Page 87 of Death Will Follow

Callan blew out a breath, blinking the tears from his eyes and shaking off the emotion distracting him from his aim: protecting Nova even in death.

“I am keeping my distance,” Riven insisted. “I’m merely explaining that Nova bid Bryn to watch over Callan. Bryn simply did as she was asked.”

“I thought better of it,” Bryn added quietly. “I flew to Raven’s Isle, but I was too late. Omen was dead. The Estate crumbling into the earth. I brought her back to you.”

“If you’re hoping I’ll show my appreciation, you’ve a long wait ahead of you.” Callan searched Nova’s face, so untroubled in her eternal sleep.

From his place near the entrance, Nox spoke Callan’s name softly. Callan tensed, steeling his resolve should the Noble Lord seek to use his power of influence to ease Callan’s emotions once again. But his anger remained, raw and untouched.

“We must honor our traditions,” Nox explained, words measured, voice thick with his own grief. “We must ready her for the pyre.”

“The gods will keep her for eternity. Surely you can let me keep her a few moments longer.”

Lucan spoke next. “That we can.”

A beat of silence followed, then the faint shuffling of boots on the carpeted floor as everyone exited the tent.

“I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Though Callan’s chest swelled with gratitude for Lucan, he didn’t look at the commander, just nodded in acknowledgment and stared at the canvas wall straight ahead.

Once alone, he turned his attention to Nova. With the fog of shock lifted, he allowed himself to truly see her. Tenderly, he cupped her face, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. Bruising bloomed at the bridge of her nose, swollen and slightly crooked, the faint purple spreading to the inner corners of her eyes. Tiny cuts dotted her cheeks and neck, and blood tinged the teeth visible through her slightly parted lips, cracked and drained of their color.

Callan took up her right hand, which had been laid atop her stomach. A deep cut split the flesh of her palm and fingers down to the bone, the wound still fresh. Her body hadn’t been able to begin healing itself. Callan pressed the back of her hand to his lips, his shoulders shaking with stifled sobs at what the Shadowbringer had done to her. What she had endured to save them all.

He gathered her hands and folded them on her stomach once more. Though she lay before him without breath, the color drained from her cheeks, his mind refused to accept she was truly gone. He’d carried the same notion about his parents for two hundred years. The not knowing, not seeing with his own eyes, had haunted him. Callan’s gaze traveled from Nova’s face to her chest where the hilt of Kinslayer had been. He shook his head to dislodge the memory of the cursed blade buried there. With a trembling hand, he hooked a finger in the loose collar of her shirt and slowly drew it down.

The sight of the wound struck him like a punch to the gut, robbing him of his breath. It spanned the width of a few fingers. Deep and brutal. Unhealed and undeniably fatal.

He pulled the collar back up, then pressed a kiss to her forehead, her temple, the space below her ear. He lingered there where the faint scent of her cut through the metallic tang of blood.

The rustle of the tent flap had him sitting up straight, jaw clenched as he readied himself to fight. To keep his mate from Embra’s flames for a bit longer.

Nox and Lucan entered, but they kept a respectful distance. The moonstone lamps flared; night had fallen. Silvergardian custom dictated the dead must undergo the rite of burning beneath the light of the first moon after death. He was running out of time. No amount would ever be enough.

“Your parents have been found,” Nox said.

The news should have brought him to his feet. Sent him charging across the battle-weary camp to finally be reunited with the two souls he’d thought of every day for the past two hundred years. But it didn’t. Nothing short of an act of the gods would tear him from her side.

“Come, Callan,” Lucan urged. “Come see your family.”

Rage charged through him anew, a living thing snaking along his limbs. He clenched his fists and turned his glare on the two males.

“She is my family! Right here and gone forever,” he roared, his voice breaking under the weight—the finality—of his words. He turned back to Nova, shaking his head. “There’s nothing for me outside these walls.”

As he looked on, a beam of white light appeared on Nova’s chest. Callan tipped his face to the opening in the roof. Through it, Illora shone brightly against the dark canvas of the night sky. All at once, the moonstones surged, so intensely Callan had to squint. Only it wasn’t the moonstones, he realized. The light was coming from Nova. It bloomed at her chest, growing brighter and brighter until it seemed he was staring directly into the sun. Callan threw an arm across his face to shield his eyes.

A gasp followed.

A sharp intake of air, ragged and desperate, like someone drawing breath for the very first time.

Callan lowered his arm, terrified to hope.

On the bench before him sat Nova, upright and clutching at her chest. Her wide eyes flitted about the tent, her confusion and disbelief mirroring his own.

“Nova.” His voice was a whisper, so reverent in speaking her name, he wondered if she’d heard it.

She crashed against him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. Her fingertips dug into his back as she clung to him with a strength that one who’d been dead only a moment before should not possess. She pulled back to look at him, awed, and even that meager separation was unbearable. Callan took her face in his hands and brought his mouth to hers.