Alysana
Alysana fumed.
Brandishing her knife, she stormed over to one of Thuma’s surviving men. The Athrani was on his knees, tied up by Kethras, near one of the large tents that the legion had brought, his hands and feet bound together behind him.
“Who gave the order?” she demanded, grabbing a fistful of his long blond hair and pulling his head back to place her dagger at his throat. “Who gave it, and from how high up did it come?”
Now that she was closer she realized how young he looked—perhaps Thornton’s age. She almost felt bad for treating him so roughly, but the scars on his arms and face told her that he had seen a few battles in his day. This was probably not his first time being threatened.
“You know I can’t answer that,” he said calmly, showing no sign of fear. The hint of a sneer betrayed his defiance.
Definitely not his first time, she thought.
All around them were the remnants of battle. Small fires still burned, feeding greedily on corpses and grass. The dead bodies of the men of the legion, armor melted to them like purple-and-gold caskets, lay still in repose. They were everywhere, the dead were, and Alysana had half a mind to keep them that way.
We’ll leave them for the birds, she thought bitterly. She pushed the prisoner to the ground and the blade of her knife into its sheath. It’s more than they deserve.
The Athrani, undaunted, looked right back at Alysana. “What difference would it make if I told you anyway?”
The look he gave her made her regret sheathing the knife so hastily. She turned her back to the prisoner and reached for it again, slowly this time, drawing it out with poise and conviction. They were beyond threats now.
Maybe we do bury them, she thought as she tightened her grip on the leather handle. Starting with him.
But her eyes went to the knife as she felt its balance, its weight. It was perfect—or as close to perfect as such a thing could be. With her back to the prisoner and her eye on the knife, she spoke to the darkness.
“Kethras,” she said, “what can you tell me about this blade?”
She could almost feel the confusion on the captive Athrani’s face. She knew the Kienari was watching, though, and she knew he could hear them; it didn’t matter how far away he was. The farther the better, she thought. More time for this one’s imagination to run wild.
A chill ran down Alysana’s neck as she heard something stir in the darkness beyond, like leaves giving way to a breeze, barely more than a whisper.
And the whisper moved.
It approached like the silence after a storm: heavy, dark, and dreadful. Just like that night, all those years before. She caught his reflection in the gleam of her knife, and his hunter’s smile almost made her heart stop.
There he is, she smiled to herself. When she needed him most.
“It is meant for carving,” Kethras answered. “Flesh.” It came as a low growl, almost imperceptible, like distant thunder.
The Athrani blanched, his face matching the whiteness of the Kienari’s sharp teeth—the only part of the dark hunter that was truly visible in the blackness.
“And you’re sure it can do that?” Alysana asked, turning to face them.
Kethras’s laugh—if one could call it that—sounded more threatening than mirthful. It was very much like the sound a man makes after his throat is cut.
“I am quite certain,” he said. “The last time a Kienari used it, it spilled the blood of two smugglers from G’hen as easily as a man blinks.”
Alysana watched the Athrani, who still hadn’t turned his head to look at Kethras. He doesn’t need to look, she thought. He knows what a Kienari can do.
“I’ll ask you again,” she said, stooping down to come even with the Athrani’s eyes. “And I don’t expect to repeat myself. Who gave the order?”
This time, her words got through and the soldier relented.
“It was Thuma. Commander Endar let it slip that the Highglader planned to awaken the Three, and it wasn’t long before Thuma started recruiting riders to come along—or hunt you down if it came to that.”
“Are there more?”
“Of course,” he answered, almost incredulously. “We know about the dangers of the Holder and the Traveler, and”—he brought his voice to a whisper—“the Ghost.”
Alysana scoffed. “The Ghost,” she repeated. “I know of the Ghost.”
“Then you should know of the dangers as well,” said the Athrani, sitting up. “You of all people should know: if you awaken the Holder, you cannot stop what comes with him.”
The words made Alysana bite down pensively on the edge of her blade.
“What does he mean?” Kethras, closer now, asked her from the dark.
Alysana crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one leg. “He means that the Three are tied together, and if we wake one, we empower the others.” She looked up at Kethras and furrowed her brow.
“It is true,” said the captive. “The Three retain great power still, even in slumber. And imagine the hatred that burns in the Traveler, punished by the Shaper for bringing unrest to the Otherworld . . . always just out of reach of the woman he loves. The woman he lost his life for.”
“There is a good reason they are kept sleeping,” Alysana confessed, turning to Kethras. “Aldryd would tell us the same: waking the Three is a move of desperation and must not be done thoughtlessly.”
Kethras looked at her and then up at the sky. “Yet we have no choice.”
Before she could answer, out of the corner of her eye Alysana saw something that made her stop. Earlier, they had placed Thornton and Yasha on the ground beside each other, covering them with light blankets to keep any burns they had from getting dirty. Now, those blankets were moving.
“Kethras!” she said, turning to the Kienari. “He’s awake!”
She leapt to her feet in a run, with Kethras following close behind.
The two of them hurried to where Thornton and Yasha had been placed, surprised to see that the Highglader was conscious. He had a look of recognition in his eye when they approached.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“A safe place,” said Alysana. “North of Théas.”
Thornton looked around at the aftermath of the melee. “What happened?”
“We were making camp when Thuma turned on us and attacked.” She looked more closely at him. “Do you not remember?”
Thornton shook his head. “Bits and pieces,” he said. “I . . . I remember riding and talking to Yasha . . . and . . .” He gasped. “Yasha!” He looked around frantically for the girl and saw the damage the fire had done. “Is she . . . ?”
“She is alive,” Alysana said quickly, “though in delicate condition. We have to get her to Théas as soon as she is stable.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Then we should try to move them under cover. That is where the storm is coming from,” Kethras remarked.
Alysana nodded and had stood to help when she heard Thornton speak.
“I’m just glad she’s okay,” the blacksmith said. “The last thing I remember was when the Athrani called those flames.”
Alysana froze, turned, and gave him a long, wary look. “Thornton,” she said slowly. “It wasn’t the Athrani who called those flames.”
He looked at her, confused.
“The one who called the flames,” she went on, “. . . was you.”