Can’t you use your, uh, princeliness, to help us?”

He laughed softly. “If only it were so easy, lunis’ai . I’ve told him Dokkalfar have invaded your shores.”

“Shores? They’ve invaded Midgard’s heartland !”

“Right. Well. ‘Shores’ has a better ring to it for elves. We’re born from the shore and when we die we go back to the shore. We’re big on shores.”

I smiled, feeling refreshed from my short rest and because we finally had numbers on our side. As long as those numbers don’t turn against us and kill us all. Corym was starting to sound more humanlike the longer he spent with me, finding humor in even the gloomiest of moments.

“I’m assuming they won’t help us eradicate the Dokkalfar,” I said.

“Absolutely not. Skogalfar have no love for Midgard.”

Yeah, I’d imagined. King Dannon had really fucked us over by staining our name all across the nine realms.

Corym and Jhaeros kept arguing. Arms gesticulated.

Then a throat cleared.

Sven, Grim, and I parted . . . as Elayina waddled through the walkway we’d created, looking like a moss-covered Yoda.

Jhaeros’ words stopped short on a sharp inhale. There was sudden wonder in his eyes. Murmurs spread across his group of thirty hunters, low and eerie.

Elayina, hardly more than four feet in height, squared her bony shoulders and said a few words in Elvish. Her words had a lilting, almost mythical quality to them.

The Skogalfar chieftain went to one knee, bowing his head like a knight to his queen.

“ Anvari, ” he said in a respectful, hallowed tone.

Even I knew the translation for that, because Corym had told me months back, after calling Elayina by the same title.

Ancient One.