Concordance

Cooled by the deluge, the lava was covered with a cracked, blackened shell, an easy ford for the People that swarmed across like a tsunami. Ranks of pikemen contracted before the onslaught, and the soldiers fell upon their larger foes like harriers on a lupear. The Kragnashians died like lupears too, each taking a dozen harriers with it. The air stank of offal and cut grass.

Bethniel hovered above the moat, waiting for Saelbeneth’s signal. A whistle shrilled, and she sliced into the crust and dug out a lump of molten rock. She caused the molecules within to vibrate, and an explosion blasted Kragnashians into the air. All around the moat, the rest of the Council dug through the crust. Fire roared along the channel, and Kragnashians drowned in churning rock and flame.

Below, the infantry pressed the creatures back toward the lava. The Kragnashians’ numbers thinned, and the troops fanned after them. Above, the Council stirred the molten earth, churning up the hotter masses from below. But the earth was stiff, as if the rains had cooled deep down into the magma. It felt like trying to stir molasses in the dead of winter. Bethniel’s shoulders and eyes ached from the strain, but as the Woern coursed through her, they enlivened every corpuscle, and she felt alive. If she closed her eyes to the carnage, all she felt was joy.

“Meylnara!” Saelbeneth cried, and a flaming ball hurtled toward a dense clump of Kragnashians at the edge of the forest. The fireball crashed into a giant messernil, and the tree burst into flame. The crust reformed over the moat, and Kragnashians streamed into camp.

Meylnara was the important one. Bethniel flew clear of the smoke, looking for a disturbance in the canopy that could be the rogue’s Kragnashian escort. Other wizards left the moat, descending to fight with their troops or hunt their enemy. Bethniel zigzagged across the forest until she saw leaves seething near the edge of a clearing.

“If the Sacrifice is made.” She froze, her skin prickling as a wave of terror spilled out of her eyes. “No,” she whispered. Her heart beat wildly; there was a ringing in her ears, and her breath came in short gasps. She wanted to go home, complain about Heralds’ gossip with her brother, play with her baby nephew. She wanted to assume the throne of Latha and be remembered as a Ruler under whom her nation prospered. She wanted to see her grandparents again and her cousins. And Mother. She longed for her mother’s warmth and pride, like the day they’d arrived home from war.

Mother graces them with a rare smile. “I am glad—very, very glad—to see you all safe. Welcome home.”

Her arms are warm and tight. A tingling scatters over her skin like sunlight sparkling on dark sand. Bethniel gathers every moment of her mother’s open affection, stowing it away to carry her through the long frigid time that will follow.

A red streak singed her ear, dissipating in a shower of sparks. Leaves wriggled as the mass moved off. Bethniel wiped snot from her nose. If the Sacrifice is made. She wanted to fly the other way and hide until this was over. But if she failed, Ashel would be alone. He’d never again see the woman he loved, his wife. My sister. His son. My nephew. Heart thudding, Bethniel swooped toward the canopy. Ashel and Geram, Vic and Wineyll—it could be done. She was no Listener, but Meylnara had no mindspeech. She was no Listener, but she’d been reared by Selcher, had lived with that strong Listener all her life. The trick would be how. And when.

* * *

As the Caldera tribe passed Dealn’s grave, the warriors coalesced into a rolling knot. Vic hunkered under the Center’s wing covers as it scuttled onto its warriors’ backs. Others piled on top. Their heavy springtime scent choked her. Her skin crawled with the sensation of creeping insects, a feeling that stretched a thousand-fold as more creatures piled into the mass. Her ears shrank from the scrabbling of tarsi on chitin, her muscles cringed at the hundred hundred half-sheathed cat claws that tickled her spine, and she gulped one shriek after another.

Tendrils snaked beneath the Center’s carapace, wrapped round her waist, and yanked her up into the dark, seething flow of chitin and silky, spiked legs. She screamed until they thrust her head and shoulders out of the crown. Coils slid round her legs and hips, holding her fast, but fresh air and light washed over her. Relief was short-lived. At the base of the knot, titans wrestled, mandibles crunching and slashing as Meylnara’s warriors burrowed into the mass and were crushed and ejected by the Caldera defenders.

Vic drew on her Woern. The Kragnashians released her, and she rocketed clear of the canopy. In the distance, a pair of fireballs burst out of the green, just missing a lithe, dark figure floating above the treetops. Bethniel. In the air. Magnificent. Vic’s heart rose into her throat, pride cutting through grief.

The princess dove into the forest. What is she doing? Vic surged after her, crying her name. Flames and smoke erupted from the forest, the columns thick and black. “Bethniel!” she yelled again.

There was no answer. Vic dropped into the understory, feeling for Meylnara’s waveform, for a new pattern that would be Bethniel’s. Leaves and branches blazed. Heat and smoke billowed in black, heavy clouds. The forest had been saturated only that morning, but now trees flared like dry tinder. Coughing, Vic sailed to the ground, her ears itching with the keening of the damned.

* * *

Bethniel heard Vic’s call, glimpsed her flashing through smoke and fire. She lived! Thank Elesendar, she lived.

She shoved that joy aside—it would lead to wishes, and wishes would unravel her resolve. She’d ordered a massacre to save her brother; to save her sister, she would prevent one. First, she had to catch Meylnara’s soul.