“Where is the babe?” she roared as she lunged, clearly not really interested in an answer, wanting only his blood.
She slipped on the pease.
Vren sliced up as she slid, cutting through her leathers. He managed to slash deep, scoring a thin line of blood under her breast, cutting through what looked like an old scar.
With a hiss, she grabbed at him and pulled herself up by bracing herself on his body. She clamped down on his wounded wrist, twisting his arm back, getting the knife away from her.
For long moments, they struggled, hot breath in each other’s faces, then Vren moved, trying—
It didn’t matter. This time he was the one betrayed by the dry pease. He went down on his knees hard.
She was behind him in a moment, locking one of his arms in the air, her blade to his throat. They both went still, breathing hard. Vren jerked but could not break her hold.
She leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I can make it swift or slow,” she rasped. “Where is the babe?”
The blade was cold on his neck, the edge sharp. He felt the warm blood start to flow as she dug in harder. They were close to the edge, very close. If he could force her back, the wastes might destroy the blade and he could maybe get free. A desperate chance, but the only one.
“Where is the babe?” she demanded again, her head lowered, so close her hair framed his face.
She didn’t see what Vren saw: Dust staggering to her feet and running toward them, the bolt still in her chest.
Brave friend, unfailing warrior.
Vren braced, about to sink down, to give Dust a clear shot at her throat when her head came up, when—
The Wastes sang.
It was the only way Vren could describe it. An elemental pulse, a long note of longing, of waiting, of wanting…her. The woman.
‘Willing sacrifice, willingly made.’
Vren forced himself up, rose to his full height, dropped his knives and opened his arms wide to catch Dust, hugging her close, taking the force of her forward movement.
As the woman’s blade sliced into his throat, he bent his knees and thrust back with all his might, combining his momentum with Dust’s to plunge them all off the cliff’s edge.
For a moment, all he knew was the feeling of flying, the rush of warm air like a lover’s embrace, the sun blazing bright, brighter, brightest. He felt the woman pressed to his back, the vore’s fur tickling his nose.
Then there was falling, and twisting, and…nothing.
Chapter Forty-Six
They made sure Xydell was never alone.
During the day, someone was always in the kitchen; cooking or puttering. At times Xydell was talkative, especially during Yfin’s reading and writing lessons. She seemed to like the boy, perking up whenever he laughed.
There was a small stream of visitors as Mother Bercie would bring one or two people who remembered the Lady High Baroness and were known to her. Xydell’s face would light up, she’d extend a frail hand, and they would all sit in the warmth of the kitchen and talk in hushed voices. Orval noted as the days passed that some of the looks he got were kinder, or at the least he detected less malice.
But as the days went on, Xydell drowsed more, rousing only long enough for a bite to eat or a sip of kav. She always made an effort when Mother Bercie arrived, but afterwards Xydell always slept deeply. So deeply, in fact, that once or twice Orval checked to make sure she was still with them.
Wethe was true to her word, bringing possets and mixtures that helped ease Xydell. Once, outside, she looked Orval in the eye. “Have you seen death?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” Orval said. “My sister, of the Sweat.” He looked away. “I sat with her.”
“Ah,” Wethe said. “This won’t quite be the same. Your Aunt won’t be feverish or fretful. I suspect she will slip from us quietly, so long as she is comfortable. Perhaps best then that you take the night shifts, yes?”
He’d nodded. It was no real burden for him. Every night, he’d see Amari and the babes to sleep then relieve Rosalind and sit by the fire with theEpic of Xyson. For the last few weeks, he’d enjoyed the quiet, so rare these days.
Not tonight.
