Princess of Thorns (30 page)

The living darkness. Ekeeta is
becoming
the living darkness, and I’ve made the transformation come to pass. I can feel the magic shivering in the smoke, the same magic that once pulsed beneath my skin.

Fairy blessings can only leave a person in blood.
I’ve known that truth since I was a child, but I didn’t stop to think that the blood might not have to be my own, or that a murder would serve as well as a suicide.

“I’m sorry.” I touch Ekeeta’s cheek. It is still whole, her eyes full of life though she is dying. Bleeding, dying … murdered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she whispers. “I forgive you.”

I sob as she lifts her hand to my cheek, mirroring my caress. I’m surprised to find her hand still warm and her touch so gentle and … human.

She smiles and I cry even harder. “It’s all right. The … Fey army … at the gates … told my guard to help them.”

“What?” I ask, hope and grief twisting inside of me.

“I tried … to tell you.” She sips in air with a labored rasp. “They will … break through. I … only wish …” She swallows with obvious pain. “Forgive me?”

She doesn’t have long, soon she will die and I will have committed murder—real murder, not an accident made while defending myself—and the entire world will suffer for my failure.

Our
failure. Hers and mine. We are both wicked and selfish, we were both weak when we most needed to be strong. She is my enemy, but she is also … my sister.

“I forgive you,” I say, meaning it with my entire heart. “I forgive you for everything.” I bite my lip, tasting misery salty on my skin.

“Yes … that is …” She doesn’t finish. She drifts away like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. Her hand falls from my face. She dies. She dies and I am alone on the floor before the fire as the ogre soldiers charged with guarding me suddenly rush away.

Perhaps they’re going to fight the Fey army Ekeeta said was at the city gate. Perhaps they’re simply terrified by the black cloud filling the room. I don’t know. I only know that I am lost.

I roll onto my back, feeling stronger than I did a moment ago, but too scared to sit up. It will be too late now. If Jor wasn’t cut down, he will be dead. I can’t bear to see it, can’t bear to know that I have committed murder, squandered the gifts my mother died to give me, and cursed the world, and haven’t even managed to spare Jor in the process.

I lie broken on the stones, staring up at the swirling black smoke, watching as the cloud begins to thin, going gray in patches until I hear—

“Aurora!” Niklaas shouts from the scaffold. “Some help!”

I bolt into a seated position, the room spinning as I come onto the balls of my feet.

I look to the scaffold to see Niklaas and my brother—my brother! Alive! Still alive!—fighting off the ogres surging up the stairs. Niklaas stands at the top of the steps and Jor defends from behind. My brother is obviously weak, but he’s managing to help keep the ogres at bay. Somehow he and Niklaas have both acquired swords and are doing a decent job of defending themselves, but even with many of the ogre soldiers running from the room, they are still outnumbered.

Spinning, I search the ground for a weapon, but there is nothing … nothing but the dagger still plunged into Ekeeta’s chest.

Wincing, I grip the hilt in one hand and give the dagger a tug, and then another tug and another, but it barely moves. Finally, I fist both hands around the hilt and haul at it with all my strength until it pops free with an awful sucking sound and I fall onto my bottom, breathing hard.

Breathing hard,
simply from pulling a knife from a motionless body.

My gifts really are gone. Completely gone. I am as weak as any smaller-than-average, too-skinny girl of seventeen. Weaker. Now that my gifts are gone, I’m keenly aware of the stinging, aching wounds at my wrists, of the way my heart labors as my body struggles to recover from the exhaustion and deprivation of the last five days. I am not the warrior I was. I’ll be lucky to take down a single man before I lose my own head.

Then better make your man count.

I turn, fist tightening around the hilt of the knife, strength rising inside of me as I find Illestros with my eyes. He is alone now that his soldiers are either fighting on the scaffold or fleeing the room. He leans over the altar, his hands braced on the glass, his head bowed. His is the one death that might stop this. He is the leader, the priest, the prophet. If he dies, the remaining ogres may lose their center and falter in their fight, giving Niklaas and Jor the chance to escape before Jor grows too weak to hold a sword.

I creep forward on shaking legs, circling the fire to approach from over Illestros’s shoulder one careful step at a time, hoping my luck will hold and I will continue to escape the other ogres’ notice until it’s too late.

The soldiers are busy with Jor and Niklaas and the priests have run to the window, where they seem to be trying to guide the graying cloud out the window with palm leaf fans, but I don’t spare them more than a second of my attention. I keep my focus on Illestros’s narrow back, judging where I must plunge the blade to strike a mortal wound, knowing I’ll have to shove the dagger with all my strength if I hope to hit his heart.

I cannot hesitate. I cannot falter. I take a breath and hold it, inching forward though my head screams for me to hurry, to run at him and have it done.

I am five steps away … three … two … close enough to see Illestros’s ravaged face in the altar glass as I lift the dagger, close enough to hear his sigh when he spies my blade’s reflection and turns to face me.

“So you will kill me,” he says, arms hanging limp at his sides. “Now that your blessings are gone you can kill without hesitation. Does that please you?”

“Call off your men and I won’t hurt you.” I try to firm up my muscles, to keep my raised arm from trembling.

“I could take the knife. I know you’re weak,” he whispers. “But I won’t. I’m ready to die. The ritual has failed.”

He points one shaking finger to the ceiling; I glance up to see the black and gray mass transformed, the oily smoke replaced by feathery white clouds that grow thinner by the moment.

“Your fairy magic was the fuel and your hatred the spark to set the new beginning in motion,” Illestros continues, voice breaking. “The darkness should have risen. I should be on my way to ruling a world where my people once again dominate cattle like you, but instead everything I’ve worked for is lost, and she is dead, and it is for
nothing
!”

He’s telling the truth. His pain and rage are too real for it to be a lie. For some reason, the ritual has failed.

I realize that there will be no living darkness, that the people of Mataquin will be spared, and relax for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Illestros to lunge for my throat.

I scream as his hands wrap around my neck, but the sound emerges as a gurgle, too soft to be heard over the shouts of the men behind us. I try to jab the dagger into his chest, but he spins, slamming my head into the altar, sending the weapon flying.

“You did this,” he hisses, his sharp teeth bared behind his thinned lips. “What did you do? What did you say to her?”

“I forgave her,” I manage to gasp before his grip tightens.

“And I suppose she forgave you, her own murderer,” he growls. “She knew your hatred played a part. She ruined everything. She deserved to die. She was weak. Weak!”

I kick at his legs and dig my nails into the skin at the backs of his hands until I draw blood, but his bony fingers only squeeze harder.

“You stole her death,” he spits. “And now I will steal everything you love. I will kill your brother and every fairy foolish enough to fight for a worthless child like you.”

My pulse pounds behind my eyes, white light flashes at the edges of my vision, and my ears fill with the echo of my suffering heart, drowning out the sounds of Niklaas and Jor still fighting on the scaffold.

I am fading, dying, but I will not give Illestros the satisfaction of knowing I died miserable and afraid. There are so many things I would do differently, but I am not worthless. I’ve made mistakes, but I didn’t fail. I was the girl my mother wanted me to be. In the end, I honored the most important gift she gave me. I was merciful. I wish I had been merciful enough to spare Ekeeta’s life, but at least I let her die in peace. I released my hatred before it was too late. I forgave Ekeeta and helped save my people, even if I can’t save myself.

I close my eyes, and spread my arms, ready to meet my death with the same bravery Ekeeta met hers, when my fingers brush against something cool and heavy.

The cup.
The gold cup Illestros was holding above the glass …

I curl my fingers into a fist, drawing the stem of the goblet into my palm and squeezing tight, willing myself to remember my training, to remember where to strike for the greatest effect, before bringing the chalice down on Illestros’s skull with enough force that it bounces off his head with a
gong
that rings sweetly in the air.

He groans and his grip loosens. I twist free, air rasping into my raw throat as I stumble away.

Evasive tactics seem to work well without my fairy gifts. Now it’s time to see what else I can do.

I spy the dagger on the ground and snatch it up, spinning to face Illestros as he staggers toward me. I’m injured and no longer blessed with strength, but I’m as well trained as an ogre solider and likely better trained than a priest. And so I hold my ground, waiting until the last moment to sidestep, driving my shoulder into Illestros’s gut as I hook my foot around his leg, sending him to the ground as easily as I toppled Niklaas in our sparring match.

A moment later, I’m atop his chest, dagger at his throat.

I dig the blade into his flesh, knowing I must pull it across the thin skin and commit my second murder, but before I can strike, familiar hands snatch me beneath the arms and pull me away.

“Wait!” Niklaas plucks the dagger from my hand, keeping it trained on the priest blinking on the floor. “He’ll be more useful alive. I killed five of his men, and the others have run. He’s the last ogre left.”

“What?” I ask as Niklaas kneels, rolling the priest over and tying his hands with rope he must have snatched from the gallows. “Why did they run? When?”

“Just a few moments ago,” Niklaas says, double-checking his knots. “A messenger brought word that the fairies had breached the last of the castle’s defenses. With their queen dead, I guess the ogres didn’t feel like sticking around to defend her throne.”

“Where’s Jor?” I glance about the room, finding it deserted save for the ogres lying dead on the stones near the scaffold. “Where is—”

“I’m here,” comes a voice from behind me, making me jump.

I spin around, taking in my brother’s blood-smeared clothes long enough to be certain none of the blood is his own before throwing my arms around his neck. “You’re alive! I’m so glad you’re alive,” I sob against his filthy shirt.

“You too.” His arms go around me, hugging me so tightly he lifts me off my feet. “For a minute there, I thought we’d both … You stopped it somehow, didn’t you?”

“Yes. The ritual failed. The kingdoms are safe.”

“Thank the gods.” He pulls in a ragged breath and hugs me even tighter. “Still, you shouldn’t have come, Ror. You should have let me die. We both knew it might come to that someday.”

“I couldn’t,” I say, voice muffled. “I just couldn’t. I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you,” he says. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same if it were you with the rope around your neck. It would have been easier to die than watch them kill my Ror.”

I pull back to look into his face, relieved to see his eyes clear and his gaze strong.

“You’ll be all right?” I whisper.

“I will. And so will you.” He sets me back on my feet, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He’s so much taller than he was last winter. He’s still a beanpole, but he only needs a few inches to be as tall as Niklaas.

Niklaas.
I was so frightened and worried that I didn’t stop to think when he starting issuing orders, but now …

My arms go limp, sliding from Jor’s neck as I turn, slowly, cautiously, afraid to hope. But as soon as I see Niklaas standing with his arms crossed and that brooding, relieved, enraged expression on his face, I know.

“You’re back,” I breathe, tears springing to my eyes.

At this rate, I may never stop crying, but that’s all right. My brother is alive, the Fey have taken the castle, and Niklaas is himself.

“Yes,” he says, the word forced through a jaw so tense I can see the muscles twitch at either side of his face. “But I remember everything. Every flaming thing.”

“I’ll keep watch for the Fey and let them know the ogres are bound for the boats,” Jor says, obviously sensing that Niklaas and I should have a moment alone.

As much as I hate to let my brother venture an inch from my side, I know he’s right. Niklaas should be able to lash out at me with the full strength of his fury, without worrying about offending the innocent.

“M-my fairy blessings are gone,” I stammer as Jor hurries away, my eyes darting from Niklaas’s feet to his shoulders, finding it impossible to meet his staring-through-my-skin look head-on. “They left me when I. …I … killed her.” My face crumples, no matter how hard I try to fight it, and I know it will be a long time before I can speak of the terrible thing I did without weeping.

“I saw,” Niklaas says. “I watched you beg for your brother’s life, and all I could think about was how lost I’d be if you weren’t alive to tell me what to do.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to stop blubbering. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You knew what would happen if I kissed you,” he says. “That’s what happened to that fairy boy, isn’t it? He kissed you and it stole his damn mind away.”

I bite my lip and nod, heart sinking as Niklaas curses beneath his breath and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “I am sorry,” I whisper. “You have no idea how sorry.”

“I have an idea,” he snaps, shooting me a look so sharp it makes me flinch. “If you weren’t sorry, you wouldn’t have made me hurt you on the way here, would you?”