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She felt sick and looked out at the empty landscape. There was only coast and dead farmland.Another graveyard,she thought, looking over her shoulder.
There was no one on the horizon. No one at the gates.
Not even Charlie.
She heaved a painful breath and wiped her face, her hands coming away black. Then, with a will, she unbuckled the sheath from her back, bringing it forward. Shivering, she gripped the black leather of the Spindleblade’s hilt and drew an inch of the blade, the steel clean. Taristan had not drawn blood this day. Even so, the sword felt wrong in her hand. Again she mourned for the blade broken behind her, and all the people with it.
A failure,she thought, choking back a sob.
Andry’s voice answered in her head, his words an echo.
Not if you live.
And that, at least, she could do.
32
The Flames of Asunder
Ridha
Her breath came in wet, heaving rasps. Blood bubbled up in her throat as it did from the wound in her chest, her life slowly seeping out into the street. The black knight was long gone, riding away after the dragon, but he left so much deadly evidence behind. Ridha’s eyes rolled as she tried to move, her back flat against the ground. The other Vedera lay dead around her, their bodies still and quiet. The Jydi were gone too. Moaning low in her throat, Ridha saw Lenna crumpled against the city wall, her eyes open but unseeing.
The Temur woman still drew breath. She was propped up against a wall, her wounded leg stretched out in front of her. A large ax lay broken at her side; her chest rose and fell with labored breath. Ridha saw no other wounds on her. She almost laughed. A mortal lived where so many children of Glorian had died.
At least there is still Dom.
He crawled through the wreckage of the black knight, a belt lashed around his thigh to stem a bleeding wound. She tried to smile at him but only gasped, choking on another wash of blood.
“Don’t speak,” he said, reaching her side. With a hiss of pain, he set himself upright and pulled her head into his lap. “I’m here.”
“So is she.”
The white light of her mother’s sending glowed to Ridha’s left. If it was magic or a hallucination, Ridha could not know, but she was glad for it either way. Isibel’s form wavered and then went solid, edged with a silver glow as she bent over her only child. She wept shimmering tears that disappeared before hitting Ridha’s face.
“I wish I could be with you,” her mother said, hands running over her face. No matter how hard she tried, Ridha could not feel them. “Sleep, my love.”
She wanted to do as her mother told her, but Ridha of Iona clung to life, fading as it was. Her gray eyes wavered between Isibel and Domacridhan, trying to hold them both. He looked down at her, fresh tears coursing over his dirty cheeks.
The footsteps were faint, boots ringing on stone.
“Would you like to see what this Spindle gave me?”
Dom’s face crumpled above her and he spun, trying to stand. But he collapsed on his wounded leg, dropping again, holding his body over Ridha’s. Defending her from one last insult.
Taristan’s cloak and clothes were burned, black all over, but his face was clean, his hair slicked back. The wizard limped at his side, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. Neither looked particularly pleased, in spite of their victory.
The Spindle was still open, the realm still ready to fall.
Before Dom could try to strike again, Ronin snapped his fingers, and a half-dozen undead surged forward, chains and bindings in hand. The same approached Sigil, tying her wrists and ankles before lifting her clean into the air. Both fought, but weakly, utterly spent by the battle.
Sound faded in and out, matching the beat of Ridha’s slowing heart. She struggled for another second, another breath, eyes on her cousin as the undead bound him.
Then Taristan stepped between them, his leering face the only thing she could see.
“Another gift of What Waits,” he said, standing over her like a tower, his eyes red as beacon fire.
Ridha cursed in Vederan. At her side, Isibel’s sending flared white-hot with rage. The Monarch glared at Taristan, and Ridha dearly hoped this was truly her mother, and not some illusion born of death.See what he is—see what must be fought, she wept in her mind.
