Misrule, page 34
A wave smashes against the base of the cliff. Aurora gapes at me. “You can’t. Your Vila power is blocked and he’ll—”
“He’ll be too arrogant to refuse,” I say. “And my Shifter power is perfectly fine. It’s what saved Regan and me from the High Court, and you from the ship. It will help us now.”
It will NOT. Mortania thrashes inside the place where she’s hoarding my magic. But I ignore her.
“You could be hurt,” Aurora argues. “Killed. Can’t you just make yourself invisible and fly in and snatch the staff?”
It means more to me than I can say that she cares. “It will be too difficult for me to fly and remain invisible. He’ll see me coming. And if he agrees to a duel, his guards won’t be able to intervene. All I need to do is grab Oryn’s staff during the fight, as I should have done at the palace. After that, I can fly away with it. Hold it hostage, as was the original plan.”
Derek scrubs the back of his neck. “There seems…a lot of ways this could go wrong.”
“Are you worried about me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. He only frowns, clearly unsure how to respond. “What other option do we have?”
As if to illustrate, brine-soaked wind gusts in from the sea, carrying the wails of the sailors, along with the commotion of the Vila and the Fae. The sea moans and wood splinters. Another explosion sounds from closer to the palace.
Aurora sighs. “Fine. But don’t you dare try to convince me to go back to the palace. I’m coming with you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “There’s nothing for you to do and—”
“I’m going,” she repeats, in that tone I know so well. “Besides, I’ll be riding Chaos, and he’ll take me wherever I wish. So you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”
The steed thumps his foot in what could only pass for affirmation, and I curse their stubbornness.
Derek grumbles something about death wishes. But he adjusts Chaos’s saddle. Aurora goes back to the edge of the cliff. Her skirts whip in the wind.
“You’ll watch her, won’t you?” I ask Derek quietly, nodding toward Aurora. “You won’t let anything happen to her should this go wrong?”
He doles out one of those lopsided smiles. “I was about to ask the same of you.”
A strange feeling of warmth spreads through me. It tugs at the corners of my lips. Derek notices, and his brown eyes sparkle. I scowl at him. “You, on the other hand, are another matter. Should Oryn decide to feast on your entrails, I’ll not lift a finger to stop him.”
Derek laughs. And to my utter surprise, I join him.
But I still hate him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It takes enormous effort to convince Callow to leave my side—she’s just as adamant about accompanying me as Aurora, but I can’t bear to have anything happen to her. Eventually, the kestrel understands and retreats toward the palace. Aurora and Derek pile onto Chaos’s back, and the three of us soar over the landscape, past the fighting, and toward the remains of the black tower. I’m proven right—there’s a formation of Fae riders assembled above the smoldering rubble. And there, evidently unscathed by the tower’s demise, is Oryn, his hammered-bark cloak flapping as he surveys the battle in the districts.
The Fae riders lower themselves as we land. Derek dismounts and lifts Aurora down. Chaos flicks his shimmering tail, staying close.
Upon further inspection, the High King of the Fae is not entirely intact. A few of the Fae sigils are missing from his breastplate, which is dented and coated with ash. Several antlers on his crown are jaggedly broken. His own Fae blood tracks in glistening rivulets down the rough umber of his redwood face. Good.
“Ah, the mortal prince returns.” Oryn continues to observe the districts, as if he couldn’t care less where we’d gone or why we’ve returned together. “Here I’d thought you’d be retreating with whatever men you could manage to scrounge from the sea, given that your plan to overtake my army has so disastrously failed.”
Derek shades slightly pink, evidently mortified. It’s an expression he’s likely had plenty of opportunity to wear in his brief lifetime. Aurora glares around like she wants to murder everyone. I’m quite proud of her.
“Though I suppose some congratulations are in order,” Oryn continues, bored. “Those are Etherian ships you managed to sink. A difficult feat to accomplish.”
The branch-clacking, rushing-water sound of Fae laughter eddies.
“And you, half-breed.” Oryn at last directs his gilded attention to me, pinning me like I’m a specimen on a board. “I am surprised to discover you among your enemies.”
“They’re not my enemies,” I say firmly.
“But they have each betrayed you in their turn.” He points his staff between Aurora and Derek, its orb glittering. “Is your memory so short that you have forgotten the fickle nature of mortal alliances?”
Despite how I try to deflect it, the jab lands as intended. And for the first time since the Crimson Cliffs, I doubt this plan. Even doubt Aurora. Did she mean what she said about wanting me to be myself? Could she actually respect my power, or will she turn on me again? Mortania seizes on the opening.
Choose me, pet. And I will release your power. Then nothing can stop you.
I can almost feel it happening, like a lock unclicking in the den where my magic dwells, promising exquisite relief. But then I shake myself free of the ancient Vila’s talons. I have no idea what it would mean to “choose” her. If I yielded, could she take over my body? My mind? Would she become me somehow, devour me—like when I cursed that mirror in the black tower and my appearance morphed from that of the Dark Grace into Mortania’s? I will not let her.
“And what of your own alliances?” I say to the High King. “I met Aelfdene. He told me how poorly you treated him, and I suspect many of the Fae boast similar tales. You’re not a leader. You’re obsessed with yourself. Worse than King Tarkin ever was.”
Oryn’s nostrils flare, anger flashing ocher in his eyes. But he instantly recovers. “The opinion of a dead half-Vila matters naught.”
From a sheath at his waist, the High King retrieves a small dagger. I assume he’s going to aim it at me, and brace myself to Shift. For this fight to finally begin, with or without a formal challenge. But he slashes one of his knob-knuckled fingers instead, then crouches, drawing his shimmery golden blood on the stone in a pattern I can’t decipher. “I judge it fitting that our journey should end here, on the ruins of this ancient tower. The bards of the Court of Dreams could not have penned a better tale.”
One of the Fae riders lets out a long, low whistle, and the others within earshot begin to disperse. The whistle carries, one Etherian to the next, and soon they’re fleeing the Districts in droves. But why? Oryn tilts his staff to the ground. His Fae power sparks and swirls inside its orb. The glass touches the stone where the High King shed his blood, and a spear of golden light erupts.
The wreckage of the black tower begins to quaver. Small rocks ping down the side. Sparkling Fae magic spills over the cracks and crevices in waterfalls, like at Oryn’s palace in the High Court. It sizzles as it hits the barren earth and veins outward, toward Briar’s gates.
The enchantment.
This is how Oryn plans to use the runes the Imps found throughout the palace. They’re all connected—tiny pieces of Fae magic the High King is now activating with his very blood.
Oryn’s power corkscrews up the wall of bramble at Briar’s main gates. Cries of confusion and outrage swell as it canters through the districts and toward the palace. When it reaches the runes, the cage will form. And then Oryn will likely kill us all before he escapes with his Fae, leaving the Dark Court imprisoned forever.
Use me, Mortania urges. It will be the end of everything if you do not.
Pressure pounds between my temples, but still I resist the ancient Vila. We do things my way now.
“High King,” I shout. “I have a bargain for you.”
Oryn halts. Glances at me over his shoulder. But his magic continues to flow into Briar. “What could I possibly desire from you?”
“My power,” I rush on. “You said yourself that if I were to surrender it, there would be no need…”
He narrows his gaze. “You expect me to believe you are willing to do so?”
“No. But I am willing to prove myself. Let us have a duel— end this war here and now.”
With my luck, he will likely scoff and finish his enchantment. But his interest shows in the creases of his redwood brow. The flow of his power thins and then stops altogether. Triumph flashes through me. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Have you shed your coward’s skin after all this time, half-breed? Even though we have your princess in our keeping?” At his signal, the riders gather around Aurora. And I have to restrain myself from reacting. But he will not harm her. Not when he knows how to use her against me. “You speak with some confidence. But I am the lord of all Fae. The master of light magic. Do you truly dare to take on the might of Etheria?”
I force a grin, though my heart is hammering. “If you’re afraid of me, just say so.”
This is where I expect him to lash out at me. But he steps nearer, his staff tapping on the stone. “Something is changed about you.”
Dragon’s teeth. Deep in her den, Mortania whirls.
The High King inhales deeply, as he did in the black tower when he accused Aurora of lying about the Briar crown. It must have something to do with his latent magic—some power of detection. Because then he laughs, long and rolling and cruel. “It is your Vila power. Trapped, somehow. I see the princess received her wish after all.”
His guards join him, jeering down at me. I grit my teeth and lift my chin. “This has nothing to do with Aurora. Only the two of us. The bargain stands—whoever wins this duel, wins the war.”
“Ah, but I should decline.” His curls dance in the wind. “It would not be sporting to quash so feeble a creature.”
Feeble. The word scrapes against my pride. Mortania writhes and seethes, demanding to be released. But still, she will not let me reach into the place where my magic lives. And I will not bow to her whims.
But you will lose, pet, she growls.
Maybe the battle. But not myself. Never again. “If I am so feeble, then make quick work of me. Or are you worried that your reign will come to an end? Aelfdene also told me about the prophecy.”
His guards look confused. But Oryn knows exactly what I’m talking about. He slams his staff on the stone. Sparks of golden stars erupt from its orb. “I accept. You were always going to die today.”
I sketch a mocking bow, daring one last look at Aurora. A single tear tracks down her face, perhaps understanding that this may be the last we see of each other. I try to shake that thought away. Focus on the power I will need to win this.
A familiar cry resonates above me. Callow, the stubborn bird. I should have known she wouldn’t stay away long. The kestrel belts her war cry, the same one that echoed over Briar during our first siege, when we flew side by side through the curling green smoke. Us against the whole realm. I smile at the memory. And then I Shift.
Wings flare out from between my shoulder blades, nails elongating to claws. My kestrel and I descend on the High King as one. I dodge his first blow easily, an arc of power aimed at my middle. It leaves a crater in the cliffside. Callow darts around the High King, clawing at his neck and shoulders, and pecking at his pointed Fae ears. Bark-like Fae flesh rips and tears. He curses and swats her away, but his grip on his staff is firm.
Mortania roars and threatens, but I will not yield to her.
Another blast misses me by a hair’s breadth. The next grazes my arm. I spin like a top through the air as molten fire sears through me, and green Vila blood wells from the wound.
Callow shrieks. Oryn readies his next attack. His damaged breastplate slides down one side of his chest, exposing his shoulder. I charge him and swipe at just the right moment. Gilded Fae blood spurts from the gashes my claws leave behind and weeps from twin slashes on the backs of his legs. Oryn’s knees hit the stone, but only briefly. He swings at me and his staff connects with my stomach, too quickly for me to attempt to wrench it away from him. Pain erupts on my torso, the same as when Endlewild gifted me the burn that became my crescent-moon scar. I’m flung backward like a leaf on the wind.
“Alyce, look out!”
Oryn’s power hurtles toward me, aimed directly at my heart. I swerve out of the way just in time to see it cleave a gnarled tree in two. I pump my wings, rising higher as the cold sea air sears in my throat. After the events of the last days, I’m exhausted. A tingling begins in my bones as my Shift weakens. The muscles of my back quiver, struggling to hold up my wings. But my Shifter power hinges on my own confidence. I refuse to let it falter.
“Concede defeat,” Oryn calls up at me, “and perhaps I will permit you to live. Take you back to my domain as a trophy.”
Just another good hit. The right one, and he will fall, the staff with him. The magic in its orb builds. I focus on my Shift and count my thudding heartbeats. Right after he—
Gilded power barrels past me. There’s a shrill peal of pain. One I’d know anywhere.
A blot of tawny feathers spirals to the earth.
“Callow!” I tear after her, unthinking.
She thumps to the ground, her wings splayed out. I land heavily and trip over an exposed root, wrenching my ankle, and crash to my knees beside my bird. Callow’s body is limp. Lifeless. If there’s a heartbeat, I cannot find it.
Anger rises, stronger and far deadlier than the wave Regan summoned. I turn back to Oryn. Blood oozes from the wound at his shoulder and the scratches on his face. There will be much more of it before this is done. Forgetting my exhaustion and my own injuries, forgetting that he is the High King of the Fae, I charge toward Oryn.
His power hits me squarely in the chest.
My back collides with rock. Stars parade across my vision. My wings sputter out, and my claws retract.
It is not too late, Mortania’s voice is distorted. Choose me, and I will—
A furious whinny breaks through my thoughts. Motion blurs above me, and I force my fuzzy vision to focus. What on—
Chaos’s massive shadow engulfs me, his mane sparkling in the sunlight. And on his back, the Briar crown like a beacon, is Aurora.
“I command you to stop,” she shouts, “in the name of Etheria!”
There’s a moment of quiet. I expect the Fae to laugh. For Oryn to take aim at Aurora, and I’m horrified because I do not think I could save her. But to my complete astonishment, the High King goes entirely still.
His riders are incensed, gnashing their teeth and brandishing their staffs.
“Stay back,” Aurora orders.
And incredibly, the High King motions for them to heed. They sneer but retreat.
“Aurora,” I rasp. Every muscle in my body throbs. “What are you doing?”
She sits taller in the saddle. “It is his true name. Etheria.”
Waves crash below.
“And who,” Oryn grinds out, “divulged that particular piece of information?”
I practically have to scrape my jaw from the ground.
“You did,” she answers. Chaos bobs on the wind.
“I most certainly did not.”
“Not directly, nor intentionally,” she allows. “But I’ve had quite a lesson on how to read between the words of the Fae. You are the High King of the Fae, their only ruler in recorded history. All magic stems from your court. You said Alyce is nothing against the ‘might of Etheria.’ Because you are Etheria.”
The seconds stretch out long and thick. How many times had I uttered the word? It’s been written and sung and whispered since the dawn of Briar and before. But it’s never, I realize, been used as a name for Oryn himself. It’s been hidden in plain sight.
“High King,” a rider calls, “the princess lies.”
He pays them no mind. Only bares his pointed Fae teeth, as enraged as any snared beast who judged themselves too clever to be caught. “And what shall you do with my name, Princess?”
Chaos rolls his wings, breath steaming in the air. “I imagine you do not want such knowledge to spread. Do what you will with your guard.” She flicks a gesture at the riders. “And I will vow to keep your secret. Alyce and Derek will do the same. But in exchange, you will—”
Something whistles past the side of my face. There’s a wet, fleshy thunk and then a howling like I’ve never heard reverberates against my eardrums. It’s coming…from Oryn. Because there’s an arrow shaft protruding from his eye socket. Blood pours down his cheek and neck.
Footsteps pound up the side of the tower, and I angle my wasted body to see who could possibly have—
“Rose?”
There’s a bow in her hands and a quiver slung across her back. My mind reels. I thought she died when the tower collapsed. Where did she come from? When did she learn to shoot?
The Fae riders are just as dumbstruck. Time itself seems to slow, the sounds of the distant battle and the steeds’ wingbeats are syrupy and distorted. But then everything lurches into motion.
“Where is Terrill?” one shouts. “Find him!”
In unison, the Fae guards yank the reins of their steeds and race back toward the districts. They must be going in search of Oryn’s heir, which means they believe the High King is going to die. But in their haste, they’ve forgotten one detail—Oryn’s staff has fallen, undefended, at his feet.
The Grace tosses aside her weapon. Oryn moans and clutches his face. Armor chimes and clanks as his knees meet stone.
Rose kicks at him until he falls to his side. “Transfer your power to me!”
