She sneers. I’ve never seen such outright revulsion. “Once you’re gone, my charges, and all of Thornbrook, will be free of you. Your death will burden me less than your life.”
From my position in the tunnel entryway, I look over at Zephyrus, who lounges against the wall, arms crossed, calmly observing the fortuitous turn of events. I’ve half a mind to drag him away from this place, but I stay put. As silly as it sounds, I fear Mother Mabel’s wrath. Tonight is about more than the tithe. Tonight is for cleansing, for vengeance.
“You wish to end my reign?” Pierus considers her with an insulting lack of concern. “I welcome the challenge.”
Mother Mabel breaks away with startling litheness. He blocks one, two, three blows before hacking at her stomach. She pivots sideways and slashes low, lopping off a vine at its base and darting out of reach.
A high-pitched cry shivers from the severed appendage. Dark fluid oozes from the flowers, which whiten, then crumble to fine powder.
The Orchid King stretches taller, using his tangled roots to draw himself up. “You may carry a god-touched blade,” he says, “but so do I.” The steel in question protrudes from a wire and leather hilt. “The necklace you stole from the Stallion may prolong your years indefinitely, but it cannot protect you from a sword in your gut.”
Until this moment, I’ve acquired information only in pieces. Together, they forge something whole: clarity at long last. What do I know? Mother Mabel was held captive by the Orchid King after taking the place of three novitiates decades ago. For seven long years—an entire cycle—she was imprisoned, until the day she managed to escape.
But she did not return to Thornbrook immediately. She sought out the Stallion, stole the serpent necklace now resting against hercollarbone. Not a piece of pretty jewelry, but an artifact, a gift of everlasting life.
She must have then returned to Thornbrook, carrying the trauma of her enslavement with her, whetting it, oh so slowly, until it bore a sharpened point. For years it must have eaten at her, carved out all the joy until it turned to rot. If she was going to one day enact revenge on the Orchid King, she must live long enough to do so.
And Meirlach? How long had she planned to acquire it? Did she hone me as a blade so I might one day duel the Stallion and win?
The Orchid King lunges, slicing a line through her chasuble. Mother Mabel meets the next strike, parries nimbly and returns. A few vines lash out toward her legs, but she skips aside, far more agile than the Orchid King, whose nest of bramble weighs him down. By the time she slips around his front, quick as an asp, her blade rests at the base of his throat.
“Tell me where you go when you die,” she demands, “so I may ensure you never return.”
His jaw clenches, and a vein pulses at his temple. Pierus would likely chew off his own tongue before caving in to the abbess’ command. But Meirlach demands the truth, and eventually the compulsion to speak overtakes him, the words emerging as a snarl.
“Your people call it Hell. Where I come from, we call it the Chasm.”
He winces as she sinks the tip into his neck. A bloody droplet trickles down his skin.
“The thought of your death,” she says, “is the only thing that got me through the days. Today, I begin anew—”
A vine slams into the backs of her knees. The sword flies from her hand as she hits the ground.
I fail to muffle my horrified scream as both opponents dive for Meirlach. Blessedly, Mother Mabel reaches the sword first. A blink, and she’s back on her feet, slicing through vines, lopping off the vicious flowers. Pierus bellows in pain, attempting to deflect as he scurries from her reach. Her next swipe goes wide, hacking through a pillar that drags the ceiling into partial collapse. Though I have read aboutthe blade’s extraordinary power, it is still a strange thing to see it cut through solid stone.
“You tire, Pierus,” she pants coarsely, spinning to avoid a slash to the thigh. “Such is the lot of a man fatted on power.”
A wall of vines erupts in a wave of deadly points. The abbess severs two. A third clips her on the shoulder, spinning her toward the altar. She hits the corner with shattering impact, crumpling to her knees.
Terror locks me in place as the Orchid King descends. She’s not moving. Face slack, eyes closed. Pierus is within striking distance, arms lifted, as she lies motionless. The women gasp. His sword falls, a precise crescent toward Mother Mabel’s neck.
Her eyes fly open. Snapping upright, she thrusts Meirlach through his heart.
The long, steel blade protrudes from the Orchid King’s back. Blood patters onto the grass like soft rain. With a twist, she yanks the sword free. Pierus sags forward with a groan, collapsing at the altar’s base.
Shock ripples through Miles Cross.
I look to my peers. Their pale faces glow beneath their shadowed cowls. Someone faints near the back, toppling the nearby women into a heap.
The fair folk are oddly mute, their movements stiff with uncertainty. Do they mourn the Orchid King? Or do they, too, feel free? But through the unholy quiet, a new realization emerges, one of breath and a life not yet lived. My heart lightens in the most profound relief. For with the Orchid King’s death, the Bringer of Spring walks free.
Without the slightest unease, Mother Mabel promptly wipes the sword clean with the hem of her alb. She then mops her clammy face before turning to Zephyrus, her expression as cold and closed as ever. “If I am correct, the debt between you and Pierus is now void, is it not?”
The West Wind pushes off the wall he leans against, yet keeps a healthy distance between them. Flowers spring from the press of his heels against the grass, and his green eyes possess an immortal glow, flush with unleashed power.
“It is.” He stares a touch too long at Meirlach, which she still holds. “I thank you for the favor.”
Mother Mabel studies him with icy disinterest. At some point during the duel, her bun must have loosened, for now her hair hangs freely—the first I have ever seen it unbound. “I did not do it for you, Bringer of Spring.”
