I sit back on my heels, indecision paralyzing my limbs. I should gather her in my arms, carry her away from here, only . . . will that not cause her far worse pain? But if I do not get her out of Beldroth, find Elydark and channel his power, she will surelydie. I bend over her, my arms extended to gather her up.
“Wait!”
I look sharply back over my shoulder. Lyria appears at the end of the gallery, like an angel manifesting over the dead body of Mage Artoris. She looks down at him grimly, a look of satisfaction in her eye. But when she lifts her gaze to me, her expression is sharp with accusation. “Did we or did we not discuss the importance ofkeeping him alive?”
“He was working a death-curse,” I growl.
“So knock him unconscious so he can’t finish it! No death required, and then perhaps the spell on Ilsevel would have remained intact.” She aims a kick at Artoris’s body as she passes, an act of contempt that makes even me recoil, then hurries to her half-sister and kneels on the cold floor opposite me. Her hands hover inches over Ilsevel’s body, running over it as though sensing energy vibrations. Palms lingering over her breast, Lyria’s face takes on a look of intense concentration.
Finally she catches my eye. “It worked,” she says. “That kiss of yours . . . it had some power to it after all. The rune is not fully corrected, but it is no longer toxic. You’ll have to work a little harder to fix it completely, but the task is begun.”
“Thanks be to Nornala.” I mouth the words silently but fervently. My brow tightens, however, when Lyria’s hands move down to Ilsevel’s abdomen. They tremble slightly, as though the energy received is stronger than expected. When I look moreclosely, I can see the beginnings of a dark stain working its way through layers of gold silk. Blood?
Lyria’s face is grim. “Just as I feared,” she mutters. “It’s not fully healed. The sudden removal of the spell has ripped it back open. She’ll bleed out if we don’t act fast.”
“Can you do anything?” I demand.
She bites her lip. “I can craft a simple stasis spell. It won’t last more than an hour or two, but it will prevent the damage from progressing. I can’t remove the pain.”
I peer down into Ilsevel’s harrowed face. Even unconscious, she feels the agony of her wounds; I can see the tension in her brow, her jaw, the lines of her mouth. What a cursed dog I am for doing this to her! How could I have been so weak? I knew the risks of virulium, but I took it anyway, desperate in the moment to use whatever means were at my disposal to save Elydark.
I didn’t even save him in the end. Ilsevel did. And this is how I have repaid her.
Lyria pulls a slim volume from the pouch at her belt, flips to a page, and begins murmuring the words written there. I recognize the language; it is the tongue used by Miphates to craft their spells, old Araneli. Is this a Miphates’ spell she is weaving? She did claim to have studied many forms of spellcraft, so I should not be surprised, despite her obvious disdain for the Miphates themselves. Magic moves in the air, drawn at her summoning and channeled through her voice. I can almost see the strength siphoning out of her as she works, and when she comes to theend of her spell, she looks paler by moonlight.
“There,” she declares. “That’s done.” Her eyes flick to catch mine. “Come. We must get the two of you away from here. Now.”
Though reluctant to cause Ilsevel what must be excruciating pain, I haven’t any options. Slipping my arms under her, I cradle my wife against my chest and rise. Mounds of golden skirt fall over my arms. She could not be more poorly dressed for slipping away into darkness if she’d tried. But we haven’t time for undressing, so I kick silk out of my way and turn.
My heart stops.
“Gods-damn!” Lyria gasps. Her hand clutches my arm.
There, at the end of the gallery, bathed in moonlight and gazing idly down at the corpse of his former mage, stands Larongar, King of Gavaria. His one-eyed gaze is singularly disinterested as it runs over Artoris’s awkwardly splayed limbs. He shakes his head, then slowly looks up. His sight fixes first on Lyria, who unexpectedly withers under his scrutiny. I hear her breath catch. Formidable witch though she may be, even she fears her father.
Finally his eye swivels in its socket, landing on me. “You look familiar,” he says in the voice of a growling bear.
My very soul seems to clench in response. I remember all-too vividly the first time I set eyes on this man, more than twenty years ago. Back when he was still Prince Larongar, champion of the gods, who came visiting my father’s court, bringing with him a contingent of Miphates mages. A young child then, no more than eleven years of age, I had watched him in wonder, the firsthuman I’d ever laid eyes upon, a figure of legend no less.
Larongar departed not many days later. Soon after my father locked himself into Evisar along with the Miphates, and I rarely saw him again after that. He spent longer and longer hours cloistered away with the mortal mages, utterly disinterested with the concerns of either his family or his kingdom. What it was that absorbed his attention I did not understand then, nor can I guess now.
I only know this man, this monster, is to blame. For the loss of my father. For the destruction of my people. It was his doing, him and his mages. They brought thevardimnarinto our world, for reasons I cannot fathom, and have continued to poison our country ever since.
There are few men I hate with a purer passion than Larongar Cyhorn of Gavaria.
“Give me to drink, Taarthalor,”whispers the virulium in my blood.
I want to. I want to drop this burden which feels suddenly so heavy in my arms, spring across the moonlit space between us, and slaughter this man with my bare hands, even as I did Artoris. Let his body drop atop that of the mage, a testimony to the violence of my revenge.
But something holds me back. Even as bloodlust roars, a fragile thread of remembrance binds me. As much as I hate Larongar, so much more deeply do I love Larongar’s daughter. Love her too much to spill the blood of her kin. Even this man, who owes me for the lives of millions. For her sake and hers alonedo I restrain myself.
If Larongar guesses at the impulses I even now hold in check, he gives no indication. He narrows his one eye and nods as recognition dawns. “Ah, yes! I remember now. Thalorkhir, King of Licorna.”
The sound of my father’s name on this man’s lips is almost more than I can bear. I grind my teeth, clinging to that last thread of resolve.
“And what exactly are you doing here?” Larongar turns his head to one side, his expression mildly curious. “It is many years since last we met. I was under the impression you were tied up, as it were, with all that business at Evisar.”
“I’ve come to claim my bride,” I snarl.
