Shea lifted her head. She stood in the distinctive ruined landscape from her nightmares. She’d know it anywhere, that particular brand of desolation chillingly distinctive. More than any other place in the Broken Lands, the Badlands still held a haunting reminder of a war fought so long ago no one remembered its actual cause.
“Covath,” she called.
This time she knew it wasn’t a dream, or at least not a normal dream. She still wasn’t sure of the distinction between dreamwalking and real life.
“I’m here. What do you want?” she shouted, turning in place. Impatience made her temper short. The mythological hadn’t seemed sure he wanted an alliance by the end of their last conversation, and given recent events, she didn’t have time to fence words with him. She wanted to go back to her vigil over Fallon’s bedside.
There was a laughing hiss from the darkness around her and Shea went still. She knew that sound. It called up memories of a time her mind had protected her from. It came from those hazy days in the Badlands, when she’d wandered aimlessly, hopelessly lost and inches from death.
Dread stole down her spine, it was a prickly feeling followed quickly by its twin, despair. The skin on the back of her neck felt like a thousand tiny ants marched across it, biting, burrowing deep.
She turned, afraid of what she might see. An empty landscape greeted her. The twisted shapes of what might have once been trees, snarled and hunched. They were dead, had been for a long time, no leaves had graced their branches in centuries.
The dirt beneath her feet was so lifeless it was almost a fine powder. In other parts of the Badlands, the gravelly dirt was sharp and cutting. You wouldn’t want to walk barefoot over it. Here, it was like ash.
In the distance a storm appeared to be brewing, spun from the reddish-brown dust under her feet.
She remembered one of those storms from before. Actually, there had been more than one. She looked around with familiar eyes, the feeling of dread still gripping her, but she could think. Yes, the storms had come fast and frequent, blinding you to your surroundings, the wind rising and whipping you with the fine-grained sand as it suddenly turned as sharp and cutting as a thousand knives.
That same laughing hiss came again and Shea twisted, catching a flash of movement in the corner of her eye. The thing that had made it was gone, leaving her staring up at the craggy façade of a butte, one that stabbed the sky with all the fury and rage the land seemed steeped in.
Something waited in the heart of that place. Something Shea had met before.
A dark shape rushed towards her and the world spun, twisting and turning around her. Abruptly, she stood on a cliff overlooking a familiar valley, Wayfarer’s Keep a small dot in the distance.
A hand on her shoulder shook her awake. Shea lunged upright, nearly colliding with Chirron’s concerned face.
A choking fear consumed her and stricken, she turned toward the bed.
“He still breathes,” Chirron rushed to reassure her, guessing where her thoughts had gone.
Shea collapsed back into her chair, her relief stealing her strength for a moment. The chair next to her was empty, her mother having left at some point while Shea slept.
“I apologize, Battle Queen. It was not my intent to cause you worry,” Chirron said, his voice oddly relaxing.
Shea rubbed her face before her hand slid to the back of her neck. She squeezed it, massaging some of the kinks out. “No, you did nothing wrong.”
It dawned on her what he had called her. It seemed the title of telroi was no more. She was the battle queen now. For better or worse.
“I thought you’d like to know we’ve done all we can. Your people’s assistance was invaluable.” Chirron’s eyes went back to the bed. “It rests on him now and whatever deity might be listening to our prayers.”
“Thank you for all your help,” Shea said.
He gave her a graceful nod. His lips quirked in a tired half smile. “I guess you were right earlier.”
Shea’s expression must have reflected her confusion because he continued. “About healing you. I did need my strength.”
Shea didn’t know how to respond. Thankfully he didn’t take offense, just patted her on the shoulder.
“Sometimes it helps to talk to them,” he offered. “I’ll be just in the other room if you need me.”
Shea stayed where she was for several minutes, staring at the still form on the bed.
Even now, it was hard to believe that was Fallon. Her warlord, a force as powerful as any in nature, now silenced. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.
That old enemy, guilt, crept to the foreground. It taunted her with what-ifs and what could have beens. If she’d woken when he did, if she hadn’t said yes to his offer, maybe he wouldn’t be dueling death right now.
She closed her eyes, a tear running down her cheek. It was too late now. Fate had stepped in and dealt its hand. Whether this could have been prevented or not, was a moot point. She existed in the now. This was her reality, bitter and awful though it might be.
