“You report to Farah.”
“We have allied with the Dark Queen. We are not her underlings.” He turned his eyes on the burning city. “Maybe now she will remember that.”
Ellina felt as if she had been struck in the gut. “This was meant to be amessage?”
“When Rahven reported his discovery of the humans' black powder barge, the Dark Queen debated whether to act. She hesitated. She has not yet learned that in war you must never hesitate.”
“So you made the choice for her.”
“Enough. We are leaving.”
“I saidno.”
Youvan did not like that. He made a grab for her arm, but Ellina’s dagger was in her hand in an instant, held between them. Youvan pulled back. “You will regret that.” He widened his stance, lifted his hands. Ellina did not know what conjuring Youvan intended, only that when he curled his fingers and drew his arms down, nothing happened.
Something moved across his face. A moment of frustration.
Cut off, suddenly, by movement out of the corner of his eye. Youvan spotted Venick in the distance at his mother’s side. Recognized him. Glanced once at Ellina, who saw Youvan’s mind.You will pay for this.
Youvan swept towards Venick.
Ellina did not shout. She did not panic. Youvan was a conjuror who, for some reason, could not conjure. And she had a dagger.
In war you must never hesitate.
The green glass was almost invisible in the low light. It seemed flat in her hand as she cocked her arm, aiming at Youvan’s retreating back.
???
Venick had come to his knees. He didn’t remember doing this.
Fallen debris lay on top of his mother. It obscured her face. But Venick saw the streak of blood. He saw her lifeless hands.
Her eyes. The way she used to smile at him.
The songs she would sing. The stories she would tell. About elves, yes, sometimes. But about dragons too, and knights and quests and all the other things little boys liked to dream. About bravery and friendship. About becoming the person you were meant to be.
He shuffled forward. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that it was somehow a violation, yet his hand was already moving, as if it didn’t belong to him, as if this wasn’t his life, wasn’t his world.
He didn’t want it to be. He didn’t think he could bear it.
A smudge of black made him look up.
Venick didn’t even have time to reach for his sword. One moment, a conjuror was sweeping towards him, that same conjuror from the balcony, his hands made to claws, something deadly in his eyes. The next, the conjuror was faltering. He stumbled to his knees. His breath seemed to shudder.
A dagger in his back. Green glass. The smooth handle, small, the curve of it.
Venick looked past the conjuror, but the streets were empty.
TWENTY-SIX
He told himself not to think.
Venick could do. There was plenty to do. Fires to be doused, roads to be cleared, bodies buried. They would need to set up an infirmary for the injured, and they’d better get a few soldiers on watch in case the enemy elves decided to return. Venick could see to these things. He could make sure they were done right. As dawn crept across the sky and townspeople slowly reemerged into ashen streets, Venick began giving orders. No one seemed to remember that he didn’t command this city. If anything, people were glad for direction. They needed order, needed to fall back into the familiar hierarchy of leader and follower. Anything to make them feel less lost, less hopeless, as if their town hadn’t just come apart at the seams.
Venick circled through the streets, checking for survivors, tallying the things that needed to be done. He saw buildings charred black, some missing roofs or walls, some justmissing. He saw deep gouges in the roads and bodies—the ones that hadn’t yet been collected and covered and carted to the city’s cemetery—silent and pale where they’d fallen.
Venick imagined how the cemetery would look now. There would be mounds of earth shoveled loose. Bodies set into holes, roots sticking sideways, the living mingling among the dead. And there would be rituals: rosewater dripped onto brows, hawthorn crushed over hearts, prayers spoken to the gods.
