As before, Amris knelt before Darya, one hand in hers and one on the hilt of the sword where Gerant dwelled. Her hand had fit well within his even then, little as he’d known her, and it had been easy to look into her eyes. Now, as the world narrowed to her face and the slim fingers wrapped around his, he went eagerly into that temporary refuge—one familiar not just from lust but from stolen sleep between battles, from trust within them, from the comfort of her quick speech and quicker grasp of circumstances.
He’d known the weight of a sword forever, but the soul-blade felt better balanced, even upright and in one hand, than any weapon he’d wielded. The emerald was cool beneath his fingers, a balm to the abraded skin there.
The others gathered around them. It had started with Emeth going to stand by the doorway “because one of us needs to be ready with an explanation,” she’d said. That had put her in the south, with Katrine sitting in the north. Olvir shifting east and Tebengri west had seemed only natural. None of them had spoken of it, but Amris, for years the lover of a mage, had smiled. They had a magic circle this time, one made of their friends. That was no promise of victory, but there was nobility in the moment, and that would suffice.
Magic grew in the air, humming faint and low. Amris breathed in slowly, watching Darya as she did the same: the depth and brightness of her eyes, the fine, stubborn lines of her face and the rainbow play of light across her scales. He felt the ache in her sword arm, like his own pains but different as her body was different. He caught a glimpse of vision through her reforged eyes, as shapes in the darkness became clearer and took on color.
Going deeper than before, he felt her anger and her grief, the desire for—and the revelation in—vengeance, far deeper than his own. Amris had learned battle and been glad of his skill, but Darya had been made to take joy in it. Feeling the shadow of that in his heart and gut, he embraced it. She was herself. No other, perhaps, would have been able to free him, nor to make a place for him in the world as it was.
Amris squeezed her hand gently and she returned the pressure. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes, mirroring the ones in his own eyes. It was a shame to die, as he thought they still likely would, and give this up, but they’d known it for a few minutes. That would have to be enough.
Beyond Darya, Katrine was watching them, her face solemn. Amris met her gaze—the spell expanded. It brushed her only lightly, far more so even than it had touched him and Darya the first time, but briefly he knew her flesh working over the last few years, changing her body into what she needed it to be beyond being the gods’ weapon, and her lingering headache in that moment. From her it spread eastward to the keen young strength of Olvir, then south, as Emeth turned.
Her brow was furrowed and remained so for a second, and the quiet sound halted. Then she gave a very small nod, and the magic flowed over her and on to Tebengri, adding their quiet patience to the mixture. There it slowly faded, becoming an echo in Amris’s ears and a faint perfume, or whatever form the others sensed.
It’s complete,said Gerant.Utterly unexpected, but complete.
Nobody but him and Darya seemed to have heard, regardless of the spell. “Thank you,” Amris said, not letting go of Darya’s hands.
“I’m glad to have helped,” said Emeth, “but what the hell did I just do?”
“We all agreed to be part of the spell,” Tebengri said, “or at least I had the sensation that my will was necessary. But what that means for it, or us…” They shrugged.
I wish I had a more definite answer too. This didn’t work when I tried it before—granted, the circumstances were different, but many of the participants were the same. Perhaps I need both of you as an anchor, or perhaps the sigil helped, or… I’ll have to think about it. I perceived many things just then, and I’ll need time to sort them all out.
“Gerant’s got no idea either,” Darya translated.
“I suppose we’ll find out sooner or later.” Leaning back, Katrine picked up her tea again. “If we all survive long enough for my head to feel normal, I’ll be glad to answer questions. For now, though, I’d like to sleep. This scheme will go off better if I’m alert. Or if you are,” she added, beckoning Emeth over with a free hand, “and I know you won’t sleep for fussing.”
“I don’t fuss.”
“And I had better find Hallis,” Amris added. Slowly, he got to his feet, keeping hold of Darya’s hands until the last second. She prolonged the contact by standing as well, easily mirroring his movements.
Now they were far more deeply linked. As a tactician, Amris hoped that it would be an advantage later on. For himself, he was simply glad.
Chapter 40
Katrine and Olvir had bought them most of six hours. Standing on top of the wall with her bow in hand, smelling the reek of a three-day-old battlefield in midafternoon, and watching Thyran’s abattoir advance with the rest of his troops behind it, Darya could only hope they’d used it well.
“He’s not taking any chances,” she said to Gerant. The wizard had brought three of the crawling-faces with him, and two others marched on either side of the rebuilt juggernaut. “Wonder why he didn’t have the whole pack along before.”
Most likely, he was afraid one of them would use the opportunity to further its own ends. Gizath’s nature has its downsides, and not only for us.
“Which means he’s scared now.” She nocked an arrow as the twistedmen grew closer and, along with the rest of the defenders, fired it on Hallis’s command. None of them aimed at the abattoir this time. Twistedmen and beaked things made more satisfying targets, and they died by the score, while others shrieked with the pain of wounds. “I don’t know if that’s good for our plan or not.”
Neither do I.
If Gerant had been able to breathe, Darya knew he’d have been holding his breath as the abattoir took position before the doors again. She sure as hell was. So was Amris, making his way to the center of the wall, just above the doors themselves.
He stopped there, helmet under an arm, the wind blowing through his dark hair. They’d polished his armor to as close to a mirror sheen as it could get after days of battle, and the light caught it now, making him resemble a figure on a stained-glass window. Darya thought of Veryon, Letar’s doomed lover, and wished she hadn’t.
“Thyran of Heliodar!” he called, and drew his sword with his free hand. “We meet again. Accept my challenge, and let us end this with honor.”
“Don’t you dare fucking do it,” Darya whispered.
She didn’t have to worry long. Thyran looked up and his face grew white. His eyes widened and filled even more with the grayish fire of Gizath. “Var Faina? Who… How…” Then he flicked one ringed hand outward, and the face beneath the bone crown filled with contempt, leaving no room for curiosity. “What would you know of honor, you jumped-up farmer’s brat? You, who feared me enough to turn your pet sorcerer’s magic on me at the end? None of my blood would lower himself to cross swords with the likes of you.”
“None of your blood are left, Thyran,” Amris called back. The armies had fallen silent, preparing, waiting. Darya knew how badly the others on the wall wanted to keep firing—she did too—but arrows would be wasted on the abattoir and its riders, and killing the twistedmen would make too much noise. Thyran needed to hear every word. “You made certain of that long ago. Perhaps I had forgotten that the murder of sleeping households was your strength when you had a weapon, that you could never face a warrior without your god holding your hand.”
