Page 330 of Burn of the Everflame

I was a servant of Blessed Lumnos, and servants did not question their master’s word.

My crisis of conscience reached a peak when Diem took the throne. For the first time, I saw a Crown who upheld the same values I felt when I read the Kindred’s scriptures. Diem preached unity and understanding and mercy. She fought for the most vulnerable and demanded they be given equal respect. The Kindred had warned that their most faithful would face the greatest resistance, and that strength of spirit, not strength of force, would guide them through. The gauntlet I’d watched Diem walk had surely eclipsed any previous Crown’s, and she faced it with conviction and remarkable restraint.

But Diem wasn’t fond of the Kindred. She didn’t seem to be a disciple of the mortals’ Old Gods, either. As far as I could tell, she worshipped no god at all. She didn’t do good out of obedience or fear of divine retribution, she did it because she believed it was the right thing to do.

When I swore an oath to serve her, a part of me had feared that I was turning my back on my faith.

Now, as I looked out at Diem’s army—at the mortals and Descended of Emarion protecting each other with no prerequisite for faith or terremère, putting their lives at risk for people they’d once sworn to hate, fighting together for a shared home and the promise of an equal future—I began to think that the day I chose Diem’s path was the very first day in my life that I’d truly obeyed the Kindred, too.

“I wish you had time to properly mourn your people,” I said as I knelt beside Obaneryn, “but there are thousands more lives at risk. Our archers need your wind.”

“You cannot ask him to kill his own people,” Doriel hissed.

“Those people are dead,” I said bluntly.

“You don’t know that,” Obaneryn said. “Maybe they’re just under his control.” He gazed out toward Ophiucae, looking as if he was pleading with him, not with me. “What if they can be saved? If there’s any chance⁠—”

“There is not,” a voice purred from the woods.

Doriel’s hand flew up and raised a thick shield around us. I stood and squinted through the shimmering veil to see several figures emerge from the trees on horseback, all clad in uniforms of bright crimson.

“Symond?” I blinked in surprise. “You came.”

The Chief Centenary rode forward into the sunlight. “Entirely against my wishes, I assure you,” he said, dismounting his horse.

“You can bring them back,” Obaneryn cried. He crawled toward Symond and clutched his legs. “Use your magic. Restore their minds, I’m begging you.”

Symond looked down with a dispassionate stare. “If I had the power to bring back the dead, it wouldn’t be your people I’d use it on.”

Behind him, Drusila’s face had gone ashen at the sight of the fighting. “He has so many,” she breathed.

“Have you come to join us?” I asked.

“No, we came all this way to have tea,” Symond said dryly.

“We’re here to fight. All of us.” Drusila shot him a pointed stare. “Right, Symond?”

He flashed an empty smile. “Whatever Her Majesty asks.”

“We won’t be much help with combat,” Drusila admitted. “In Umbros, we never had to fight by hand. We just used our magic.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Your magic is what we need most.” I pointed to the group clashing with the Meros sailors. “Shield those mortals. Keep Ophiucae out of their heads.”

“Who’s going to keep him out of ours?” Symond asked. “I don’t suppose you have more of that clever little godstone mix lying around?” I tensed, and he laughed, dry and bitter. “No, of course not.”

“I can hide you with an illusion,” I offered. “That might keep his focus elsewhere.”

Drusila turned back to the other Centenaries and a long silence ensued, though their nodding heads and shifting eyes hinted at an unspoken conversation. Whatever was said, it seemed to work, as their gazes shifted east, and their hands rose in unison.

Symond stared contemptuously at Obaneryn, still huddled at his feet. “I’m not letting my people risk their lives while you fret over corpses.” He leaned down, sneering in his face. “They’re dead. Stop whining and move on.”

“How can you be so heartless?” Doriel said, coming to their mate’s side and holding him close. “Haven’t you ever lost someone you loved?”

“Why do you think I’m here?” Symond muttered.

“He’s right, my love,” Obaneryn murmured to Doriel. “We still have people in that army. We can’t let them die, too.” He wiped his tears away, then placed his hand on Doriel’s. “Stay with me? I can’t do this without you.”

Doriel helped him to his feet, and, arms still clutched around each other, they moved toward the archers. Fresh tears sprang from Obaneryn’s turquoise eyes as his trembling hands cast a breeze, and a wail choked out of him as he watched the archers’ arrows pierce the skulls and hearts of the people he’d vowed to protect.