A derisive snort. “Too late for that, I suspect.” The shadowy form above me shifts, an impression of crossed arms and a firmed stance. “Your chance of allying with the Shadow King has come and gone; she is of no more use to you in that regard. And she’s no use to you whatsoever dead. Until recent history, you believed her lost entirely, so what difference does it make now?”
My father is silent for some moments, though the intensity of his rage radiates from his form like an energy field, more real to my dulled awareness than his face or features. “You don’t deserve her,” he growls at last.
“Be that as it may,” Artoris replies, “I am her only chance for survival. If I lift the stasis spell on her now, she will die long before your witch can do her any good.”
My father curses, but his voice is fading fast once more. I try to rally, try to insert my own voice. Whatever bargain is being struck, everything in me revolts at the idea of being beholden to Artoris in any way, though I . . . I cannot fully remember why. Not now. I loved him once, didn’t I? Confused images play through my mind: a burning temple and raw, red death magic. Corpse faces grinning at me through rotten teeth and blackened gums. All so nightmarish and confusing, I turn away from them, unable to face whatever revelations they might bring.
Distantly I hear Artoris’s voice, speaking words of spellcraft once more. The darkness of his magic enfolds me again, separating me from the pain, and I bless the nullity as I sink back into it.
After that, when I am aware of anything at all, it’s mostly of cold. Cold and the consciousness of mortality in the air. The human world is absolutely rife with it, the inescapable pressure of imminent death. Strange how I never seemed to notice it before. Now, with death fighting so hard to claim me, it feels both very present and strangely inaccessible.
Once I manage to lift my head an inch or two from my father’s shoulder, and my gaze, briefly clear, fastens on the distant sight of castle battlements on the horizon. Beldroth—my father’s keep, sitting high on its outcropping of rock,the lights of the town gathered around foundation stones below, like chicks beneath the sheltering wings of a great, black vulture. My heart jolts painfully, despite the suppressing spells weighing it down. Strange that Beldroth was my home for as long as I can remember. The sight of it now fills me with sickening dread.
I drop my head back onto Father’s shoulder and let myself go insensible again. I don’t know for how long. It feels like mere moments later when my eyes struggle open once more, but it was probably hours. All I know is that when next I come to, I am no longer held in my father’s arms but lying on a table, bathed in the red glow of a low-hung lantern. Figures move around me, talking in earnest voices. I almost recognize them, but the effort required to recall their names is more than I can manage just then.
“You must lift your spell,” someone says anxiously. “If you don’t, I cannot access that broken rune to counter its influence. Your spell may have held it at bay, but it’s breaking down faster now. If I don’t do something soon, it will kill her, probably within the hour.”
“If I lift my spell, that wound in her gut will kill her just as swiftly.”
“You must make ready to reapply it the instant I give the signal. But I cannot work around such dark magic. It stinks of the seventh hell and counteracts everything I know.”
The second voice growls forbiddingly. “I won’t lose her now.”
“Youwilllose her if you don’t lift the spell.”
Why does that first voice—feminine, young, and full of fire—sound so familiar? I try to turn my head, to catch a glimpse ofwho it might be, but lack the strength. A figure moves, however, leaning over the table on which I lie, and the lantern light illuminates a face. Even through the fog of spellcrafted numbness, my heart lurches. Lyria? Could it truly be her? Or is my addled mind playing tricks on me? I try to open my mouth, to form some sort of question. My lips part, but no sound will come. I can do nothing but ease out a tight breath between my teeth.
“Very well,” the second voice—Artoris, I think—rumbles. “I’ll do it. But you best not fail me, witch.”
Shifting movement. A sense of presence, of power, hovering over me. Through the mind haze, I peer up into an indistinct face. Dark eyes gaze down at me, sharply focused though the rest of the world remains shadow.
Artoris’s voice begins a long, droning murmur—an incantation. His hands move in the space over my body, and dark energy seeps from my limbs, pouring out from me and into his palms as though called there in retraction. As it goes, pain rushes in to take its place. I try to scream, but my voice is stolen from me. My body tenses, clenches in on itself, every muscle seeking to curl up in defense against this assault of agony. My gut feels as though it is ripped wide open.
Lyria springs forward, words pouring from her lips in a swift-flowing stream. She brushes Artoris’s hands away and places her own fingers against my chest, inscribing strange symbols with her fingertips. Even through the storm of tortured sensationexploding through my body, I glimpse flares of green light manifesting in the air around her. Flashes of runes—witchcraft.
“It’s stronger than I thought,” Lyria says, more to herself than to Artoris. “It’s broken, yes, but there’s a root to it that runs deep. I’m not sure I can pull it out safely unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Artoris growls.
Lyria lifts her head sharply, looking at him. “Unless I remove all memory of this rune and what it means to her. Every trace from her mind, from her heart. Otherwise, without the other half of the rune present, it will kill her.” She bites her lip, her brow tensing in a knot of conflict. Then she shakes her head. “It is the only way.”
“Do it then,” Artoris urges.
But Lyria hesitates. “I cannot say what the removal will cost her. It might be better if she—”
“If she dies? Can you seriously believe that?”
Lyria looks down at me sadly, her gaze meeting mine, though I’m not sure she is aware of my consciousness. “Some fates are worse than death.”
Artoris lunges forward, gripping the edge of the table. He draws his face close to Lyria’s, his lips curled back from his teeth. “I have not come so far, faced such perils, compromised my very soul, only to fail my master now. I will have her—whatever the cost. You will do this thing, witch.”
Lyria looks him dead in the eye without flinching. “Your blackmagic doesn’t frighten me, little necromancer,” she hisses.
He looks as though he would like to blast her in the face with a death curse, destroy her utterly, every particle of being. But he restrains himself; he needs her, needs her power. And he knows it.
Finally he bows his head, and his voice transforms to something different, something unnatural on his proud lips. “Please, lady,” he says. “Please. For the love of all the gods, I beg you.”
“The gods?” Lyria scoffs. “What haveyouto do with the gods? I’m not certain your master would approve of your invoking them now.”
