Haven (War of the Princes) (42 page)

           
Not an exceedingly great distance away, somewhere near the blazing Installment Fortress, a Dragoon survivor turned toward the foothills to see a staggering display: Out among the scattered timber of
Goldwood
in the brush-land, there was a tree that looked strikingly like one in a painting in the Breakwater Keep medical wing. The only difference was, this one was at least a hundred feet tall and made entirely of lightning.

           
The thunder that followed was deafening.

Chapter 35: Afterlife

I understood on some level that I had collapsed. To me, all that mattered was that I couldn't feel any pain. The lack of physical stimulus was like a comforting cushion that I relaxed into with relish. I also realized that I was probably dead.

           
Killing myself to save everyone had definitely not been my intention. Though, I decided, if I'd gotten rid of Stakes, it was surely worth it. Still, the thought of never tasting hot fudge brownies topped with vanilla ice cream again was very disturbing.

           
Was it possible to be dead and still have a sweet tooth? It didn't make much sense to me. If you're a spirit, wafting around in the afterlife, what do you need food for? Cravings wouldn't make much sense, unless of course, you were a ghost.

           
"You're not a ghost," a voice said, answering my thoughts.

           
Great. I had spiritual neighbors. Either way, it seemed logical to me that ghosts, having some kind of link to the world, would be capable of craving ordinary things. I wondered if that would be part of my curse. Would I be stranded somewhere between life and death, moaning and wailing for just a bite of tiramisu?

           
Let’s not even get started on the grilled cheese sandwiches.

           
I'd be the world's first, food haunting ghost. I could just see my incorporeal self, weeping around someone's kitchen, passing through every muffin I tried to touch. Excellent. Like anyone would figure that one out. I'd be trapped for all eternity.

           
Just the thought of it had me feeling sorry for myself. I'd hardly been dead very long and I was already wishing I were alive.

           
"You
are
alive," my annoying, disembodied neighbor told me.

           
Of course, that would be part two of the problem. All ghosts wish to be alive.

           
"You are not a ghost," the voice insisted.

           
Yes, we most certainly were! Both of us were ghosts, that voice and I. It was clearly in worse shape than I was. It couldn't even comprehend that it was dead.

           
"Let go," I told it. Why did I have to have the irritating roommate of the ghost world? Idiot. If I could have nudged my fluffy dark corner of nothingness elsewhere, I would have.

           
Something else bothered me. I had the faintest sensation that I was moving. It was a subtle, faraway feeling, but it nagged at me.
 
I didn't like it because I wasn't in control of it.

           
"Open your eyes," the voice told me.

           
That was ridiculous, I didn't have eyes anymore.

           
"Yes you do, just focus on my voice and open them," the voice said insistently.

           
I thought it was crazy, but didn't exactly have anything better to do. It went the way I thought it would... I felt no bodily response, obviously, because I was dead. And then there was a tingle, like the faintest tickle of a feather on the skin. I wafted closer to the sensation to investigate.

           
In my dark, muted world, there was no such thing as "feeling," so it was something worth my interest. What was this tingle? I had to know.

           
I felt myself drawing nearer to it, even though there really was no way to measure distance. It was there, coaxing me toward it with its familiarity. I was called to it. I
had
to know what it was.

           
I gave in, and the sensation swallowed me whole.

           
Suddenly, the darkness took shape. I felt form surrounding me on all sides. My claustrophobia only lasted a second until I recognized what held me captive: my own body.

           
Pain!

           
There was so much pain I was bursting with it. And there was exhaustion too. It was piled up on top of me like the weight of a mountainside.

           
Whimpering, I pulled away within myself. If this was what was waiting for me, I thought I'd rather be aloft in that dark, empty place.

           
"No! Focus on my voice. Stay with me."

           
I didn't want to. It hurt so much. Where was the pain coming from? I felt a throbbing in my arm, a burning ring on my chest, soreness around my throat and a terrible ache in the palm of one hand. There was more, but it came from the inside, coursing outward from the core of every bone. That pain hurt worse, completely foreshadowing my scrapes and flesh wounds.

           
A sound escaped my lips, probably just a groan or a whine. I didn't even realize I'd made it, except that there was a reaction from the voice.

           
"You're going to be alright. Just try to stay awake. Focus on breathing," he told me. I was able to think clearly enough to realize the voice was a "he." I suppose I knew all along, but it simply hadn't mattered.

           
I tried breathing deeply. Like everything else, it hurt, but the more I concentrated, the more coherent I felt. Whether it was the power of suggestion or the breathing that was alleviating bits of my pain, it didn't matter.

           
My body was rocking slightly. I was curled up against something cold. There were arms beneath me, but they weren't soft or warm. It was what I felt from the safety of the dark place. It was like I was moving, but not on my own. I was being carried.

           
   
"Idiot," I admonished myself in a nearly inaudible whisper. How hard must I have hit my head if I didn't realize someone was carrying me?

           
"So you keep telling me," he commented dryly, clearly thinking I was referring to him.

           
I wanted to tell him that wasn't what I’d meant, but I was tired. I'd have preferred to drift off.

           
"Don't fall asleep," he told me sternly. "Can you tell me your name?"

           
I started. The question had recently mattered a great deal to me.

           
"Katelyn Kestrel," I rasped.

           
"How old are you?" he asked me.

           
"Seventeen.”

           
"And where are you?" was his third question.

           
I ventured to squint an eye open. It was dark, but there were flickers of orange light. The man who carried me was wearing armor, red and black Dragoon armor.

           
"Stakes!" I gasped, going rigid with panic. I flailed, using my pitifully frail strength to push away from him.

           
"Stop. Katelyn. Stop!" the voice demanded. He'd been forced to set me down on the ground. "Look at me, I'm not Stakes. Look at me!"

           
Breathing fast and shallow, I felt I might hyperventilate yet again. I could hardly sit up on my own. If his steadying hand weren’t there, I wouldn't have had the willpower to remain conscious, let alone upright.

           
In the chaos of the moment, I stopped pushing him and gave up. I sat there shaking my head with my eyes squeezed shut. I didn't want to see Stakes. I wasn't strong enough.

           
"Look," he insisted more quietly now that I wasn't fighting him.

           
My desire that he not be my enemy was stronger than my fear of seeing Stakes. Steadying myself, I looked up.

           
I sucked in a breath, recoiling from his touch. If I had anything left I would have cried.

           
I saw blue eyes on brown skin.

           
It was Rune. It was him and I didn't even have the energy to say his name. I wanted to tell him how happy I was to see him, how beyond ecstatic I was that he was alive.

           
I was beyond words.

           
The tiniest touch of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips when he saw the recognition on my face.

           
It was enough proof for me. I flung myself at his chest, wrapping my arms around him. He wasn't at all prepared for my weight, and since he had been crouching, he rocked back on his heels and landed on his bottom in the mud. It was possibly the most ungraceful reunion of two people the world had ever seen, and I wouldn't change a minute of it.

           
"Is it really you?" I whispered, not letting go.

           
"Yes.”

           
When he'd forced me to leave him in the Installment Fortress, Stakes was ready to kill him. I couldn't imagine the blood thirsty Commander becoming momentarily merciful.

           
"But how?" I asked.

           
"Then you
do
remember. Good, I was afraid for... I thought that... For a while there I didn't think you'd make it," he cleared his throat and pried me away from him so that he could look at me. It wasn't difficult, considering my weakened state. "When I sent you away, other Dragoons broke through the main doors. Supporters of Stakes' coup d’état were everywhere. So many people I knew stood with him... I never thought that they'd mutiny. But the doors were broken in and Stakes was outnumbered, so he fled. He did a lot of damage. People died."

           
I shivered, realizing belatedly that I was soaking wet and very cold. If it had been raining before, it wasn't anymore. My hair clung to my face and neck in ropes and my bottom lip trembled. There was warmth at my back, though, and a light source illuminating Rune. I finally noticed that we were half surrounded by a crescent of flames.

           
Surprised, I pulled away from them.

           
"It’s alright," Rune told me, calmly. "They won't reach us."

           
Standing up, he helped me off of the ground and found a dryer place for us to sit. I clung feebly to him, so devoid of energy that it was a chore to lift my chin. The inside of my chest felt like it’d been scrubbed with sandpaper and rinsed with lemon juice. It was not a pleasant sensation. My lungs had only a shallow capacity, and my eyelids were heavy with fatigue, but I needed to know what happened. I wanted to know about Stakes most of all, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. It was irrational, but a part of me was afraid that by saying his name, I would summon him. Just thinking about him reminded me of how horrifically personal it felt to be nearly murdered. I couldn’t hide the fact that my hands were shaking.

           
 
The fire was still very near, but I relaxed a bit, accepting the warmth it offered. It was easy to forget that a person could have control over something as wild and dangerous as fire.

           
"I'm sorry," I said honestly. "About the other Dragoons."

           
"It’s okay. We'd all been together for a long time, but I never really knew them. That’s just the way it is," he explained. I could feel the regret in his words. "Medic found me before I could get far. Helped patch me up. My shoulder won't heal that easily, but it was enough to get me moving again."

           
"Oh," I said, suddenly afraid that I had caused him pain when I'd leaped on him. The armor around one arm and shoulder had been removed and his wound was bandaged. He settled my worry with a reassuring look.

           
I studied his face and shrunk inwardly. A deep, angry gash slanted from his temple to his cheek, just barely passing his swollen left eye. The cut was puckered and scabbed, but not bleeding. It would be a lifelong souvenir from Stakes. I felt terrible. The last time I'd seen him was when Stakes' animated metal frame had carved this very wound. He'd gotten this from trying to save me. It looked so painful.

           
"I couldn't find you," he said to me. "I hoped you got away. The fighting felt endless and there was a fire in Breakwater. Most of the militia and a few Dragoons were forced away from the battle to put it out before it reached the houses. I was helping the wounded at the fortress when I saw... you."