17

SEVENTEEN: The Bringer of Death

“Yenda, what have you done?” Ruslan shouted. He ran to his mother, bending down to gather her body up in his arms, tears sliding down his face.

“I did what was necessary,” Yenda told him. Then she turned back towards me, cold fury in her eyes. “Do you even know who you’re facing right now? Do you have any idea what I’m capable of doing to you before I kill you? You should be terrified right now.”

She feinted twice, trying to goad me into acting too soon, and then rushed me, attacking with a wild, almost crazed sort of energy. The thin, shining blade of Frostbite was lighter than my saber, and she used it like a whip, cutting through the air with such speed that it took my total concentration and every movement I knew to counter her attacks. A Reverse Dash became a Half-guard, then a Full one as the weapons crashed together. I did a Roundabout, then another Dash, furiously pedaling backwards, watching the smile creep across her face until she was grinning at me, her cold eyes flashing in the mix of sunlight and moonlight.

One strike of Yenda’s ancient Sword against mine threw sparks in the air. “You’re a waste of my time,” she said. “I was taught to fight by the finest tutors money could buy. I’m actually impressed you aren’t holding your sword upside-down right now.”

I saw an opening and took it—first blood was mine as I scored a slash across her sword arm, slicing sleeve and flesh together. Yenda gasped in surprise while I stomped on her dress to keep her from pulling away, then leaned back before slapping her across the mouth as hard as I could, throwing my whole weight into the blow.

“You talk too much,” I said.

Yenda stumbled away, grabbing her cheek with an empty hand. As she glared at me, she bared her teeth, blood oozing from her split lip. “Freeze.”

A torrent of ice and wind blew over me with the force of a harsh, northern gale. I went numb as ice crystals crawled over my flesh like they were creeping across the surface of a pond. For a split second I couldn’t feel anything, then a burning fire sank through skin, muscle and bone. The layer of moisture on my flesh began to melt from my own body heat before it froze again, and that just burned even worse. My breath became a white fog, and my vision faded so that I had to close my eyes to keep my own tears from blinding me.

I screamed and fell to my knees, dropping my saber as I held myself tight. It hurt to breathe, to even move. I tried to open my eyes again and found my lashes were fused together; it stung to force them open, to look up at Yenda. I was shivering so hard I half-expected to chip a tooth. That tiny core of hatred and anger in me, along with Deathbringer’s boon, was still keeping me alive, but I was only human.

Yenda leaned in closer, right in my face. “Let me cue you into a little secret, something my mother told me a long time ago. See, us proper Swordbearers, we gain something special from the Swords we carry. And us Avardi? We don’t feel pain. So this?” She cupped my chin in one hand before holding up her arm, showing off the long, shallow cut that I’d inflicted to her sleeve; I could see that the wound was already closed, just a bloody smear across her forearm. “It isn’t even worth remembering—just like you. I’ll bet it doesn’t even leave a scar.”

“Y-y-yeah?” I said. I held her eyes for a moment, long enough for her to think she’d cowed me, then made a blind grab for my saber before thrusting it up at her. Yenda dodged back as I’d anticipated; I lost any chance at a killing blow, but she was too close for my attack to miss, and my blade sank into her left shoulder, scraping against bone. “You think that one might leave a scar?!” I shouted, shoving her away. She yanked the saber out with a grunt, then lunged at me; we fell to the floor, writhing and twisting with one another. Yenda was shouting at me, so far gone in her anger that she couldn’t even speak, just making wild, vicious noises.

“Ruslan!” I heard Kale shouting. “Get these ropes off of me already!”

Ruslan never moved. He just cradled his dead mother and cried.

Kale wasn’t content to just sit and watch the fight, however. There was a crash, a sound of wood breaking as he threw himself and the chair he was tied to backwards to the floor with enough force to break something loose.

Out the far window, I could see a sliver of sunlight still shining beyond the trees. My time was up—I knew it in my bones, as sure as I knew this woman wouldn’t stop until she killed me again. I got in a lucky kick, catching Yenda square in the face with my foot. Immune to pain or not, the force of it knocked her backwards and I got away.

“Inga!” Kale was already on his feet, dragging the half-broken chair behind him. He grabbed Deathbringer in one hand and cried out in shock, as though simply touching it was painful. That still didn’t deter him, and he threw it towards me in a high arc.

“No!” Yenda cried while struggling to stand, but she was too late.

As the Sword came down, I grabbed Deathbringer’s hilt and spun away, coming to a stop with the weapon extended at my enemy. The instant I took the Sword in my hands, I felt that strange crawling sensation inside my skin again, only now it rushed down my arms and hands, surging back into the weapon. The blade burst into new, yellow light, shining across its surface and from within the blackened steel like a miniature sun exploding.

YES! Deathbringer’s exultation rang inside my head like a thunderclap. I wanted to raise my head and scream in victory, but there wasn’t any time for gloating. I was sure Yenda would try to freeze me again with more of her Sword’s magic. I had to negate that power, but only had one idea of how to do that—my plan might not work, but there weren’t any other options.

Flipping the Sword over in one hand, as I’d watched Mother do just days before, I slid its edge against my arm below the elbow. I heard that sound without sound again, the same noise from the farmyard, when Pyotr’s body stood up on my command. Power soared through the blade as I fed Deathbringer my blood.

Then I opened my hand towards the body of Yenda the Elder, still being cradled in her son’s arms. “Rise,” I said, and Deathbringer’s magic—my magic—took hold. The fallen Matriarch opened her eyes, black and empty, and pushed up to her feet without a word or a sign of the age that had started to slow her down in life. Ruslan swore an oath and backpedaled on all fours, pushing himself up against the wall where he stared at the risen Yenda with wide, terrified eyes.

The look on Yenda the Younger’s face was more anger than anything else, assuming she was telling the truth about not feeling pain; given the unrestrained madness I saw in her eyes, I was still inclined to believe her. Her shoulder and much of her dress was stained with her own blood, but she was still armed, and still very, very dangerous. “You come into my home…wreaking chaos and death wherever you go, kill my personal guard…and now you’re going to parade my dead mother in front of me like a puppet? Have you no shame?”

“Why do you care about her now?” I said, keeping my weapon up and ready to guard against another attack. “You’re the one who killed her.”

“She was going to betray me!” Yenda screamed, swinging Frostbite before her for emphasis; I noted that the arm connected to her stabbed shoulder hung limp at her side. “I spent my entire life studying, searching, hunting for the Deathbringer. So many years, so much time and effort… But I found it. I found it! It’s mine! You have no right to that Sword!” She was winded, and took a breath. “Once I kill you, I’ll get it back, and Frostbite, and then Bloodlust, and then…the rest of them.” Her voice trailed off as she took another breath. “For now,” she continued, lips pulled back, teeth bared like an animal, “I’m going to redecorate this place with your blood.” The woman pointed her sword at me. “Freeze!”

Another burst of cold came from the delicate blade, but now it was a paltry, pitiful thing compared to before—hardly more than a light breeze and a ruffling of my torn coat. At the same time, the Elder’s corpse raised a hand towards the frozen Spellsword and curled her fingers, black eyes narrowed in anger; as if in response, Frostbite’s magic quickly sputtered and died out.

Yenda frowned, looking down at Frostbite. "Why aren't you working? Freeze!" She pointed it at me again, giving the weapon a little shake for extra effort. What came next wasn’t even enough of a wind to make me squint or turn my head.

The risen Matriarch walked over and grabbed Yenda’s arm, trying to physically take Frostbite back. “Get off me!” Yenda said, shoving the corpse away. My slave continued trying to wrestle the Sword away from Yenda, who soon lost herself to a wild rage, screaming as she hacked away at her mother’s corpse. “Back! Get away from me!” It was an ugly, brief struggle as the Younger cut the Elder to pieces; blood went flying, staining the carpet, upholstery and more of Yenda’s dress.

“Of all the—! Freeze!” She shrieked the word, pointing Frostbite at me again.

That time, nothing happened.

“What’s wrong with this thing?!” she said, looking with bewildered anger at the Spellsword in her hand.

“I broke your bond with the Sword,” I said. I lowered my guard, but only because my arms were tired and I didn’t want Yenda to see them shaking. My ruined coat was soaked with sweat, melted ice and blood, frayed and hanging off of one shoulder; my skin was snow-burned in numerous places, while in others the skin had split when it was covered in frost. Already I could feel Deathbringer’s magic healing me, but it still hurt to do much of anything. I felt miserable and exhausted, but I held onto that tiny spark of anger and determination I still had. If I lost that, I was also going to lose any remaining strength I had with it.

“What? You can’t do that!” she protested.

“I just did.”

“Frostbite belongs to me,” Yenda said.

“Well, Frostbite doesn’t seem to know that.” I nodded at the dead Matriarch at her daughter’s feet, cut up and bloodied, but still watching her daughter with cold, empty eyes. “No Spellsword can serve two Mistresses, and you aren't the only Swordbearer now.” I stepped towards her, my own Sword at the ready.

“N-no.” Yenda looked down at her mother, then back to me, eyes wide. “No! She’s dead. It’s not possible!” Yenda backed away from me, her useless arm still flopping against her side. “My arm…it hurts… It hurts! Why does it hurt now?” She clutched Frostbite more like it was a shield than a Sword, as if hoping it might still save her. “Get away,” she said, “get away from me! Someone help! Kale, Ruslan, help me!”

Her brother never answered. I looked over and saw that, of all things, the man had fainted.

Kale looked a bit green himself after witnessing my handiwork. He seemed torn to me, unsure of what to say. I saw what might’ve been a dozen different thoughts and feelings show on his face, in his eyes, before he set his jaw and looked away.

I still wasn’t sure what Kale might say, so I didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “No one’s going to save you now,” I said to Yenda, ready to chase her if she started to run. The sun was gone now; the full moon flooded the room with silver light, turning the world to a pale, lifeless grey. “There’s no one left to protect you.”

“Kale!” Yenda reached out with her good hand, the one holding the Avardi Spellsword, as though pleading with him. “I’m sorry—whatever I did to make you angry, I’m sorry! Don’t let her do this!”

Kale and I met each other’s eyes. He didn’t try to stop me; on the contrary, his look told me that Kale had experienced some change of heart since our talk the previous evening. “Sorry, Yenda,” he said, still staring at me. “You don’t get to order me around anymore.” He nodded at me, once, before turning away.

Through the glass, I could see Whitehold in the distance. It had turned a truer color to its namesake, but now it reminded me of old bones, a bleached skeleton left exposed to Mother’s light. I marched after Yenda with the one desire I had left in my dead heart. Every thought, every feeling, everything in me was tainted by death. Vengeance was all I knew now, all I wanted. If I turned away from it, I’d never be able to live with myself. I couldn’t escape that desire, so I did the only thing left for me to do: I embraced it.

I became the Bringer of Death.

Yenda reached out to touch the glass, pushing on it, even smashing Frostbite against it; several panes cracked and splintered under the assault, but she was either too weak or too frantic to do more damage. Spinning around, she fixed her eyes on me again, which glittered with murderous urgency and madness, it seemed. “This is all your fault! My mother is dead because of you!” In one last desperate effort, Yenda lunged at me, her weapon outstretched. “I’ll kill you!”

As she came within reach, it felt almost deceptively simple: I dipped my body downwards, feinting to one side, away from Yenda’s sword arm, feeling the prick of Frostbite’s edge as it opened the skin at the top of my shoulder. At the same time, I deflected Yenda’s wrist against my forearm, pushing the glittering blade up high.

Deathbringer plunged into Yenda’s unprotected throat, sliding up and through in a clean, near-effortless motion. The woman’s eyes went wide in surprise; her mouth opened to protest and blood splashed on my face, but no words came out. More blood spurted from the wound, spilling over the choker and blue diamond she wore. Yenda kept trying to speak, likely trying to process what was happening, wondering why she couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe.

“Does that hurt?” I said. “I hope it hurts.” I was trembling, shaking with my anger. Hot tears were in my eyes, sliding down my face. “I hope this hurts you so, so much. And I hope wherever your miserable excuse of a spirit goes, it never stops hurting, you snow-blasted, blighted, worthless, terrible… You… You…!”

Yenda’s mouth slowed, blood bubbling and frothing on her lips, dripping down her chin and neck, staining the front of her gown. She clutched at me as her life slipped away, clawing weakly at my face, intent to go down fighting to the end. The light in her eyes was starting to flicker; I saw her golden light begin to fade. I had so many things I wanted to say, so many curses to pour on her head. I wanted to watch her die, to raise her body and find a way to bring her back to life, then kill her again—over and over, my life devoted to nothing but making Yenda Avard suffer. Forever. Nothing would make me happier or more satisfied. I could spend every minute of every hour of every day until I died finding ways to—

“Inga.” Kale’s voice came from somewhere behind me. He touched my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Inga.”

I raised my head, blinking away the film of tears obscuring my vision, coming back to myself.

The golden light was gone.

So was Yenda.

I stepped back, watched the empty husk of a body slide off of the black steel and into a useless heap on the ground. Deathbringer fell from my numb fingers, tumbling to the floor with a muffled clang. I was never quite sure just how long I stared down at Yenda’s body, at her blood-streaked face. My reason for living, the very thing still keeping me alive, was the need to reach this place and get back my mother’s Spellsword—my Sword, my birthright. I’d somehow survived, somehow emerged victorious and taken my revenge…and now found myself wishing that none of it had ever happened, that I could forget the woman’s face and never think of her ever again.

It is done, Swordbearer, said Deathbringer.

There was no strength left in me. I fell to my knees, hugged both arms around myself, closed my eyes, and began to cry. I didn’t care if Kale saw me. I didn’t care if the Sword witnessed my weakness. I didn’t care if the White Fortress crumbled around me and I died in a pile of rubble and ash. For that moment, everything I’d kept bottled inside of me for so long—every memory I’d repressed, everything I’d wanted to feel and couldn’t—it all came flowing out of me in a flood of tears and whispers. “Pyotr,” I said, babbling to myself from around the fist I crammed into my mouth. “Mother… Pyotr… I did it. It’s done… I did it.”

So why did it still hurt so much?

I don’t know how long I sat there next to Yenda’s corpse, but it couldn’t have been very long—bodies start smelling not long after they stop moving, which was something I was becoming intimately familiar with, and enjoying about as much as you might expect. There was also the issue of the Fortress being on fire: smoke from the great hall was filling the upper room by that point, the heat making the glass panes pop and shatter.

Kale, to his credit, left me alone while I processed my grief. He dragged the unconscious Ruslan over to the door first, and then returned to me. The touch to my shoulder was gentle. “Inga. We need to go.”

I looked up at him. “You didn’t try to stop me.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Would you have tried to stop you?”

Shaking my head, I pushed up to my feet. Another time, his tone of voice might’ve made me laugh. This was not one of those times. “I suppose not.”

Kale nodded. “You weren’t going to stop, so I didn’t bother arguing. It’s done. Now, let’s get out of here.”

I nodded, grabbing Deathbringer first and then took hold of Frostbite as well. Kale hissed. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“What? No… No, not at all.” I found the other Spellsword a bit ostentatious, with the studded diamonds and all; it was a very different looking weapon from Deathbringer—more of a noblewoman’s toy than a simple, straight-edged tool. “Why would it?”

He turned over his left hand, showing both palm and fingers spotted with round, red blisters. “That’s what I got from just picking that one up to throw it to you.” He still seemed leery of naming my Sword, even now.

I set Frostbite down for a moment, examined my hand, saw no blisters or any sort of mark at all. Not knowing what to think, I picked it back up again. Then I noticed the broken body of Yenda the Elder—cut and ragged but back on her feet, watching me with her dark eyes, observant and silent.

“Sleep,” I told her. She seemed to consider it, then stretched herself out onto the stained carpet and closed her dark eyes again. Her light winked out, and she was gone.

“That was eerie,” Kale said, giving a faint shiver before he pulled the unconscious man up, an arm slung over his shoulder.

“She deserves to rest,” I said, unsure how else to explain it. “Do you need help?”

“No need,” he answered. “Not sure you’d be much help, anyway—he’s almost too big for me as it is. Let’s just get out of here before the roof falls in on us.”

The fire in the main hall was spreading quickly, but the hallways were empty of the living or the living dead—I couldn’t sense my soldiers anymore, which I could only assume meant they were either already cut down, or they’d been released as I intended. I left all of the remaining bodies behind, even though I was unsure of who or what would be waiting for us outside.

Ruslan proved to be an ungainly burden, but Kale bore him without complaint, leading the way through the Fortress’ smoky corridors. I followed behind him, carrying the pair of Spellswords in my hands. Deathbringer either had nothing to say or thought silence was the best choice, and I didn’t argue. I felt numb all over, my mind as smooth and shallow as a puddle after a rainstorm—I didn’t want to think, or feel, much of anything at that moment.

We quickly exited the Fortress by way of a side entrance, circumventing any need to brave the smoke and flames in the great hall. Ruslan was conscious and awake by that time, and managed to stand under his own power while suffering a coughing fit so harsh he doubled back over. Out on the lawn, we could see a crowd gathered outside of the hall’s main doors: most were Avardi soldiers, watching the fiery torrent with disbelieving eyes; some made a curious gesture I hadn’t seen before, motioning with one hand across their chests. A smaller collection of armed women and men had surrounded what few prisoners they’d managed to round up, but at a glance it couldn’t have been more than a fifth of the number I’d let loose. I assumed that meant the others were all escaped or dead;

Their deaths were on my head now, another burden for me to carry. And carry it, I would.

But there were more than soldiers nearby. Some men and women wore dark-blue coats with shiny brass buttons, similar in appearance to the Avardi soldiers but part of some other regiment or group, maybe. I saw some holding long hoses, spraying thick sheets of water towards the flames. I also saw what appeared to be citizens of Whitehold—richly-dressed aristocrats, plain-garbed commoners, women and men, all watching the flames with from a distance.

“Kale!” Jaska Isrodel came running, almost bowling him over as she folded him up in her arms. “I thought you were dead!” She was wearing a borrowed Avardi coat like I was; underneath, she had on some kind of expensive dress which was streaked with soot and ash, not to mention being so torn and ruined it barely covered her at all anymore. She also carried an unsheathed weapon in one hand—one look at it and I knew it had to be Bloodlust.

Kale looked a touch embarrassed as he patted her back awkwardly. “Sorry.” His smile was just as awkward. If he noticed the Sword in his sister’s hand, Kale didn’t comment on it.

“What about the Matriarch?” asked one of the Avardi—I recognized him as the jailer, the one who’d escaped from the fight in the underground prison. “And the First Daughter?”

Ruslan had to take several breaths before he had enough air to speak, and did so with a rasping, scratchy sort of voice. “Dead,” he said, coughing again after that one syllable.

“Did she do it?” the nameless jailer asked, pointing at me. “You did, didn’t you? You’re the reason all of this started in the first place!” There were discordant rumblings in the crowd, sounds of disapproval and anger.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Ruslan waved a hand over his head. “Stop, stop,” he said. “The First Daughter…” He took more deep breaths. “My sister slew the Matriarch.” When some of the crowd shouted or gasped aloud in disbelief, he raised his head and his voice. “I was there! I saw it happen—are any of you going to call me a liar?” No one answered his challenge. “This woman avenged my mother and stopped my sister.” He took another breath, rubbing the back of his neck, looking at me in puzzlement. “Who are you, anyhow?”

I felt the weight of every single eye on me, and just like on my wedding day, I hated it. I hadn’t liked being the center of attention since I was a girl, and time had done nothing to ease that reaction. I started to reach for my barrette, then stopped myself, remembering how the Matriarch had taken it from me. My unorthodox appearance only exacerbated the problem, until I’m sure I would’ve jumped into a hole if I’d had the chance. “Inga,” I said. “My name is Inga Iv—…” I cut myself off, closed my eyes and took a long breath before opening them again. “Alenir. My name is Inga Alenir.”

A rippling passed through the crowd, a whispering hum that grew in strength and energy with each new second. It was like Jaska said, like Kale had before her, and like Darya before both of them: most people knew my ancestress, and what I saw wasn’t a pleasant reaction. Ruslan’s eyes went wide in surprise, but then he turned back to the crowd. “It’s late—everyone should disperse; those who can, return to your homes. Let the fire-fighters do their work. Go!” Whitehold had no remaining Matriarch, but as her surviving son, Ruslan seemed to carry some of Yenda the Elder’s authority: in time, some of the crowd began to head for the bridge leading back to the mainland. Meanwhile, the ones in darker blue coats continued with their the work, calling and shouting to one another as they fought back the flames.

Ruslan motioned to me. Part of me was reluctant, but I stepped closer. “Before she died…” I saw him swallow, heard him take a slow breath. “My mother offered to let you leave Whitehold. Will you go?”

“Yes.” It was the easiest decision I’d ever made in my life. I raised Frostbite. “What about this? Do you want it back?”

He shook his head. “I can’t use it, and I’ve no daughters to give it to. Keep it.”

“Are you serious?” I said, unable to hide my shock. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Keep it,” he repeated, almost growling the words aloud. “Find some other fool woman who wants it. If I have my way, I’ll never lay eyes on it ever again.” His words reminded me of Kale’s own, speaking of curses in a similar fashion.

Kale, who’d gone quiet, spoke up. “You’ll really let her leave, Ruslan?”

The larger man huffed, blowing out a hard snort through flared nostrils. “I’ll tell my forces not to trouble her, and I expect them to obey.” He fixed me with an unfriendly look. “But even after what my sister did, after how you desecrated my mother’s body…” Ruslan took a calming breath, but his voice was still soft, still angry. “You’ll get out of this town soon if you know what’s good for you. Understand?”

I nodded. “Count on it.”

For a second, he hesitated. “Are you really an Alenir? Related to Katarina the Butcher? Truly?”

I had the feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I’d be asked that question. “As much as I can tell.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I hefted Deathbringer. “This seems like proof enough for me.”

He eyed the weapon warily, then shook his head. “Saints. This whole world’s gone insane.” He turned and walked away, raising his voice as he started barking orders to his soldiers.

I was left not knowing what to do, or even where to go. The events of the previous week had come at a whirlwind’s pace, carrying me in and through with barely time to breathe. It was a miracle I’d survived at all. Now I felt…lost.

As if sensing my confusion, Jaska reached out a hand, taking my arm. “We should talk,” she said to me. “Come back to South Hill with us.”

I nodded. Clutching both Spellswords, I let the twins herd me across the yard in front of the burning structure towards a waiting carriage. I still had the creeping, uncomfortable sensation of far too many eyes watching me. I took one last look at the White Fortress as we departed, seeing its once-pristine shining exterior now tainted and burnt black on one side. It was likely that the building itself would survive: the fire had spread to the upper floors, but much of the structure still stood. I wondered what it would look like when the fire was put out, how different it and Whitehold would look in the future.

Coming to this city had changed me forever. I could never go back to Pol’s or Darya’s farms, back to the life I’d lost. All I could do was keep moving forward…but where that path would lead me, I hadn’t a clue.

It was quiet as we rode, save for the sounds of the early morning, the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the stone bridge, and the constant hiss and sigh of the waters below. Jaska rode up front next to her brother, one of her arms wrapped around one of his as he drove, the other holding tight to Bloodlust’s hilt. Neither of them spoke to me or to each other. It was the calmest and quietest time I’d experienced in more than a week.

I’d survived my journey, slain my enemy, avenged my family, and now I could let the world worry about itself for just a little while. I couldn’t stay in Whitehold; I’d promised that I would leave, and intended to. I had the entire world to explore—out there, waiting for me.

I was going to keep moving forward, or die trying.

But the decision of where to go could wait for a little while. Right then, I did the first thing that felt right: I laid the two Spellswords across my lap, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.