His eyes close, and his shoulders slump.
“Anton!” Leth breaks free of Evain’s grasp. Dropping his sword, he falls to his knees at his brother’s side.
“Careful.” Evain steps forward. “You should let me—”
Anton’s hand closes around a broken shard of stone, and swings towards Leth’s neck.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LETH
Anton jerks, then slumps back with a wet cough. Blood spills from his lips, and tendrils of shadows rise from the hilt stuck in his chest. Leth crouches stunned as he processes the shard of stone in Anton’s hand. The blade in Anton’s heart.
Once, when Leth was six and Anton was twelve, they sparred with wooden swords under their mother’s watchful eye. Leth committed too hard to a feint, and Anton took the opportunity to unbalance him with a bruising elbow to his side. The blow knocked Leth onto his back, and he struggled for breath as their mother scolded Anton for the dirty move. “Your brother isn’t ready for that,” she said. But Anton just reached a hand towards Leth. “He’s ready,” he told their mother. Then he turned his smile to Leth. “Get up and prove it.”
Leth doesn’t know whether the memory is painful or sweet.
Either way, his memories will have to be sufficient: there are no final words from Anton ka Tariel. The dagger evaporates into shadow, leaving only a gaping hole between his ribs. Blood pulses out. With one more wet choking sound, the glare dulls from Anton’s gaze. He sags against the wall.
Ribs seizing around his lungs, Leth scrambles to his feet. Each breath he takes is too quick and too shallow. Knives in his throat. His vision darkens and his joints soften, but when he falters, he lands in Evain’s embrace. Strong arms wrap around him and half-carry him forward. Away from the dead men, to the chapel doors.
When they reach a stretch of unbroken marble, Evain pulls Leth closer in. One hand cradles his head, and the other rubs soothingly down his back. Gradually, the gentle friction draws Leth back into himself. Evain’s warmth, his steady heart and the anchoring magic between them, slows Leth’s breath until it’s bearable again.
Leth closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Evain’s chest. His hands hurt, from clenching Evain’s shirt so tightly.
“I’m sorry.” Evain’s lips move in Leth’s hair. “That’s all the justice he’s going to get.”
The adrenaline of the fight, the summoning, the contract rushes away. All Leth has now is numb exhaustion—and a knee-weakening sense of relief. Is that wrong of him?
“I don’t know what to feel,” Leth says into Evain’s chest. His eyes hurt, but he hasn’t cried. Should he be crying now? His brother is dead. Maybe someday, Leth will know whether to grieve for him or not.
Long fingers soothe through his hair, plucking gently through the tangles. Evain comforts with touch instead of words. The pressure against his scalp and the firm massage against his spine keep Leth from spiraling away.
He’s alive, and he’s not alone. He’ll figure out what else he’s supposed to feel later.
They hold each other at the chapel’s threshold until approaching hoofbeats interrupt the peace. Evain turns to face the courtyard and complains, “This really isn’t the time.” He leaves one arm around Leth’s waist, and demonic shadows eddy around his other hand. “I’m not tapped out yet, but if there’s more than about five of them, you’ll have to kiss me again.”
“The rest of the Dravans ran off into the ruins.” Leth’s hand flies to his hip before he remembers he isn’t wearing a sword. “There’s around thirty of them.”
“Excellent. You’ll have to kiss me at least twice.”
But they need neither swords nor kisses to face the oncoming threat: only three horses and two riders canter across the chapel courtyard. Glossy black Daziroth leads the pack, his tail proudly raised. Behind him rides Haldis, straight out of a tapestry with her straight back and drawn sword, and Marta, a glittering marshmallow of celestial magic in her layers of coats.
Leth’s hand falls from his nonexistent sword hilt, and the shadows dissipate from Evain’s hand. After a moment, Leth says, “Did your horse… bring reinforcements?”
“Daisy’s not really a horse,” Evain says faintly.
“Oh.” Leth has exceeded his capacity for surprise, ascending instead to dazed acceptance. “That makes sense, in retrospect.”
The Sephinians rein their horses in at the foot of the steps. “Mother’s Grace!” Marta’s hood has fallen back, and her curly hair forms an uneven cloud behind her head. She dismounts in a splatter of snow. “I knew Daziroth was leading us to you. Haldis owes me ten gold.”
“I never agreed to that.” Haldis looks as pristine and forbidding as ever, except the windswept flush across her cheeks. “Are you two all right? What’s going on up here? We saw Dravans skulking in the woods, but that damned horse wouldn’t let us stop.”
Daziroth trots up the stairs to rub his entire face against Evain. “A little late, aren’t you?” Evain mutters, staggering with the blow. But he pets the stallion’s nose even as he scolds him.
Leth tugs the too-big coat closer around him, feeling the cold more without Evain’s arms around him. “We’re all right,” he says, while Haldis dismounts too. “As for the Dravans, that’s a bit complicated.”
