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Even among the Vedera, there were legends and old stories. Histories of Glorian. Tales of heroes and mighty kings. Isibel stood among them once, alive in another realm. She was mighty too, one of the most ancient beings left to walk the Ward.
“Isibel,” he began.
Her sword moved so quickly even Dom could not see the steel, nor feel the blade as it plunged through his body. There was only the hole it left behind, through steel, cloth, and immortal flesh.
The roaring in his head intensified, as if a hurricane tore through the castle. He blinked slowly, his knees going weak.
Andry grabbed for Corayne, restraining her before she could lunge at his traitorous aunt.
“My daughter is dead because of you,” Isibel screamed, her gray eyes gone to white fire. Dom heard her as if through water, distant and muffled. “It is only fair I return the favor.”
As her voice worked through his mind, so did the pain work through his shock. It was dull at first, then so sharp his vision spun. Dom expected the smack of his body hitting the ground, but it never came.
Small, wiry arms caught him instead, lowering him to the ground with her, until his back rested against her chest. Bronze fingers worked at the buckles of his armor, tearing off the plates of steel and tossing them away to expose the wound beneath. The same hands ripped his shirt apart and pressed the scraps against the hole in his torso. Despite her quick thinking, blood bubbled through Sorasa’s fingers. Her face crumpled at the sight of it, and Dom knew.
This would not be like the dagger in his ribs. Sorasa Sarn could not sew up this wound.
“It’s fine,” she hissed, lying, one hand still holding pressure. The otherwent around his chest, drawing him into her, letting him lean back into her body. “It’s fine.”
“That is what mortals say when they are in grave pain,” he sputtered, choking on his own blood.
A tear hit his cheek, the only one Sorasa would spare.
“TRAITOR,” Corayne shouted somewhere, bucking against Andry’s grasp.
Her legs kicked out into open air, arms swinging, fighting like a cat in an alley. Only Andry’s long arms kept her from attacking the Monarch with her bare hands.
Charlie was not so lucky.
The fallen priest was not a warrior. He held no skill with a sword, nor fist. Nor was he tremendously brave. Or so Dom thought.
The Prince of Iona blinked laboriously, watching as Charlon Armont launched himself at Isibel. A mortal criminal against an ancient queen.
She batted him aside as she would an insect. He landed hard, rolling into the vines, his eyes closed and jaw slack.
Corayne’s shouts turned to sobs as the world began to dim around him.
“Taristan never stole the Spindleblade,” Dom forced out. “You gave it to him.”
Isibel did not meet his gaze.
“Cortael would never risk the realm for Spindlepower. You raised too noble a son,” she replied with a huff. “Lucky that I did not kill Taristan in the cradle. Lucky that another remained, with the spine to do what must be done.”
The pieces slotted together in Dom’s mind. He shuddered against Sorasa.
So that is why you sent such a small force against him. Why you didnothing after we failed.He cursed Isibel to every god he knew, in this realm and any other.Why you waited and wasted what little hope we had.
“He did not find a secret way into the city,” Dom whispered. “You showed him.”
Isibel gave no answer, and that was answer enough.
Another arm went around his shoulders, more gentle than Sorasa’s, her touch light as a feather. But her tears landed hard, cold against his bare shoulder. Corayne embraced him even as he bled, red staining over her own armor.
He wanted to hug her one last time, but found his strength failing, too weak to move.
Instead, Dom glared over Corayne’s head, spearing Isibel with all the fury he had left.
“What Waits will destroy everything, even your Glorian,” he spat.
