| |
––––––––
THEY SAY THE SONG OF the banshee is the most terrifying sound in existence.
Perhaps it is.
The queen staggers away, shrieking and covering her ears. Stiletto guy drops the knife and cowers, hunching until he is out of my view. Beneath the perfect notes releasing from my throat I hear the frightened cries and screams from the crowd who gathered to watch whatever this ritual would have entailed.
Through it all, I stare straight into the shadows at the Tarrien look-alike.
Take that, you murdering bastard. You killed my beautiful friend. Now you can experience the song that I had to sing for her.
He steps out past the throne and I see him clearly for the first time. He grits his teeth and scrunches his face, struggling to hold onto the enchantment freezing me in place.
The banshee song continues to wash over him; over them all. Dying and death. And life. And then dying once again. And death. Do you like the cycle of existence, father of Tarrien?
As I reach a crescendo, the magic holding me captive finally collapses into nothing. I’ve done it. I’ve broken through his concentration. I launch up onto my bare feet, standing on top of the altar, and continue to power my voice and my song outward. I reach into every nook and cranny of the room, turning in a circle, filling it all with sound.
I ignore the prone and writhing robed figures. They are nothing but followers, pathetic and weak. Instead, I focus on the queen, who has jumped back up onto the dais and reached Tarrien’s father. They stand together, in front of that damn throne. Her hands are still over her ears. I step up my attack, sending everything I have in their direction.
The man’s face is murderous, and I sense a rolling swell of power at the periphery of my consciousness. I have never felt anything like it before. I know it is coming from him, and I know that the moment my voice falters, he will blast whatever he is holding onto my way. It will crush me. I feel it already, chipping away at the edges of my song, looking for a crack. Waiting.
I can’t keep singing. The banshee call is draining me of everything I have...
Is it the banshee call that is causing this feeling of dizziness? I don’t usually feel as weak as this when I sing. Not unless death is involved. My death? My legs tremble hard, as if no longer able to hold me up. I look down, at a huge pool of blood all over the altar, and realize I’ve been bleeding out of my thigh wound all this time.
How is that possible? It was only a needle-sized hole. That man must have nicked an artery. I shake my head, blinking. My vision is wonky. Another rush of dizziness sends my head spinning. Blackness threatens at the edges of my vision...
Oh, God. Am I dying? Have they drained me, despite my song? Have I inadvertently drained myself?
As the blackness grows, it becomes harder to focus. My song falters and eventually fails. The wave of magic that had been waiting in the wings rushes over me, but it feels less powerful than before. I guess he must have drawn it back inside himself, saving his energy. He knows I’m so weak from loss of blood that he doesn’t need to crush me. I am already done.
As the room falls silent, the queen straightens, her eyes flashing fury and her smile wide and grim. Now there’s one who won’t hold back. Tarrien’s father places a hand on her shoulder, as if in caution. She shakes him off and faces me. Even with my failing vision I read the murderous intent in her expression. She lifts her hand...
And then a flash of bright silver light fills the air.
Did the queen do that? Did Tarrien’s dad? Judging by the shock that slackens their features, it would appear not.
Hope sparks in my heart as a whole horde of men, dressed just like Tarrien in his dark winter warrior armor, burst into the room. And there is my Tarrien, in the lead, wielding an enormous silver sword in one hand and a wicked-looking dagger in the other. His face is terrifying, and to me, utterly beautiful.
My Tarrien. I like the sound of that. Is it really him? Or is it my dying brain, conjuring up the one person in the world I most want to see right now? The one person I will most regret not getting to know properly in this lifetime.
Oh, Tarrien. I wish we had the chance of a future, together. I think it would have been magnificent.
Too late. Far too late. My mind is fuzzy and I can’t formulate proper thoughts or words. Not anymore.
My song is done.
I collapse onto the bloody slab and warm blackness claims me.
***
Tarrien
I’VE NEVER IN MY LIFE seen a more beautiful, nor terrifying, sight, than Indie standing up on that blood-soaked altar in a see-through dress, her lower half covered in blood. Her dark hair streams out as she swivels around to face me.
She’s alive. Thank the winter gods. I am not too late.
Our gazes meet for just a moment, and I see relief, and something more, in the depths of her brilliant emerald eyes. I want to explore that something more, desperately, but now is not the time.
Her face is so white it scares me. Even her lips are leached of color. My brain suddenly registers how much blood surrounds her on that stone slab. More, perhaps, than a part-fae could stand to lose and still survive. She crumples into a tiny heap amidst the blood.
I release an enraged roar. No! I will not let them kill her. I will not.
My bellow echoes throughout the cavernous room and I rush into the throng alongside the warriors who joined me on this mission, swiping left and right and removing necromancer heads as I go.
A row of abominations forms and for the first time I realize this crowd is a mix of wizards, a couple of witches, and warped supernaturals. I pause to count the row facing us. Seven vamps and seven werewolf loups. I point some of my warriors toward a few of the robed necromancers still alive who are scrabbling for the exit, and the remaining five warriors automatically form a line behind me.
Six of us, against fourteen of them. Not impossible, though we need to do this fast, or Indie will not live.
The loups all rush us at the same time, and the sounds of battle fill the air once again. Screams and cries, and metal against bone. Growling and hissing and yelling, and gurgles as some of them die, choking on their own foul blood.
Too late I remember Indie’s banshee magic, amongst all this death and dying. Will she survive that on top of what they’ve done to her, if she is already so weak?
I shoot a glance toward the altar. She isn’t moving at all, and has not made a single sound as all these creatures die around her. That is unheard of for a banshee. Unless the banshee in question is dead.
I hope she is merely unconscious, and not... No. Focus. I can battle and heal at the same time, as long as I maintain my concentration.
I send a swirl of healing magic toward her, praying it will be enough to hold her until I can get her back to Faerie and repair the damage properly. I cannot do more than that with a were’s jaws threatening to close on my throat and a vamp on my back dragging at my head to assist the were.
I crash deliberately backward onto the ground, a surprised squeal released in my ear by the vamp as my weight combined with my armor crushes the creature enough to force it to let go. Its spindly hold releases and it wriggles out from beneath me and jumps away. I jab up and into the were’s chest with my dagger. Silver, with a wooden core. Perfect for felling any of these creatures. Any, except fae.
The were collapses onto me as it dies, so close to my face that its death gurgle fills my lungs with its fetid breath. I cough to rid myself of the putrid stench, and then breathe shallowly under the weight of the furry body until I manage to shove it off me.
As I do, I notice a sparkle of something metal at its neck. A medallion, with a strange swirling design. I remember Indie’s sister asking me if I had seen something like this. Guided by instinct, I conjure a handkerchief, and then for good measure, a sealed plastic bag. I use the handkerchief to rip the necklace off the dead were, and then fold it into the linen wrap and seal it into the bag. I tuck the package into my boot to consider later, before jumping to my feet, checking out the rest of the room. My fellow warriors—assembled at a moment’s notice back in Faerie when I sent out the call—are gaining the upper hand over the remaining abominations.
There don’t appear to be any necromancers left alive.
I turn my attention to the fae woman standing on the dais behind the altar. My queen. Or rather, my ex-queen.
Indie’s folded up body between us looks tiny and helpless. She is so still and pale. Too still. Too pale.
I direct another wave of healing magic Indie’s way, the tentacles reaching out from deep within me to wrap her and hold her tight. I can sense her essence, still hanging on, within the cradle of my magical embrace. She may not be conscious, but she is definitely still alive—at least for now.
Hold on, my love. I will get you home as soon as I am able.
I rush toward the altar, judging the distance and the height, and take a giant leap over the top of the stone slab. I land on my feet near the throne. Rhiannon takes a few small steps backward, away from me.
There was someone standing with her when we first arrived in the room. I caught the flash of a tall male lurking in the shadows behind Rhiannon. My momentary lapse of attention when I saw the spectacle of Indie—my beautiful, brave Indie—standing up on that slab and facing her enemies like an amazing Valkyrie warrior, gave whoever it was the opportunity to disappear.
No matter. I am positive I know who it was. And he will not get away with this. I will make sure of it.
I have to restrain myself from launching at Rhiannon and grabbing her around the neck. Even if she were to use her magic against me, my wrath is such that I would likely squeeze the life out of her before I could gather any useful information.
I narrow my gaze and glare at her. My control is balanced on a dagger’s edge. She must sense how close I am to snapping, because she sucks in a ragged breath and takes yet another step back.
“Time to end this, Rhiannon.” I can barely force the words past the constriction in my throat.
She holds out her hands in a beseeching manner. “You could join our cause, Tarrien. The Restoration Movement offers rewards beyond anything you have ever imagined. I would never have you working as a lackey, a glorified security guard. The way Renna has treated you since I left the Winter Court is disgraceful. You deserve so much more.”
The fact that I agree with her about Renna is moot. “I think not. It’s over, Rhiannon. Give yourself up now, to my warriors, and I will guarantee you maintain your dignity, at least.”
I will ensure Rhiannon dies for what she has done. But not here, and not now. We need to extract as much information as we can. If I act now, in this moment, we may never discover the full extent of her plan, nor identify all her allies. More innocent victims might die. We need that information from her, to rid both the mortal and fae worlds of the rot that has permeated everything, almost since the Accord began.
The Restoration Movement, she just called it. At least now, we have a name for the enemy.
“If you take me back now, you and I both know what will happen, Tarrien,” she says in a pleading tone. Her eyes are calculating, though. Their coldness does not match her beseeching voice, and I do not trust her at all. Especially not when her hands are tucked behind her back, potentially concocting a magical attack.
“King Tryppton loved you, once,” I say. “He will—”
“Tryppton will torture me, and then kill me, and he’ll enjoy doing it. Please don’t send me back.”
She’s not wrong. The king will indeed be most pleased to receive this prisoner in the dungeons of the Winter Palace, and her stay will not be pleasant. Unfortunately for Rhiannon, I have nothing but loathing in my heart for her. She should never have tried to kill Indie.
I reach behind me with my awareness, through the tentacles connecting me to my banshee. I confirm she is still alive, though barely. For the first time, doubt at my own ability both to battle and heal creeps in. What if I’m too late? What if this—I blast more power through the strands—is not enough?
I need to get her back to my quarters and locate all the strands that connect her to this life. I need to rebuild some of them and strengthen others, in order to bring her back whole.
I gesture to two of the warriors to come forward, providing quick instructions for transporting the queen back to Faerie’s Winter Court. They will temporarily freeze the captor, which will hold her magic in stasis and effectively renders her powerless.
Rhiannon’s lip curls up in a sneer as the warriors approach. Her hands are still tucked behind her. I watch carefully, waiting for whatever magic onslaught she might send our way.
“Rhiannon,” I start to say. “You—”
“That’s Queen Rhiannon to you, Tarrien.”
She quickly thrusts her arms and a ball of silver attack magic launches at the warriors. I jump to deflect it with my sword, and draw my short dagger.
“You’re not a queen. You’re nobody’s queen, anymore. Remember?”
Her eyes flash with rage. “When I am reinstated, I will remember those who supported me, and those who did not.”
“Those who supported you? Like my father, you mean?”
Her gaze flickers over her shoulder toward the shadows, and then back to me, confirming my guess. It was him. Sadness touches my heart and I realize I was holding out hope that my father had not fully crossed over to the dark side. Futile to hope for something I already knew was untrue.
“I will hunt him down, and I will kill him, you know,” I say. “Just like I will kill you, Rhiannon, once the king has extracted the information he needs. For what you both have done to so many, and for what you in particular have done to...”
I swallow back her name. I will not let this fae bitch see that the ice around my own warrior heart has the capacity to melt, and reform, and melt again.
She narrows her eyes. “What I have done to... Indigo? Ah, Tarrien. Poor little warrior boy. So, you are just like your father underneath that impressive armor. Only...” She glances past me, over my shoulder. “You are too late to save your little banshee. She is too far gone. In fact, I think she is already dead. Pity.”
Dead? She can’t be. I’m keeping her alive. Even though I still feel Indie’s essence, I can’t help the glance back at her. The queen hurls another ball of magic and this time it hits me directly in the face and bounces off to hit the other two warriors.
Silver blasts all around us and my vision disappears. I slash with my sword and my dagger where she stood, the blades finding nothing. I already know what I will find when the silver mist clears.
She is gone. My father is gone. And I am left with a whole room full of dead abominations and necromancers.
Plus, the woman who managed to melt the ice around my heart without me even realizing. I sprint the short distance back to Indie, all the while barking instructions at the remaining warriors to stay and clean up the mess in this forsaken place.
Gently, I lift her up into my arms. “Indie. I’ve got you, now.”
She is floppy and non-responsive. Is the queen correct? Have I dallied too long, trying to be a hero and capture Rhiannon?
Self-disgust fills me. I should have taken Indie home immediately, instead of assuming I had the strength and expertise to battle and heal at the same time. Why did I not leave this battle to the others? Why did I not take her out of here the second I arrived?
“Hold on, my love. Stay with me.”
If she has already begun to cross over into oblivion, then nothing I do will be enough. There is no amount of winter warrior healing magic strong enough to bring her back, if she has already passed out of this plane of existence.
