“No!” The sorcerer’s roar was swallowed by a burst of white as the Crown of Concord shattered. A brilliant flash radiated out in a wide arc—a tidal wave of light that engulfed him, her, the battlefield, the very city around them.
Malakar was nothing more than a wisp of splintered shadow as the crown, cleaved in two, clattered on the stone.
For a moment, there was nothing but pure, incandescent, dazzling light.
And then that light was sucked back into Daephinia, a blinding assault of power that ripped her open.
The end of her life tasted bright.
PART I
FIGHT
1
THE REVENANT
ELYRIA
Glass shatteredon the wall behind Elyria’s head, sticky amber liquid spraying across her neck.
“Not the cider, you fools.” She pulled her feet from the stool they’d been resting on as she took a long swig from her tankard. Swaying, she dipped her head to appraise the pieces of the broken bottle that had landed on the bar top beside her.
Waste not, she thought, picking up what remained of the bottom half of the bottle and gingerly tipping it over her mouth. A few drops of cider, sweet and tangy, dribbled onto her tongue.
The tavern was a cacophony of shouts and clashing bodies, though that was nothing new at The Sweltering Pig. Falling mugs clinked and crashed, ale splashing across the floor and nearbytables. Elyria ducked, narrowly avoiding a silver flagon whizzing past her ear. It hit the dark wood of the tavern wall with a clang, more cider spilling out in a wave across the cobblestone floor.
She shook her head—sucha waste—and caught sight of Artie. The dwarven tavern master shouted unintelligibly as he attempted to break up a pair of wrestling patrons. Broom in hand, Artimecion Bonejaw was every bit the crotchety, if diminutive, proprietor. And he was glaring at Elyria like this was all her fault.
Her skin prickled as she glared back. Sure, energies were a bit high during the final few songs of her nightly performance. But it wasn’t as if she’d been chanting war anthems. If anything, this was Artie’s own fault. Surely, the crowd would be far less likely to drink themselves into a frenzy if this tavern didn’t serve the best cider and third-best ale in Coralith.
And Elyria certainly wasn’t to blame for the group of six brutes who had barged into The Sweltering Pig during her encore, practically trampling half the patrons on their way in.
So, no, she didn’t think it fair for Artie to act like it washerfault fists had started flying. This time, at least.
The sound of more glass shattering rang in Elyria’s ears, setting her nerves on edge. She’d pay for this in the morning, no doubt. Elbow on the counter, she braced her head in her palm as someone hurled a stool at the bar and it exploded in a shower of splinters. Her eyes darted back to Artie, whose jaw underneath his woven beard hung open, his brow creased with outrage. He’d whittled that barstool himself.
Elyria grimaced. Yes, she would be paying in more ways than one.
“Come on then, Revenant,” a man’s deep, resonating voice drawled over the chaos. “We’ve gone through a lot of trouble trying to track you down.”
Elyria drew her heavy-lidded eyes—not without effort—toward the man. A strong jaw with a cleft in his chin. Gray eyes. Blond hair that fell to his shoulders. Elyria supposed he was handsome enough, though the garish golden hoop dangling from each of his pointed ears immediately soured her interest. A single ruby-red bead hung from each earring—one of Tartanis’ men.
“All this for me?” Elyria taunted, placing her hand over her heart. “I’m flattered, truly.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Not our fault you got the crowd all riled up during your little performance.” He waved a hand toward his lackeys standing at his back—three men, two women—then to the stage in the corner. “And now you’re coming with us.”
“Am I?” Elyria sighed, setting her tankard on the bar top with athunk. “And here I thought I’d have a quiet evening.”
He had the gall to smirk. “Well, I leave it up to you to determine if that will remain the case.”
“How do you figure?”
His eyes narrowed. “You can come quietly, or we can take you...notquietly.”
One of the man’s greasy henchmen chortled. “You tell her, Raefe.”
“Raefe, is it?” Elyria wobbled as she rose from her seat. She was not precisely the pinnacle of sobriety herself at present, she would admit. Not that it mattered.
