Chapter 62

Icouldn't see a damn thing dangling from Tristan's talons like a sack of potatoes, the freezing wind turning my bare legs and arms to ice. I had no shoes, wearing nothing but the thin shirt and breeches. My hair had whipped into a snarl, my eyes swollen shut from watering.

Not that it mattered. There was nothing around us but darkness, no way for me to get my bearings, to even tell which direction we were headed or how high we flew.

Not high enough, because even here, I smelled rot.

Even up here I swore I heard Corvus's creeping voice calling my name.

My cheek burned like fire, my eyes wouldn't stop watering, and the gash on my calf ached with a dull kind of pain like I'd been infected.

"Tristan." The wind tore his name from my mouth, leaving it hanging behind us. "Tristan, we have to go back."

He rumbled, a sound that could mean anything, but kept flying, not deviating from his course.

"Tristan, we can't leave them." I tried working my fingers between his talon and my stomach. "There were too many of those creatures. They can't possibly hold them all off. We have to go back. We have to. Stop being obstinate," I screamed into the darkness.

Another of those deep rumbles, more worried sounding this time, but the wyvern didn't bank, didn't change direction. I took a panting breath, wondering if my deadened fingers were frostbitten, my wounded leg on fire.

I cracked open my watering eyes, squinting to pick out a single landmark.

The blighted forest was a sea of black. If there was a moon tonight, the light failed to penetrate Corvus's foulness. If the wind wasn't ripping my hair from my scalp, I would have thought we were floating in place.

But there…A little sob burst out of me. Gripped in Tristan's other paw was the rectangular wooden box holding the weapon.

No food, or water, or clothes…but we had both pieces of the blade. That had to count for something, I supposed, even though our chances of killing Corvus faded every day, as if fate herself wanted this world to just die already.

I replayed my final glimpse of Tavion, Raz, and Zor surrounded by monsters I'd created.

Fae I'd twisted into something foul and evil.

Endless darkness blurred past, cold creeping into my veins, turning my thoughts to sludge, Tristan's talons cutting into my skin as I hung bonelessly in his grasp. He kept making those worried-sounding rumbles, but what could he do?

There was nowhere to put down, nowhere for us to rest, and by now we'd been flying for so long, if we didn't reach the Wynter Palace before Tristan's magic ran out…I supposed someday, if there was ever another cycle and the blight faded away, someone might find our bones down there in the forest.

I opened my eyes,something rough scratching across my burning cheek.

I ached all over, my muscles stiff and sore, my empty stomach cramping. It took me a full minute to realize I wasn't moving. The cold seeping into me wasn't from rushing air, but cold, damp stone.

That the rough scratching came from a scaled wyvern's nose shoving at me, trying to wake me up.

"I'm good, I'm good. You can stop any time now," I mumbled out of the side of my mouth, not sure I could even lift my head.

"Getting up right now, you overprotective wyrm." A chuff of warm air flooded over me, making my cut cheek burn hotter, the reek of rot filling my nostrils.

Then I remembered. We were both covered in blighted ash, but while Tristan's wyvern was immune to the effects, I was not.

I took a shuddering breath and forced my frozen, aching muscles into a sitting position, enough to see Tristan had flown us to the Wynter Palace. He'd crossed miles and miles of rotten forest, and the box was right beside me, still locked tight.

"You did it, Tristan. You got us here." I cupped his scaled chin, peering into those red-gold eyes. "You saved me, and the knife, and probably this entire world." I pressed my lips to his nose and tasted woodsmoke and fire. "I love you."

He chuffed out another sound that might have been a laugh—I really needed to figure out his wyvern's language—before nuzzling against my injured cheek. My skin was on fire, but that hurt was nothing compared to my leg. I took a deep breath before I looked down, not sure what I'd find.

The gash from the broken window was laid open, white bone gleaming through the red muscle, black veins spreading outward all the way to my knee and down to my ankle. Tristan peered at the wound, growling low in his throat.

"Okay, we have to get inside." I peered up at the palace fa?ade. Not a single speck of black anywhere, but if I went inside like this…I would contaminate our only refuge.

"There's a fountain out back with standing water in the bowl if it hasn't dried up. I'll wash everything I can off before we go inside," I decided, wrapping my fingers around one of his scales and heaving myself up, hopping on my good foot.

"The fountain's around back." I leaned over and picked up the box—hard to do on one foot—tucked it beneath my arm, and started limping toward the patio where Bexley had forced me to hold that flame aloft for hours.

The standing water in the bottom of the fountain was stained brown from fallen leaves and colder than the depths of the Great Beyond, but I set down the box and waded in, scrubbing my face then my leg, then stripped off the ruined shirt and breeches, leaving me in my skivvies.

Then I splashed across to the other side and washed again, gritting my teeth against the cold.

The only thing I salvaged was the keystone, washing it off five times for luck in the murky water, my stiff fingers gripping it so tightly I doubted even the Oracle could pry it out of my hand.

Tristan paced back and forth, tail lashing, knocking over ancient statues and the bench Bexley had sat on that night. "I'm fine," I lied, my teeth chattering as I climbed out of the fountain. "Just need to get in front of a fire, and you can help with that, so nothing to worry about."

In truth, I was worried about everything.

The virtual army of monsters swarming Ravenshade Castle when we'd lifted off into the air. The fact that Zor had wings and couldn't walk, much less travel. The fact that Tavion and Bex couldn't get themselves here.

Raz could only carry one person here. Only one.

And I knew him well enough to know he'd never leave anyone behind.

And Tristan needed time to recover before he attempted a return trip. Not that I could ever convince him to leave me since the Oracle could show up at any time.

Gods, we were so screwed.

I picked up the box and trudged toward the palace, then hesitated at the last moment before I rounded the corner of the palace, shoving the knife beneath one of the crushed statues, the white, broken edges of some ancient, forgotten goddess gleaming against the darkness. Not the best hiding place, but if the Oracle arrived to take back the Fae magic, I wouldn't make this easy for her.

Tristan followed me to the front door, shifting at the last possible moment to catch me when I stumbled over the threshold. His skin was fire against my ice, too hot, almost, and I gripped his shoulders tight when he lifted me into his arms.

"Hang on, Anaria. Let's get you warmed up, then I'll take a look at your leg."

He staggered down the ruined main hall, his legs almost as unsteady as my own, diverting into the wrecked room where Bexley had set up shop, dodging torn books and shattered glass strewn across the floor while heading for the wood piled beside the hearth.

His hands shook as he stacked the logs then blew a fiery breath into their center, warm golden light flickering then blazing up with a heated roar. He pulled me against him, and I closed my eyes against the tears threatening to fall.

"We're okay, Anaria." His arms wrapped around me tighter than any blanket, his heat sinking in deep as I snuggled against him. "The others will be here soon, then Raz will heal you."

His knuckles dragging slowly down the hurting side of my face was the last thing I remembered, until I woke up wrapped in a blanket, him tugging a shirt over my head smelling faintly of mothballs. "This was all I could find that would fit. I have breeches, too, but they might have to wait."

I tried to talk, but my tongue felt thick, my mouth stuffed full of cotton.

"Your leg is bad, Anaria. So is your face." He guided my arm through a sleeve, then pressed the keystone back into my hand. "Here. This seems to be helping slow the infection. I don't have healing magic, and it's been over an hour, but they aren't here yet."

His voice was calm, unhurried, but I felt his unease like it was my own, a vise-like tightness inside my chest, gnawing at me with every worried glance toward the door.

Once he dressed me, Tristan tipped a glass to my lips, and I wanted to sob when clean, cold water slid down my dry throat.

"You drink this, then I'll search through the debris, see if Bex had any healing herbs or potions I can salvage. There has to be something in this mess to slow down the infection."

My blood ran cold at every carefully enunciated word, at the fear that filled his eyes, how badly his elegant hands shook when he lowered the empty glass and set it aside. "Unless you can use your magic like you did before?"

"Bex…ley." I meant to say last time Bexley helped, boosting my magic with his, guiding me through the process, but all I could get out was one lousy word.

"Not here, not yet." Tristan's head shot up and he stared hard at the door, frowning. "Maybe soon, though. Maybe…"

His eyes flared wide, and he reached for me, mouth open in a scream.

Then Tristan was gone, a swirl of cold, bitter air taking his place.

I knew who'd dragged him away, even before I heard her laughter floating down the hall filled with that gloating arrogance I despised. The palace was silent, but she was here, waiting, like a fat, bloated spider in the dark, waiting for me to wander into her web.

A low, keening groan echoed past the room, barely audible over the crackling fire. Then another.

And another.

After the first one, I was already pushing myself up, my leg screaming, hand shooting out to grip the mantle in a desperate bid to keep myself standing long enough for my mind to clear.

Long enough to make a few desperate preparations.

Before I limped down the hall toward my sister's laughter.