The god didn’t use Zelen’s vision to view it. He doubted his eyes could’ve handled such use. Instead he was an anchor, an opening, a lens. He felt awareness move through him, or around him, in the direction of the pit, and knew the dim echo of anger that could split the world in half.
If there had been words, they would’ve been in a voice like the crackle of flames and the gush of blood, even-toned but with each syllable carrying a mountain of hatred.
That should not bewould have been the closest a mortal could come.
It was speech, thought, and action all at once.
* * *
The rift wavered.
Branwyn wasn’t sure what that meant. Her initial response was to take a step back and raise her sword, or Zelen’s sword—not Yathana, but a decent blade for all that—in case the hole was growing again. She nearly grabbed Zelen’s shoulder to pull him backwards as well.
A finger’s width away, her hand stopped, as if she’d reached unknowingly for new-forged steel and felt the heat. This sensation wasn’t quite heat, though, or pain. Branwyn couldn’t name it. She knew it was nothing to meddle with.
The tendrils acted then. One whipped down toward Branwyn, while another lashed at Zelen’s head. Branwyn lunged, striking the white filament out of the air in front of Zelen. It fell smoking to the floor. The other one snapped across her right shoulder and down her side, leaving a long trail of stinging venom.
She choked off a scream, wanting neither to distract Zelen nor to give the creatures in the pit any satisfaction.
In pain, she reverted to the routines she’d practiced: strike and retreat. Branwyn’s weight fell back onto her rear foot, her shoulders rose, and she turned again to the rift, ready for the next enemy to emerge.
The hole in the world was shrinking.
Gray-orange light above a small part of the rift lost the gray. The orange then deepened to red, then winked out, leaving solid stone behind it. The change spread from there, one patch of radiance shifting and shrinking at a time, forcing the remaining tendrils backwards, closing the gap.
She dared to glance at Zelen for more than the second she’d spared to establish his whereabouts before. He was standing perfectly still, holding Yathana before him in a trembling grip, although he was more than strong enough for the sword’s weight.
A faint glow came from the opal in the hilt. At first Branwyn thought it was reflected in Zelen’s eyes, but when she looked closer, she saw it was no mere reflection. His dark irises gleamed with sparks, like the night air above a campfire.
That light felt a thousand times better than the other: where Gizath’s power had left Branwyn nauseous, viewing the brighter radiance stiffened her back and put new life into her weary muscles. She sensed that watching too long would be a bad idea, though. There was a difference between warming her hands at a fire and sticking them into the flame—and the power coming off of Zelen was a conflagration.
It wasn’t familiar, exactly. Still, Branwyn hadn’t been reforged or spent years with Yathana for nothing. She raised her sword in a salute.
The Deathmistress wouldn’t want her to kneel, then.
It seemed as though the rift closed slowly, while Branwyn kept an eye on it, but she knew not how much time passed. The tendrils retreated, back, then below the surface. That surface rippled, red light flowing and swirling around the gray-orange patches. Branwyn saw Zelen clench his jaw, the muscles in his arms standing out as he gripped Yathana’s hilt.
She wanted to embrace him, but she suspected that would be a distraction—and thus a disaster—rather than a source of strength. It was always a delicate balance when mortals dealt with the gods. Without knowing precisely what another weight on the scales would do, it was far better not to risk it.
The pit closed inch by inch, the orange light struggling with the red but always pushed into a smaller and smaller space, until finally Branwyn heard a cheated, bubbling roar and Letar’s power lit the room like a sunset. Green and pink specks danced in front of Branwyn’s vision when it faded, but through them she saw smooth rock where the rift had been.
She let her sword fall at that instant, ignoring all the irate shouting of past teachers, and spun sideways with a speed she hadn’t known she was still capable of. Before Zelen had done more than sag to his knees, she was down on the ground beside him, one arm around his shoulders and the other catching Yathana as his grip loosened.
Red specks still shone in his eyes when he looked up at her. Those eyes were practically the only color in his face: he’d gone the shade of old parchment. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled, utterly weary and completely serene. “That was a very timely loan.”
Chapter 41
For a very little while, Zelen had all he could imagine wanting, partly because he was too tired to imagine much. The demon was gone, the rift was sealed, and Branwyn’s arm was tight around him. He could’ve stayed there for quite a while, given a chance. He let himself indulge for a few heartbeats.
Letar had vanished with the rift, which was just as well for Zelen’s capacity to live as any sort of thinking being. The world had mostly taken on its normal proportions again. A shade of Her—the name and pronouns came back now, out of habit, though they’d never fit quite as well again—lingered in the back of his mind, though. Perhaps it always would—perhaps that was how devotion worked. He’d have to ask the priests.
Yathana had gone silent. That didn’t worry him, and not only because Branwyn acted calm. Zelen could feel part of the soul still residing in the fire opal. His wounds hurt no more than they would’ve otherwise, or troubled him more, but he could’ve named each one, and when he touched Branwyn’s arm, he could’ve done the same for hers, from the cut down her side to the aching soles of her feet.
Had he not been so exhausted, he could’ve healed either of them.
That brought duty to mind, and he groaned. “Your side,” he began. “I’m afraid we’ve no bandages here, but if we can get back to the house—” Zelen tried to remember. “The stillroom.”
“It’ll be fine before then. Can you walk?” Branwyn used the arm around his shoulders to help him up as she rose herself.
