His scar parted, little by little.
And ripped wide open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Every part of Wycke’s body ached. He braced himself for the killing blow: nothing but screams echoing around the room. Brilliant light!
Wycke closed his eyes. Too bright! Where was the light coming from? Piers! Those were Piers’ screams from somewhere nearby. Wycke grabbed a chair, pulling up, but rose a hand’s width and dropped back down. So tired. So weak.
Scuffling sounded around him, moans and groans and cries. He pulled back his hand in time to avoid a heavy boot.
Where was the wellspring of magic he’d heard so much about in tales? He searched with his senses. Nothing. Where was Saris? Aberfrer? Jess? Chynne?
Wycke dragged himself inch by painful inch, leaving bloody handprints on the stone floor. Not marble. Stone. Home. He must get to Piers. And find Jess. He should never have let her come along, a mortal with no powers and no battle skills, though she’d held her own against the mages. Piers would be so upset if anything happened to her. Wycke would never forgive himself if ill befell Saris, she of little magic and even fewer fighting abilities.
Aberfrer could take care of himself.
Using the screams as a guide, Wycke crawled blindly across the floor. His hands ached, his body ached, and he couldn’t stop to attempt healing spells. No. Not now when Piers needed him.
Finally, the screaming came from directly above. Wycke forced his eyes upward. Piers sat on a stone table, leaning back on his elbows, body bowed, and mouth stretched wide in an agonized scream. The white light came from… him?
Wycke grabbed the table, hauling himself up. He must get to Piers. Must help him. Screams of pain echoed in his head.
Radre and his mages might still be around. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but easing Piers’ suffering. But how? Chynne said they’d bonded. What did that mean?
But Wycke had toned down their connection earlier to prevent distraction by Piers’ fragmented state of mind. When he glanced upward, Piers stared down at him, mouth forming the words, “Help me!”
Gathering all his strength, Wycke launched himself upward, covering Piers’ body with his own. Excruciating pain shot through him. They fell back onto the table, bodies fused, even through Wycke’s leathers. One. They were one.
A man sat on a couch folding clothes, his coloring giving him away as Wycke’s relative. The man smiled—the same man, cooking at a stove or pitching a ball in a park.
Waking him in the middle of the night, telling him to leave. The fire. An ultimate sacrifice. The sense of loss. Bullies. Memory after memory filled Wycke’s mind, the tale of Piers’ past.
Loneliness, terrible, terrible loneliness.
Then Wycke’s face appeared, and a sense of peace formed within the chaos.
Wycke came back to himself in a world of hurt. Lightning shot through his veins, burning through every nerve. His muscles spasmed, drawing painfully tight.
No way could Wycke live through this. But if he had to go…
He planted his mouth on Piers’.
The world exploded.
The world slowly solidified. Wycke stared down, jamming his fingers into Piers’ neck. A heartbeat. Erratic, but there. Light fell in tiny droplets to the floor and vanished into the stones. Light? Droplets?
Wycke no longer stuck to Piers but hadn’t the energy to move. Oh, to lie in a soft, warm bed right now. The world shifted, tossing Wycke to the side. He lay amid white sheets, Piers beside him. What the… Forcing himself to sit, Wycke took in his surroundings. They’d been in a tower. In Myrgren.
A breeze brushed along his skin, bringing the scent of snow. Snow?
He bolted upright. Ow! His aching head. Had he drunk too much last night? The fog lifted, revealing his room.
Not his room. But familiar. His old room, at the castle in Myrgren, though in a much larger bed that nearly filled the entire space. He must be asleep and dreaming. He gazed at his hands, turning them over. Scars. Burn scars. Cuts. All nicely healed. Damnation. He must’ve slept for days. As he watched, the scars faded, leaving smooth, unblemished skin.
Wycke turned to Piers, yanking down the sheet to waist level. Piers’ chest appeared normal, liberally sprinkled with short-clipped dark hair. No scar. Wycke cupped Piers’ cheek with one hand. No movement.Please let him be okay.
Did Wycke need to summon a healer? Someone should be here tending to Piers. Why were they here? What happened to Radre?
