We have little to barter with, but if there’s chance—if she can give me something—
“Nothing,” she whispers. But her eyes shutter, lashes casting shadows against her cheek. “He wants nothing.”
“You’re lying.” I reach across the table and grab her wrist. “Tell me.”
Her attempts to pull free are met with nothing but icy silence. I’ll wait as long as I need to.
“Fine,” she hisses eventually, leaning forward. “You want the truth, so I will give it. All he wants is to see the end of the Darkwielders, Duskbane. He has devoted his life to your death. Devoted the life of every single Lightbringer to his cause, built our wholesocietyaround it. There is nothing you can offer him beyond that, and he would only take it anyway. He cares for nothing else. He will not stop until there is nothing left.”
I release her hand as if it scalds me. “There must be something. Someone he cares for outside of this hate.”
“Power is what he wants.” Her shoulders tighten, curving. “To be absolute, and alone, and hold the rest of us in his hands like puppets on a string. Every move Vaelion makes has that in mind. He cares little for the gods, appeases Aedryn only out of obligation. Nothing and nobody in Solvandyr or Umbraxis matters to him as much as the power he can take for himself.”
She eyes me. “But you knew that, I think.”
He will not stop until there is nothing left.
It only confirms what I knew to be true. But to have her here when we are so close to our end and not be able to use that in any way to help my own people—
“I’m sorry, though I know you won’t believe me.” She straightens, her hand reaching to tidy her cutlery. There’s no smile on her face, no coy amusement to be seen now. “He will not bargain.”
“Are you?” Agony in my throat, every word cutting against blades that dig deeply. “I doubt it, aside from saving your own skin. Where will you seek shelter when we’re dead, witch? Will you go back to him?”
She stiffens. “I’m not going back. This war has lasted hundreds of years, wielder. I see little point in worrying over an uncertain future. What will come will come regardless of my thoughts. I’ll do what I need to, to pay for my keep here.”
My brows crease. She doesn’t even realize how close we are to the end.
I grew up in this room, and yet this witch only sees the aftermath of two hundred years of war.
I look across at the half-dozen empty tables, pushed together in a single row. So few are needed now, compared to the packed room that used to hold thousands. Many more would find whatever space they could against the walls or steal a coveted space on the floor to sit and listen to the bards and the storytellers amidst the din of laughter and conversation.
There are thousands of ghosts in this hall. They walk through every room of Umbraxis, and I cannot escape them. They follow me every moment of every day, reminding me of what we have lost. Haunting my meals, my work, my sleep, lingering in the eyes of every face I speak to. So few of us left, and yet we try to continue as best we can until the end comes for us.
I don’t know what else to do. How do you prepare for an end that you know is coming, when none will be left standing?
My people will leave no legacies, no stories, no memories. Thousands of years of Darkwielder history, wiped away and forgotten. Nobody will stand in the Gloam to send the last of us safely on our way to Erevan. These walls will be empty, or worse. Lightbringer feet will trample over the spaces where we lived and loved and give no thought to us at all, aside from that of victory.
None will remember us. None will speak of us, except as a faceless enemy in the Lightbringer history scrolls.
And yet when you’re waiting to die, people still need to be fed.
Inhaling, I push away from the table. “I have work to do. Follow.”
When she stands, my eyes flicker down. Narrow.
There’s a knife missing from beside her plate. She’s watching me, blandness written into every line of her face. When I turn without mentioning it, I catch her eyes tightening at the edges.
If she can manage to take a Darkwielder out with a blunt piece of iron, they deserve what they get.
So far, we’ve kept the witch apart from most of the castle. She creeps after me with silent footsteps as I make my way through the lower levels of the castle toward the northern wings, though I feel her eyes on me often.
This area faces away from the Veilspire, out toward the barren lands. As I push open the small-set door that leads to the croft, frigid air slaps against my cheeks. “How is your stomach?”
Gentle, Eres had said. But her injuries don’t excuse her ignorance. The witch looks around, lifting her hand to squint out at the wide lines of dark, rich soil that stretch ahead of us. “Fine. I barely feel it. What is this place?”
I wonder how much of her bravado is down to her experiences.
“Where do you think we get our food?” Stepping out into the grounds, I start walking down between two rows toward the storage area, and she falls into step beside me. “This is the Umbercroft. You wanted to earn your keep, witch. It starts here.”
