Chapter 24
The time between battles was strange for Ariadne. While the dhemons collected their injured and dead, escorting them out of the city to be healed by Phulan and her team of medics or, for the latter, buried in a cairn, she sorted the Valenul soldiers. These men had tried to kill them, certainly, and likely took some of their own fighters with them to the next life, but like those who fought for her and Azriel, they were following the orders of others with more power.
“What do you want done with them?” Azriel asked as she dragged what felt like the hundredth vampire soldier into line with the other dead she found. He adjusted the man’s body so he was not positioned like a discarded ragdoll.
Ariadne sighed. “They should be burned, as is tradition.”
“You’re hesitating.”
“Yes.” She chewed on the inside of her lip as she closed the next soldier’s eyes. “I do not like the idea of doing that before they have been identified.”
This time, Azriel scooped the soldier into his arms and carried him into the row of the dead. “We can’t leave them out like this.”
It made sense. Ariadne knew this. The bodies would not last more than a day or two in the cool, but above-freezing temperatures. That amount of time would not suffice to bring in most families or local friends to identify them. Any soldier still alive who could assist in the matter had retreated from the area, abandoning them.
“These are people,” Ariadne said slowly, “whom I wish to create alliances with.”
“Then we build a soldiers’ pyre before dusk.” Azriel picked up the next soldier, flinching as his fingers brushed the cold, lifeless skin. “Is there no way for them to be identified by their effects?”
Ariadne grimaced. “Not Rusans.”
Muttering a curse under his breath, Azriel set the corpse in line. The man’s head turned, placing his cheek in Azriel’s palm. He yanked his hand away and shook it out, jaw clenched and eyes shut tight as he turned away.
In three quick steps, Ariadne was by his side. Azriel held his shaking hand out before him, fingers splayed and arm stiff, as though afraid to move and reignite the vision of her decapitated head in his hands. She touched his chest, gentle and tentative, hating the way he froze beneath her fingertips.
“I am here,” she said quietly, “I am safe. I am yours.”
Slowly, Azriel’s eyes drifted open, fear shining amidst the crimson there. He searched her face for a long moment before letting his hand ease back to his side. When his shoulders sagged, signalling his return to the present moment, she added more pressure to her hand and stepped in close.
“Thank you.” He let out a breath and leaned his forehead against hers. “Thank you.”
“We can have someone else finish up,” she whispered. “A pyre is perfect.”
With that, they stepped down a side street to allow the others to continue the work without them. There, Ariadne took Azriel’s hand and brought it to her face. He tried to pull back, but she held firm as she lay her cheek against his palm, never taking her eyes off him. Azriel’s face twisted in despair as his thumb brushed along her cheekbone. Still, she leaned into his touch, forcing him to feel her warm and living skin.
“What your mind sees,” she said, “and what you think you feel…none of it is real.”
He sucked in a shuddering breath. “I know.”
Lifting onto her toes, leather boots creaking, she brushed her lips over his. “We should head back to camp while they take care of things here.”
“I should stay and help—”
“You shouldrest.” Ariadne turned and hooked her arm through his, resting her hand as she did so many times when he escorted her to Society events. “We will be back here in a few hours; let those who are rested prepare for the next surge.”
Azriel sighed in defeat. “As you wish, my Queen.”
When they arrived back at the camp, Ariadne was not properly prepared for what awaited them. From the huge medic tent came cries and groans unlike anything she had ever heard before; muffled screams and desperate pleading for everything to justend. Where the battle had been loud and intense, these sounds were filled with melancholy and agony.
“Gods,” Ariadne whispered as they rounded the back side of the tent where row after row of cairns lay, housing the remains of dhemons in their final resting places. “Keon watch over them.”
“They are home,” Azriel said, his gravelly voice cracking and giving her a gentle tug towards their tent. “Soon we shall be as well.”
But Ariadne did not budge. “Wait. I need to see Emillie.”
At first, Azriel opened his mouth as though to argue. Then his eyes softened, and he looked to the medic tent. With a silent nod, he turned with her, and they made their way back toward the despair cloaked in canvas.
The tent flap swung open as Azriel swept his arm across it, holding it aside so she could step in. Magic flared through the space, caressing a part of Ariadne that she now knew to be the ancient mage blood in her veins that could never be reawakened thanks to the curse of the night. It had the same tang as the nights she lay on Phulan’s floor, having her scars removed. Now it seemed to dance along her exposed skin, seeking wounds to heal and scars to pluck free from existence. With no focus to it, however, it was useless.
