47

It’s his gasp that shatters my heart most of all—the sound of shock, the sound of sudden pain, the sound of a sharp, thick blade piercing the precious treasure within. Seeing that wooden stake, not seeing the hidden tip of that pike, seeing the blood spurt from this newest violation, the proud blood of the Renrian, my counselor, teacher, and friend.

So cruel.

I shout, “Veril,” as I sink beside him to the ground.

But it’s too late.

That gasp.

The world around me fractures, and hot tears spill from my eyes, scalding my cheeks.

Veril lies still.

How did the emperor’s men find us?

I turn to face the soldiers. They huddle behind the Dashmala, gaping mouths, eyes wide with shock. That is, until they realize that there are more of them than there are of me. Math makes them brave, and now, they move from behind Sinth to draw their swords. One soldier withdraws an arrow from his quiver and raises his bow.

Sinth shouts, “Hold,” to the men behind him. Then he points to the man at my feet and shouts, “He murdered my kin.”

“You do this for something that happened a hundred years ago?” I shout, my hands burning bright white.

The giant Dashmala sneers at me, and his mouth lifts in a humorless smile. “I’ve never been so happy to see a gerammoc terrorizing the night sky. I would’ve fired thousands of arrows and swung my sword hundreds of times, fought countless aburans if that meant I got to see this murderer carried across the meadow.”

The fiery arrows launched at the gerammoc—those bolts were shot by soldiers. If Sinth and his men followed the gerammoc to shoot it down, they would’ve seen Jadon, Philia, Veril, and me running away from both monsters.

Sinth reaches for the sword in his scabbard and points it at me. “You—” His yellow eyes peek at me—from my hair to my chest and legs—and come to rest on my face. “We share a heritage, and yet you’re traveling with the murderer who sent our forefathers into the fiery chasms of Riddy Vale?”

The Dashmala—who, to this day, hate me. That’s what Veril told me. That chasm appeared due to a simple spell and the tilt of my head . That’s what he said.

“There was no fiery chasm at that battle,” I shout at him. “Only frightened women, children, and old people hiding behind an illusion, praying that Veril’s enchantment would hold and that the Dashmala who’d come to kill them would see nothing but that illusion and retreat.”

I step away from my friend on feet I can no longer feel, focusing now on the man responsible for his death. “You are Dashmala,” I growl, “and yet you fight for an emperor who forces you to believe in him?” Blue currents sizzle behind my lids—I see my anger before it even reaches my eyes. “These men consider you an outsider, a scourge, a barbarian turned eunuch, and if I don’t kill you, then eventually they will.”

Sinth laughs. “I am commander of Ser Wake’s battalions. They will do as I command.” His yellow eyes darken into bloodred globes. “Killing you, the one who murders our brothers-in-arms. Killing those who’ve betrayed him, including the whore who betrayed our future king. That’s what I’ve been sent to do, and I will do it.”

One soldier shouts, “She’s the one who killed my brother back in Maford.”

I don’t know which man made this accusation because my attention rests on Sinth.

The woods glow with the amber of more soldiers riding our way on horses glowing blue. The spines of the men standing around me straighten even more, and their thoughts bang around my head like swords hitting shields.

Sinth, the one with the pike, the one who killed my friend—I will save him for last.

An arrow speeds past my ear, so close that its feathered fletching brushes my cheek. The archer is already pulling a second arrow from his quiver as the soldiers with the swords rush toward me, their faces contorted with excited anger. The newcomers don’t dismount from their horses. They all race to surround me, their thoughts not all that different from their comrades’.

“Who killed the Renrian?”

“I’ll take his purple eyes.”

A scream rips from my depths and surges through my veins.

The horses, knowing something’s wrong, that I’m not to be harmed, buck and rear back and wag their heads. Some men fall off their mounts. Some men are bitten by their horses. Riderless horses bolt past me, their hooves thundering against the earth, racing in the same direction that Jadon and Philia took. The horses are smart to run.

The soldiers before me, though, are too ignorant to understand. They race to join their fellow soldiers on foot, swords ready, their yells and threats as loud as the hoofbeats of their retreating horses.

But their noise is muted by my crackling fury.

I lift my hands, and fire flickers across the fingertips of my gloves. I don’t pause long enough to appreciate this new ability—flames. I will later. For now, I’m ready to fight.

Another arrow speeds my way but misses, still managing, though, to brush my arm. I scream again, and instead of throwing wind, I throw fiery balls, one after another after another, balls of flame that evaporate soldiers running toward me, that evaporate every soldier circling me, that soldier, that soldier, some soldiers catch fire, and then all of them catch fire and they scream but fuck their screams. I hurl more fire at that soldier and that soldier, all of them now a wall of flames…except for the Dashmala called Sinth, the commander of dead men who cannot call him anything.

I march toward the Dashmala, pulling the long-handled pike from Veril’s back without stopping in my step.

Sinth lifts his massive sword and runs at me.

I stand still.

He is huge.

So what? I’m huge, too. And I’m not moving from this spot. Let him come to me.

He scowls and shouts as he swings at me. And misses.

I kick him backward, but he doesn’t go far. I still don’t leave my spot.

The giant rushes at me again and swings a second time.

I duck and grab his fighting arm, knocking the sword from his hand. I try to turn his palm in its opposite direction, but his wrist, protected by a gauntlet, is too thick to clench.

He swipes his free hand and strikes the right side of my face.

My feet leave the ground as I fly back and hit a petrified tree. I shake my head, seeing only pinpoints of light. I scramble to stand, and my knees wobble. Something wet and warm and too thick to be sweat drips from my earlobe and slides down the side of my neck.

The Dashmala grabs his sword from the dirt and stalks in my direction. He growls, “Burn me, bitch—”

I whip my hand.

Wind, not fire, knocks him onto his back.

I grab the pike and rush over to him.

Sinth lifts his head and shoulders up from the dirt, using his elbows to support his bulk. He glares at me from the bloody, ash-choked dirt and spits.

The globule of phlegm hits the center of the armor that belonged to Veril.

Sinth is making his eventual death altogether worse.

I kick the Dashmala’s shoulder.

His back is against the earth again.

I stand over him and set my foot on top of his armored chest. I lift the pike he used to kill Veril.

Sinth’s bloodred eyes, so shiny with hate and pride, watch me, as he prepares for a quick and valiant death that his people will write songs about.

No. I refuse to bless him with immediacy. He deserves something less. I drive the pike into his mouth, stopping at the back of his tongue.

I take a step back and another step back, and another, and then I hurl fireball after fireball at the dying Dashmala. They will never find his bones, they will never know he stood here and fought me, they will not write songs about him, and if they do, I will silence those songs forever.

And I’m shaking, and I’m shaking.