Relief. Heat eased back, as did the roar—here, at least. She could still hear it nearby, still feel her father fighting it elsewhere.
But elsewhere wasn’t her concern. This corridor had once led to the apartment Einar and Freya claimed as their own. The apartment where everyone—her mother, her sister, her father, and she herself—were meant to be gathered right now for dinner.
She’d been late leaving the clinic, despite her promise to Mamma. Then delayed still more by the excited Rafnar and his clearly-not-so-enthusiastic friend. But she’d known her family would forgive it. Diplomacy, welcoming visitors from the domes, was more important than talking over Blessing Day details.
But Fodur must have been late as well. He was clearly not in this wing, given where his snows were coming from.
Irrelevant. She had to find her family, the family whose magic was suspiciously absent from the firefighting endeavors. She extinguished smaller blazes as she went, these suffocated easily beneath the snow and ice and water.
Then, after a few minutes of crawling over mangled slabs so hot she had to cool them before she could touch them, she stood before what had once been her brother’s door.
It was…gone. As was the wall that had held it. Nothing but a broken spear of obsidian stood where the whole expanse should have stretched. And beyond it?
Her stomach twisted as she stepped carefully inside.
No walls with their carefully chosen artwork. No rugs, plush and warm beneath her feet. No furniture, all in neutral tones with splashes of color in accent pillows and throw blankets draped just-so over chair backs.
No laughter. No chatter. No chiding.
Nik drew even with her. “Your home?”
“My brother’s. We were…he and his wife were hosting dinner tonight. For all of us.”
The stranger muttered something she couldn’t catch. Then he started forward, shoving aside pieces of wall or ceiling with only the strength of his arms.
Hers wouldn’t accomplish much. So she used her magic here as she had back at the source of the blaze, shoving rock and crystal aside with water and ice.
She saw Krystiana’s boots first—supple leather dyed red and etched with intricate, colorful, fanciful designs, peeking out from beneath a massive slab. Kyrja had given them to her for Yule three years ago, and it had felt like the only thing she’d ever done right when it came to her sister. Krystiana hadlovedthem. Wore them every day.
Please, Giver, let them be empty now.She didn’t usually take them off until she was in her own quarters, but perhaps she had this evening. This once.
Kyrja fell to her knees beside the enormous piece of rock and rested a hand on the boot.
Solid. Too solid. The kind of solid that meant a foot was still inside.
Her breath hitched, but she pushed past it. Called up more water, more ice, and pressed it against the underside of the slab until it lifted. An inch, two; a foot, two.
The breath knotted, choked her, drew up a sob. “Krysti.No.” She crawled into the opening she’d made, though she didn’t need to press her fingers to her sister’s throat to know her heart no longer beat. If her sister’s body had any life in it, she would have been using it to save herself. To save others.
Others.
Even as she thought it, as she made herself look past her sister, she saw Nik edging under the lifted slab too, gripping something. Tugging.
That was when she realized where in the apartment they were—what the broken pieces of wood here represented.
The table. Her sister had been at her usual seat at Einar’s table. Which meant, if she’d been seated…
All of them. All of them were here, under this crushing slab of obsidian, six inches thick. Put in place to protect the occupants of the palace from any rogue vents or flows.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.
Had to. Had to get them out of this place, had to see if someone, somehow was still alive. She retreated, pulling Krystiana with her, ignoring the pieces of this or that that cut into her knees, tore at her dress, sliced her palms. Her cuts and bruises she could heal easily enough with snow later. None of that mattered now. She got her sister clear and then went back under, hefting the slab higher, higher still, so that she didn’t have to crawl. Chiding herself for not thinking to do it sooner.
“Two over here. The prince…and I think this is his wife.” The voice of her companion sounded as strangled as she felt. As heavy as the slab she held up—she didn’t dare shove it away entirely, onto who-knew-what. What if Mamma had been using the washroom and was trapped and Kyrja crushed her if she tossed it elsewhere?
But…no. There was the familiar dark hair, threaded through with silver. The familiar shoulders, bowed forward. Doubled over, one hand outstretched. Kyrja reached for it, clasped her fingers.
Cold. So cold. But Mamma’s hands, gnarled with arthritis, were always cold. That didn’t mean she was gone.
