Rhys felt himself being roughly dragged from the haze of pain in which he lingered. Someone was shaking him by the shoulders. He wanted to cry out, tell them to stop. For the love of the Maker, you’re hurting me! All he could do, however, was weakly groan.
“Rhys! You have to get up!”
The voice was Cole’s. It felt so far away . . . like he was looking down at himself lying there in the darkness, but none of this had any relation to him. It wasn’t real. Just some dream he couldn’t quite wake up from.
“Rhys!”
He reluctantly opened his eyes. The reality that greeted him was sharp and unrelenting, a knot of agony that burned in his stomach and spread its tendrils into the rest of his body. He wanted to retreat from it, back into the darkness, but the insistent shaking wouldn’t let him. “Cole,” he mumbled, “stop, I’m awake . . .”
Cole looked relieved. He began unlocking Rhys’s manacles, and as Rhys slowly came to his senses he realized something was wrong. There was shouting outside his cell. Doors slamming and people running. Voices filled with urgency. Off in the distance, an explosion sounded.
That made him sit up. Was the tower under attack? “Wait, what’s going on?” he asked. “What have you done? I hope you didn’t . . .”
The cuffs fell from his wrists and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Rhys hadn’t realized how heavy they were, but now that they were off it was a blessed relief. “We came to rescue you,” Cole said, as if it were the simplest matter in the world. He looked Rhys straight in the eyes. “Can you stand? I’ll carry you if you can’t.”
Rhys doubted Cole was strong enough, but he didn’t doubt the young man would try. Still, that wasn’t what made him hesitate. He watched Cole now, the way he moved, the worry in his expression, and wondered if there was something there he hadn’t seen before. The words of the Lord Seeker came rushing back.
What if it was true? What if it was all true? “Cole, I . . . need to tell you something.” He spoke the words before he had time to think them through.
Cole didn’t question him, or suggest that now wasn’t the best time. He merely nodded and sat back, waiting for Rhys to continue.
What could he say? He had no more evidence than the Lord Seeker did, a man who had every reason to manipulate the truth in his favor. The Lord Seeker never met Cole, never looked him in the eyes. He hadn’t been in the Fade and witnessed the kind of pain that made the young man what he was today. Cole was real. Rhys knew it in his bones.
Why, then, did he feel so guilty? Slowly he lowered his gaze. “Never mind.”
Cole helped him to his feet, and together they walked out into the hallway. It wasn’t easy; each step was agony, a jolt that made his guts feel like they would fall out. He tried holding his stomach tightly, but it was no use. Sweat poured down his brow, and he shook uncontrollably.
“I . . . I can’t,” he grunted.
“It’s just a little farther,” Cole urged him.
Rhys tried to summon mana to heal himself. He closed his eyes and concentrated, but the pain was simply too great. It was a white blaze he just couldn’t fight his way past, and trying only made it worse. He doubled over, the light-headedness threatening to make him swoon.
Someone else ran up to them, carrying a glowlamp. It was Adrian. Rhys had never been so happy to see someone in his life. He thought for certain she’d been killed in the great hall—if anyone was the sort to go down fighting, after all, it was her. From the bruise on her face, it seemed it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Adrian skidded to a halt. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked Cole. “Why won’t he heal himself?”
“He’s too hurt.”
Adrian scowled. “A thousand potions in this tower, and nobody thought to bring one?” She lifted his chin up and studied his face. He gritted his teeth, feeling like he would burn up and yet freeze at the same time. “I’m sorry, Rhys,” she said, her irritation dissolving into obvious worry. He must look worse than he felt. “You know I don’t have healing spells, and I can’t spare the time to find someone who does.”
“Are . . . you okay?” he asked her weakly.
The question took her by surprise. She seemed disconcerted, almost suspicious. It was odd, though he couldn’t quite place his finger on why. He’d known Adrian for so long, but now he was reminded of the last time they’d spoken in his chambers. Perhaps the friend he’d known was gone forever, now. That made him sad.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Try to get out safely, Rhys.”
And with that she ran off. Rhys watched her go, and then nodded gratefully as Cole helped him forward. It took effort, and his steps were both stumbling and uncertain, but he was able to walk. Barely.
There were people rushing past them. Rhys recognized a couple: some were first enchanters from the great hall. Others were mages he knew from the tower. All of them were terrified, and unwilling to slow down. There was a red-haired woman with a glowlamp ahead at the entrance to the hall, waving everyone onward. She looked vaguely familiar, but Rhys couldn’t place her. He had other things to worry about.
Like walking. He tried his best to keep pace, Cole and he falling into a strange gait: step-shuffle-hop, step-shuffle-hop . . . it was agonizingly slow, but Rhys gritted his teeth and kept going. He felt so useless it was maddening, but Cole didn’t appear to mind. He patiently urged Rhys on.
Before long they fell behind the others. The red-haired woman yelled for everyone to keep up. He saw the Grand Enchanter beside her, as well as Adrian. And then they were gone. Rhys and Cole were alone in the darkness, with only the sounds of distant battle and the shouts of the mages far ahead to give them a sense of direction. Not that Cole needed it. He knew these passages well.
Step-shuffle-hop, step-shuffle-hop.
Time passed slowly. The sounds drew farther and farther away, and the darkness became complete. Rhys was left blind. He knew they were descending deeper and deeper into the Pit, but he had no idea where they were. He relied on Cole to guide him, the only sounds their footsteps on the cold stone and the thudding of his heart in his ears.
Where was Evangeline? Was Wynne here, as well? Were they part of the fighting? Where were they going, and what if the templars came hunting them? He wanted to ask Cole these questions, but it was all he could do just to control the pain and keep moving.
After what seemed like an hour of torture, Rhys heard water splashing beneath his feet. He could smell something sour and putrid, like sewage, layered thick amid all the dust. “Where are we?” he asked through gasped breaths.
“Close now,” Cole said. The man might as well be invisible, but for the voice in the darkness and the arm supporting Rhys’s waist. “There’s a wall ahead. You’ll need to climb down.”
“Fall down, you mean,” Rhys chuckled grimly.
“We’ll find a way.”
Suddenly Rhys heard something behind them: the sound of many booted feet, running. Men shouting orders. Templars. He froze, instinctively trying to summon mana to his defense, but the surge of pain was too much. He staggered back, tripping over a rock, and Cole quickly caught him before he fell.
Rhys’s heart beat wildly. He crouched down, wincing as the gash in his stomach protested, and waited. Maybe the templars wouldn’t come this way? Maybe they . . . but his hopes sank as he spotted the telltale light of a glowlamp off in the distance. Several, in fact. The light grew brighter as the templars rushed in their direction.
“Cole, we have to run!”
“Wait,” Cole urged. “It’s okay.”
How could it be okay? Not that Rhys’s limping gait would have gotten them far, but to sit still and hope for the best?
He felt a rush of panic as the first templar came into sight. There were five of them, big and burly men in heavy armor splattered with streaks of blood. Their grim faces said they were ready to kill whatever lay in their path.
The lead man held his glowlamp high as he peered off into the passage. Rhys was confused. The templar wasn’t five feet away. His light should have revealed them, plain as day. How could he not see?
“I could have sworn I heard splashing,” he muttered.
“It’s us,” another said. “Those are just echoes.”
“Maybe. Are we sure any came this way? What’s down here?”
A templar with a bushy black beard walked forward, swinging his sword irritably against the wall. “Maker’s breath, who knows? We should go back. The last thing we should be doing is wandering down here, chasing ghosts.”
“The Lord Seeker said we’re to find whoever escaped the dungeon. He’ll be following as soon as he can.”
“And what if he doesn’t? Are we supposed to fight a dozen first enchanters ourselves? Have sense, man!”
The lead man gave the other a sour look. “Tell the Lord Seeker that, if you’re willing. Maybe you want to join Ser Evangeline? She’s fighting alongside those mages, both you and I saw it. It’s insanity.”
The rest said nothing, avoiding each other’s gazes so as not to betray their private thoughts. The lead templar spat in disgust, and then marched off down the passage. The others quickly followed. Each splashed by Cole and Rhys, not a one noticing them.
Then Rhys felt it: a power so faint he barely noticed it was there. It was a hush that surrounded him like a blanket, thick and smothering. And it came from Cole. In the last vestiges of the light from the templar lamps, he could see Cole’s eyes clamped shut. The man was concentrating hard, a trail of blood seeping out of his nose.
“Cole,” he whispered. “They’re gone.”
Cole’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Rhys in surprise . . . and then winced in pain. He curled up on the ground, placing his head between his legs and whimpering. Rhys didn’t know what was wrong. He helplessly patted the young man’s shoulder, and when the templars were fully gone they sat in complete darkness once again.
Eventually Cole’s breathing slowed. “I . . . I think I’m okay now.”
“How did you do that?”
Cole didn’t answer. Instead he pulled Rhys to his feet and led him onward once again. This new ability of Cole’s disturbed him. It hadn’t felt like any kind of magic Rhys had encountered before. It was . . . something else completely. That wasn’t a comforting thought.
The templars had also mentioned Evangeline. Did that mean she was still alive? He hoped so. If the Maker truly looked after the faithful and the good, He would let her escape.
They reached the wall Cole mentioned. It wasn’t easy to descend in the dark. It took forever, Rhys clutching at stones he couldn’t see, breathing in short gasps and praying he wouldn’t fall. And then he did fall. Luckily, Cole was there to catch him. The pain was unimaginable. Rhys lay there in the cold and clammy sewer water until the spasms subsided, and all Cole could do was pat his head and urge him to keep moving.
Eventually they entered the sewers. It had to be the sewers, from the foul smell. Clearly the rest of the mages had come this way. Faint voices echoed in the passages, and Cole quickly led him in the opposite direction.
It didn’t take long for more templars to come. Many templars, in fact. They shouted orders at each other and splashed through the water, the sounds seemingly coming from every direction. It was confusing, but Cole seemed to know where he was going. Rhys trusted him.
They turned down one passage, and then another. It went on forever, time blending into a haze of pain, and Rhys might have blacked out more than once—if he did, when he came to he found himself still walking. Finally Rhys tugged at Cole’s sleeve. “I . . . have to stop,” he panted. His legs wobbled so badly they felt about to collapse from under him.
Cole didn’t say anything, but took Rhys by the shoulder and guided him to an embankment. There they sat, Rhys trying to bring his breathing under control. His guts burned. It felt like they were bleeding again, his life oozing out of him uncontrollably. His head spun from exhaustion.
A faint light drifted down from a grate in the ceiling. The light of Val Royeaux at night, he assumed. It was enough to hint at the edges of the passage walls, and show the rats scurrying about in the corners. Rhys wondered if they shouldn’t try to reach it, maybe escape into the city. Then he quickly discarded the idea. Even if there was a ladder, he couldn’t imagine climbing right now . . . and what if the grate was sealed? Without magic, he was useless.
Rhys froze. Someone was coming toward them. They weren’t running, however . . . they were walking. Cole grabbed his hand, and Rhys shuddered as he felt that dark shroud settle over them once again. They were hidden.
Then their pursuer came into view: it was the Lord Seeker.
The man waded slowly through the water, a glowing red vial held before him. Rhys’s heart sank—it had to be his phylactery. The Lord Seeker was tracking him with it. He moved casually, gracefully . . . a hunter on the prowl.
Would Cole’s ability hide them? Rhys held his breath, watching as the Lord Seeker paused. The man slowly moved the vial around, studying how the crimson lights within responded. Then he frowned.
“Come out,” he said. “I know you’re here. All that effort to destroy your phylactery, and here I’ve kept it with me all along.”
Neither of them moved.
“Ah yes,” the Lord Seeker chuckled. “Invisibility is an interesting trick, I’ll give you that. Of course, every trick is worthless once the truth is revealed.” He put away the vial . . . and took out a small book. It was an odd thing, the size of his palm and bound in shiny gold. The man opened it and began reading aloud. The words were old, Ancient Tevinter . . . almost a chant, really. What he thought he was doing, Rhys couldn’t imagine.
Then something changed. The tingle of magic, prickling along his neck. It swept through the passage like a wind, and with it went the shroud that hid them. Cole gasped in shock.
The Lord Seeker’s head instantly spun around at the sound. Those grey eyes narrowed as he spotted them, and he smiled coldly. “And there we are,” he said. “Cole, I assume?” Tossing the book aside, he raised his sword and charged.
Cole leapt to his feet, dagger in hand. He ran to meet the seeker without a sound. Rhys tried to grab at him, alarmed. “No! Don’t be a fool! You need to run!”
Cole didn’t stop, however, and Rhys only managed to tumble off the edge of the embankment. He fell into the water, blood rushing to his head and making him dizzy. He tried to summon mana, reached desperately down for power—anything at all—but his head only reeled in agony. He screamed.
Cole dodged the first swing of the Lord Seeker’s sword, ducking low and stabbing at him with the dagger. It glanced uselessly off the man’s black armor. The seeker instantly spun around, faster than Rhys would have thought possible, and kicked at Cole. The metal boot connected, sending the young man flying back into the sewer water with a grunt of pain.
Cole didn’t stay down long. He jumped up in one smooth motion, crouching low in a fighting posture. The two circled each other now, the Lord Seeker appraising his opponent carefully.
“I won’t let you hurt Rhys,” Cole growled. He darted toward the Lord Seeker, striking fast like a snake. As the seeker swung his blade down, Cole jumped aside at the last second and let it strike the water. Then he leapt up and slashed at the man’s neck. The dagger connected, and had the Lord Seeker not twisted aside he would have received much more than just a gash.
As it was, he seemed infuriated. He held a gauntlet up to his neck, and then studied the blood on it. “You’re fast,” he said. “I’ll give you that.” He pointed his sword at Cole, the tip tracking the young man as he moved from side to side . . . and then he charged. The Lord Seeker’s swings were fast, each coming one after the other, Cole barely able to dodge in time. The young man was forced back, and when he stumbled against the bank, the Lord Seeker moved in for the kill.
“Cole!” Rhys shouted.
Cole tried to parry the swing, but only succeeded in having the dagger ripped from his grasp. It fell to the ground, and the Lord Seeker kicked it off into the water. When Cole jumped after it, the seeker nimbly swung the hilt of his sword against Cole’s head. The young man flew back, slamming against the passage wall.
Not letting up, the Lord Seeker stabbed his blade into Cole’s shoulder. It sank deep, and Cole screamed in agony.
When the seeker removed the sword, Cole made a growling sound like a rabid animal and leapt on him. The Lord Seeker was taken by surprise. Cole was all over him, clawing and biting at his face. It was enough to stagger the man, and he dropped his sword, but his confusion lasted only a moment. Reaching up, he grabbed Cole by the hair and threw him aside like a rag doll.
Cole landed in the water with a great splash, and instantly jumped back up. The Lord Seeker expected that, however, and kicked him in the stomach. It was a solid blow, sending Cole flying several feet to splash in the water again. He tried to rise, but the Lord Seeker kicked him again. Blood flew from his mouth as he sailed back.
“No!” Rhys cried. “Cole! Run!” He crawled through the murky water toward where the Lord Seeker had kicked the dagger. It must be there somewhere! He felt around in the slime, his hands shaking.
The Lord Seeker marched over to Cole, yanking him up by the hair. This time Cole was too weak to do more than struggle. The seeker curled his fist and punched Cole in the face. He went down, but still tried to get back up. The Lord Seeker picked him up by the hair and repeated the punishment. Twice. Three times. With the last blow, Cole’s nose exploded in a shower of blood. He stayed down, slowly crawling through the water toward the embankment.
Rhys found the dagger. His hand closed around the hilt, and he shakily got to his feet. The entire world swam around him. He tried to charge, but only succeeded in stumbling toward the Lord Seeker. “Leave . . . him . . . alone!” he shouted.
The Lord Seeker turned and grabbed his wrist, crushing it until he dropped the dagger. Then he contemptuously backhanded Rhys across the face. The blow sent him careening back, slamming against the wall, where he crumpled in a heap. His stomach blazed with piercing agony, and he writhed along the floor, his scream a mere ragged gasp.
Sighing irritably, the Lord Seeker walked over to his sword and picked it up. He paused then, watching as Cole pulled himself back up. The young man stood there, his face a mess of blood with one eye swollen shut, and swaying on his feet . . . but ready to fight. The seeker seemed impressed. “So desperate to have your prey, demon? It would be wiser for you to flee into the Fade, and never return.”
Cole spat out dark blood. “I’m . . . not . . .”
“Not a demon? Of course you are.” The Lord Seeker looked around, and spotted where he’d tossed the small book. He picked it up and showed it to Cole. “The Litany of Adralla. Do you know what that is?”
Cole glared at him and said nothing.
“Of course not,” the man continued. “It was created by a magister of Tevinter to dispel demonic influence over the mind. It works on nothing else.”
Rhys’s heart sank. He watched as the anger drained out of Cole. He stared at the seeker in confusion.
“Poor, stupid spirit,” the Lord Seeker said. He put the book away and walked toward Cole. The young man tried to retreat, but he couldn’t stop staring, his mouth agape. “Did you try so hard to pretend you were one of us, pretend you were real, that you forgot what you really were?”
He snatched out with a hand, grabbing Cole around the neck and hoisting him off the ground. Cole choked and flailed weakly, but there was nothing he could do. “You’re not real,” the Lord Seeker said, his tone biting. “You’re just another parasite that’s wormed its way into our world, feeding off all the things you can’t have.”
“Let him go!” Rhys called out. “He’s nothing to you!”
The Lord Seeker turned and looked at Rhys in honest consternation. “This creature preys upon those I am sworn to protect, no matter how undeserving. It has fooled you, turned you into a murderer, and would have made you its host before long. Why defend it?”
“You’re wrong about him.” Rhys steeled himself, and slowly stood. “Not all spirits are the same, just as not all mages are the same. Not everyone possessed is an abomination. Not all magic is equal.” He reached deep down inside and summoned mana. The pain was incredible, almost blinding, but he fought through it with sheer will alone. White fire curled around his fists, the air crackling with magic.
That got the Lord Seeker’s attention. Rhys could see the calculation in the man’s eyes: Is he bluffing? How much power does he truly have? He released Cole’s neck, letting the young man slump to the ground, and pointed his sword at Rhys in warning. “Don’t be a fool.”
Rhys did not waver. “A fool is a man who reaches beyond his grasp. A fool is a man that refuses to accept there are limits to his knowledge. I am no fool.”
Cole scrambled away from the Lord Seeker, and then stopped. He looked over at Rhys, their eyes meeting . . . and Rhys saw he was crying. There was no denial there, no refusal or anger. There was a realization. Cole’s world had crashed down around him, the one thing he’d always feared finally come true: he wasn’t real.
And just like that, Cole faded away.
In that moment, Rhys knew the truth. A part of him, deep down, had always known.
It was if a gaping hole opened underneath him, and into it fell all his strength to fight. His mana fled, the white fire dissipating, and he sank to his knees. Let him kill me, he thought. Let’s end it, here and now.
“I’m disappointed.” The Lord Seeker strode toward Rhys, mouth pressed into a thin frown. “It seemed like you had more fight in you, Enchanter. I’ve awaited this rebellion for some time, and quite frankly I was expecting it to be difficult.”
Rhys barely looked up. “You can strike me down,” he said, “but that won’t stop the others.”
“Their turn will come. Order will be restored, one mage at a time if need be.”
“I fear it’s too late for that, my Lord Seeker,” a new voice said from the shadows. It was Evangeline. She walked into the dim light, and it was plain to see she’d been in battle: her armor was covered in streaks of blood, and her eyes held the grim intensity of a woman forced to kill those who’d once been her comrades. The way she walked with her sword held at the ready, however, said she would not be denied.
“Ser Evangeline.” The Lord Seeker seemed surprised. He turned to face her, warily raising his own blade and ignoring Rhys. “You should have fled while you had the chance. You are a disgrace to the order, to your family, and to the Maker.”
They slowly circled each other in the water, eyes locked. “Of all those things,” she said, “you’re wrong about my family. My father would be proud of what I’ve done. He always said tyranny was the last resort of those who have lost the right to lead.”
“He taught you poorly.”
“Evangeline,” Rhys croaked. He felt utterly drained, barely able to keep himself upright. Even speaking was difficult. “Cole, he . . .”
She didn’t take her eyes from the Lord Seeker. “I heard. It changes nothing.” With that she lunged. The two of them clashed, sword meeting sword. They danced around each other, skilled combatants giving no quarter. Rhys could only watch. He tried to summon his magic, but the effort almost made him black out.
There were others coming. He could hear the echo of their distant voices, the splashes as they ran. Mages, or more templars? Hold on, Evangeline.
She fought valiantly. Several times Rhys thought Evangeline might actually get the better of the Lord Seeker, coming in for a fast attack as soon as she spotted an opening. Each time, however, the man deflected her swing or spun out of the way at the last moment.
Slowly he pressed his advantage. Evangeline was forced onto the defensive, doing all she could just to parry his strikes as she backed up. The Lord Seeker knew he was winning. He began hammering her sword, each blow ringing loudly and making her fight all the harder just to hold on to it.
Finally, more people came into view. It was the mages after all. Wynne was at the lead, staff shining brilliantly, with at least a dozen others right behind her. They ran through the water, intent on stopping the Lord Seeker.
But it was too late.
All it took was that single distraction for the Lord Seeker to go in for the kill. One solid blow to Evangeline’s sword caused it to fly out of her hand. It spun wildly, landing with a resounding splash not a foot away from Rhys. The man lunged before she could react, thrusting his blade through her breastplate.
“Evangeline!” Rhys cried. He stretched out a hand toward her, cursing his weakness . . . and for a moment in time, everything was still. Rhys saw nothing else save Evangeline’s eyes turning to meet his. There was pain there, the loss of what might have been, and he felt it as keenly as she. Evangeline mouthed the words I’m sorry, blood spurting from her lips. Then she slumped from the Lord Seeker’s sword, falling silently into the water as Rhys watched in disbelief.
The charge of the mages ground to a halt. Wynne walked ahead of them, looking first at Evangeline’s body and then at Rhys . . . and then at the Lord Seeker, her expression unforgiving. “Your templars have been defeated,” she told him. “You have lost.”
He said nothing at first. He stood tensely poised, calculating his chances. Against a single, wounded mage with barely a spell to defend himself? Against a young man armed with only a dagger? He would win without question. Even against a single, skilled templar he was more than a match. Against a dozen angry mages, however . . . that was another matter entirely. “And you have gained nothing,” he finally stated. “Whatever you do here, you will not be permitted to run free. We will track you down and put you back in your cages, I swear it.”
Wynne’s eyes narrowed. “Not today.”
The Lord Seeker backed off. He held his sword up, warning any of the mages he would strike if they dared approach him, and then turned and fled into the shadows. The mages immediately gave chase, their staves flashing with fire. Within moments they were all gone, the sound of their spells fading into the tunnels . . . all except for Wynne. The old woman remained behind, shaking her head sadly.
Rhys hardly cared. He crawled through the water, fighting against the pain and the weakness to reach Evangeline. He was barely aware of his tears—inside he was screaming. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Evangeline should have let the Lord Seeker kill him, not intervened and suffered for it.
He reached her body and pulled it up out of the water. It took all his strength. There he cradled her in his arms, wiping the wet locks of hair from her bloody face. She seemed almost peaceful, her eyes staring off into some distant place. “No . . . no, no, no,” he repeated, the grief spilling out of him freely now.
He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted her back. Rhys reached into himself, pulled up what little mana he possessed . . . he shook from the pain of it, and what came was pitifully little, but he poured whatever he had into Evangeline’s body. He knitted flesh with healing magic, closed her wounds with healing magic. But it did nothing. She remained pale and lifeless.
A hand gently touched his shoulder. “Rhys.” Wynne’s voice ached with pity. “It’s too late. You can’t . . .”
He shook his head, almost incoherent in his grief. “She’s the best of them. She doesn’t deserve this. The Maker can’t take her from me now. . . .” He laid his head on Evangeline’s breast, sobbing and praying silently for death to come for him, too. He’d lost Cole, lost Evangeline, lost everything. All he’d wanted to do was help, but instead he’d destroyed it all.
Wynne brushed his hair with her hand. It was an affectionate gesture . . . and when he looked up he saw there were compassionate tears in her eyes. He was reminded of the woman he’d met so long ago—that hero of the Blight who had walked into the White Spire with a warm smile and an open heart, the one he’d felt so proud to call his mother.
“Let me,” she whispered.
“But you can’t. She’s . . .”
“Shhhh.” Wynne put her hand over his lips to quiet him. Then she cupped his cheek lovingly, yet there was sadness and regret in her eyes. “I never knew why the spirit kept me alive, when I should have died all those years ago. Now I do.”
Wynne turned her attention to Evangeline. She placed both her hands on the body and closed her eyes. There was a rush of power. Rhys didn’t know quite how to describe it. It expanded out of Wynne, filling the sewer tunnel with its warm light, and he watched in amazement as something flowed out of her and into Evangeline. It wasn’t dark or terrible. It was life. It was a spark.
At first it seemed like nothing would happen. But then he saw it—the color returned to Evangeline’s cheeks. All at once she took a great, gasping breath. Her eyes opened and she surged up in a panic. Rhys had to catch her to keep her from splashing about in the water.
Their eyes met. It was her. She was alive.
Then Rhys realized what that meant. He looked at Wynne . . . and saw his mother smile. It was a smile that said good-bye. And then she fell back and was gone forever.