The empty sky around the cathedral waited for Ayae, but she refused to take the last two steps into it. Her burning sword turned away the Innocent’s attacks again and again in a desperate attempt to starve his momentum. Yet, as her blade met his again and again, she became aware of a growing realization within her that it was only a matter of time before one of the Innocent’s thrusts worked through her defences.
It should be Jae’le here. The fight was his, not hers. The Innocent was the nightmare of her childhood, her parents’ killer, the bane of an entire nation, but for all the power within her, Ayae did not believe that she could match Aela Ren. At best, she could test him, and she had done that. But she would not be able to test him for long. Her sword, catching and turning, desperately looking for a moment to slip through his guard, would falter before he did. The pain in her arm would soon run through her. The images bubbled to the surface of Ayae’s mind with sudden clarity and she could do nothing to stop them. She could not harden her skin, she could not use the currents of air around her. She had even lost the flame on her sword.
The only thing that kept her alive was Aela Ren’s rage. It had consumed him and, in doing so, his skill had been overcome by his raw anger, by his desire to beat her into submission.
He was the figure of Ayae’s childhood, now. She could see him approach the scarred walls of the camp she had grown up in. Behind him was his army, dark shadows that she could not properly identify. But she did not need to: on Ren was the fury that Ayae had seen on the faces of the god-touched when they charged from the cathedral.
That anger had not been within the Innocent when she first saw him. It had not been evident, either, after the catapults broke open the crown of the cathedral. Until she had cut him, there had been an almost civil sense to Aela Ren. She had the impression that if she had dropped her sword, or if it had broken, he would have let her pick it up, or gather a new one. He would have done that only because he didn’t fear her, she knew that, but it did not change the fact that in those moments, he was not the man who had terrorized a nation.
The man could only be seen in his anger.
His anger that destroyed a nation.
That killed men and women.
Boys and girls.
Mothers.
Fathers.
Ayae yelled suddenly, the sound torn from within her, years of fury and fear rising from a part of her that had been taken away.
She blocked Aela Ren’s slash, shouldered forwards, bullied herself and her sword away from the edge. Caught off-guard, the Innocent gave ground and Ayae, seeing that, pressed him as hard as she could, slashing left and right, attacking him with all the angry speed she could find. She felt the steel of his weapon chip with every block and deflection he gave.
Then he caught her blade on his, wedged the cold steel in a crack in the steel of his weapon, twisted and sent her blade skidding across the floor.
Ayae didn’t pause. She dropped low, put her weight onto her wounded hip, let the pain fuel her anger, and swept her leg under his. The move was slow and unbalanced and Ren leapt. His sword came crashing down but Ayae had rolled away. The leather across her back split under his second blow, but it was mistimed and did little more. She came to her feet quickly, stepped back for a slash, dodged a left thrust, then she jammed her hand into his wrist to break his grip and grabbed hold of his old armour.
It burst into flames.
Ren slammed both his hands into the sides of Ayae’s head. She yelled in response, seeing the scarred walls and the cloudless sky of her childhood. He hit her again, grabbed her hair, pulled at it, wrenching her head back as fire rushed up his armour, over him, over her. She saw the old, barely seaworthy ship that took her from Sooia. Took her to Mireea. Took her to the orphanage. To Faise. She saw Faise, and Ren punched her at the base of the throat, the blow choking off her wordless yell at him, almost choking her.
It allowed the Innocent to hurl her across the floor.
She landed near her sword.
Her burning hand scooped it up and fire burst along it.
Unarmed, Ren ran at her. His clothes burning, his skin burning too, but Ayae met him.
Her sword ploughed into Aela Ren’s stomach, up to the hilt. As if it meant nothing, his burning hands closed around her neck, to choke her, to tear at her.
His dark eyes were windows to a life of anger and pain. She saw it through the fire that had wrapped around his head, that was melting his skin. They were the same fires that ran over her, that came from her, that would not end, not until she did. Ren’s burning fingers dug into Ayae’s neck and she wrenched her sword up into his chest. He did not flinch so she did it again. He tore into her skin as if he was searching for her spine, and she slammed the hilt of the sword up, hearing his skin part, his bones break. ‘You don’t know what this means,’ he whispered harshly as the strength in his fingers failed. ‘You don’t know.’
Completely covered in fire, Ayae took a step back. In doing so, she dragged her sword out of his stomach and, swinging it back behind her shoulder, hammered it with all the force that she had into the side of his head.
He dropped to the floor.
Ayae took a step backwards, and almost fell. The fire on her sword faded, just as the fire that ran over her did. She dropped the sword as the pain in her leg and in her arm returned with a sudden clarity. Exhausted, she spat blood from her mouth and turned.
The broken floor of the cathedral lay in darkness to Ayae’s left, but she circled it, even as the pain in her hip began to intensify and she started to limp. On the back wall, the dark shapes of a pair of crows shifted and moved. At Se’Saera’s still form Ayae pulled her arm against her stomach. The sharp sensation, like teeth trying to devour her, spiked as she stood before the god and gazed into her broken face. Se’Saera’s lips were moving and there was, Ayae believed, movement behind the fractured skin. But no matter what it was, or what it symbolized, it did not draw Ayae’s gaze into it as it had done before.
Beyond the god a charm-laced man lay against a back wall. His green eyes were open and his smile had the same cynical one she had seen a year ago.
‘Look at you,’ Zaifyr whispered as she drew closer. ‘You look like you hurt.’
‘You have nothing nice to say.’ She sank down next to him. With her warm hand, she reached out for his. ‘Your family said you’d be in a bad way. That you’d be not you.’
‘I can barely move.’ His hand took hers weakly. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things I have seen. The places I went. I wouldn’t believe me.’
‘I just killed—’ Her voice caught and she swallowed. ‘I should be dead.’
‘We should all be dead.’
Silence stretched between the two of them and Ayae closed her eyes. Outside, she could hear the battle, the violence defined by shouts, screams and the crash of weapons. For a brief moment, it sounded as if the world was ending.
‘Ayae,’ Zaifyr said, his hand still in hers. ‘Is Se’Saera still alive?’
She opened her eyes and saw the concern on his face. ‘No,’ she said.