Second Stone (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The mostly one-sided battle raged on for hours—or perhaps merely long, blood-gorged minutes—as the Royal Forces cut through the scrappy but untrained Separatists: the army that he, a blacksmith’s son, had been training, preparing, and even commanding. Garith wondered if his father would be proud. Or would perhaps the shame of his son’s abandonment at the fjord be a permanent mark upon his name? Perhaps a better question would be whether Garith cared one way or the other.

He’d have liked for his father to be proud, naturally. But he finally felt like he had a true place for himself, and it was not back in Eltar. He’d left his home chasing a girl he could never have, never expecting to find himself in the process.

The Separatists were emboldened by a life of hate. As they’d lived far from the comforts of any real home, existing through the harshest of winters and conditions, they’d warmed themselves with thoughts of their misguided calling to eradicate the Stones from The Three Corners.

Drunken deep-wood skirmishes and the murder of unprotected women had not prepared them for facing the Royal Forces. Torian’s soldiers had trained for years to defend their prince against commoners, foreign armies, and any other threat that might come their way. Though there had been more of the Separatists than they had expected, they fell easily.

Throughout the battle, most of the men had dismounted, fighting hand to hand. A rushing madman, crazed and rabid, with blood dripping into his eyes from a gash in his forehead, launched himself at Garith from the side.

From behind his shoulder, Garith heard Torian ask, “You got him?”

“Yep.”

They’d been fighting side by side, covering each other’s back from the first moment of the battle. So different were their backgrounds, so different even were their stances, that they formed a dance of opposites yet they formed an insurmountable team. Torian was elegant and fierce, his sword cutting in and out with fluid motions born of a lifetime of treating swordsmanship as an art form rather than a survival technique. Garith crouched low, a tiger ready to shred his prey, his shortsword whipping out then drawing back as a cat sheaths its claws. He was a wild animal. They were from two lands, two entirely different social castes, but today they were brothers joined by their unflinching devotion to one girl, to her cause and to her destiny. Together, they would clear the way for the path she’d chosen to walk.

Not many had made it through the troops surrounding them. The few that had didn’t stand before them long.

Soft moans wafted from the ground around them, accompanying the staccato beat of his own heavy breathing. Torian’s arm was lathered in blood, but Garith didn’t think it was his own. A bruise was already swelling on the prince’s cheek, but that seemed to be the worst wound he had suffered. Garith had known going into it that if it came down to Torian’s safety or his own, he would have protected Torian with his life. He owed it to more than just Emariya now: he owed it to Torian himself.

Garith finished off his opponent and a splatter of blood landed on his armor. Having no armor of his own, he’d borrowed some of the Royal Force’s.
I could get used to black and silver,
he thought. And at least he hadn’t ruined the Eltar tunic Jessa had sewn for him. There would have been no living with her if he had.

Quickly cutting his eyes around the battlefield, Garith saw no new targets. A quick inventory of those on the ground, sprawled on the now pink snow, revealed only two clad in telltale black and silver. Undoubtedly, the Mistress of War had exacted her toll, but the price had been sustainable, and victory had been bought and delivered.

Blood running down his leg, Leil staggered toward Garith. He paused a few feet away, leaning on his sword. “It’s near about over. Stragglers are being rounded up now,” he reported.

“Good.” Garith nodded and was about to give additional orders when a shot rang out in the distance. Before Garith could worry over the sound, a commotion behind him caught his attention.

By unspoken agreement, the barricade of soldiers around them parted. Around the outer edges, a few were still locked in lingering combat. Surging through the opening made by Torian’s men, Russell careened toward him. Garith’s anger boiled, his fury renewed.

––––––––

As his men parted, Torian saw the battered but not beaten man stumble through, his sword brandished before him, declaring that he had come for blood.

All sounds of the battle faded as Torian focused on the only thing that mattered at that moment: cutting down the leader of the Separatists where he stood.

Torian’s guards each had a sword trained on him, and the closest drew back, preparing the swing that would end the arrogant fool’s life.

A fierce battle cry rang out, and the man broke into a run.

Rough hands shoved Torian aside, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He stared in brief surprise as Garith stepped in front of him. “Russell!” Garith unleashed a battle growl of his own.

“Wait!” Torian commanded the soldier just about to deliver the killing strike. Garith had chosen this opponent as his own. Torian was willing to stand back and let him have his target. Of course, he would step in if necessary. Honor on a battlefield may be a glorious banner, but dead men boasted of nothing.

Torian stood back, giving them space while his fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.

Russell moved his sword in long, ineffective arcing sweeps. His movements were borne on sinewy muscles, but each was telegraphed so loudly that Garith avoided them with ease.

Garith allowed the man to keep circling. He caught his breath while keeping to easy, noncommittal movements, searching for the right opportunity.

“My fight wasn’t with you. You shouldn’t have interfered,” Russell said, panting. Sweat beaded on his broad forehead. He wiped it away with a dirty, bloodstained sleeve.

“If your fight is with Emariya or Torian, then it’s with me.” Garith took a calculated step back, letting Russell lunge forward, overextending himself. At any moment, Garith would have to choose which he took this day: a life or a prisoner.

It happened so fast that Torian wasn’t sure at first that he’d truly seen it. A flash of pale blonde hair was only briefly visible through the soldiers.

But how?
he thought to himself. She was supposed to be up on the ledge, safe, with Jessa and Rink.

A few moments longer, and everything would have changed. It was written all over his face, Garith was committed to sparing Russell’s worthless life. Just as he drew back, releasing the tension in his shoulders, trying to tame the rage clearly still coursing through him, Russell grinned.

He must have seen the same thing that Torian was trying to tell himself wasn’t possible. Each beat of his heart pounded an individual lament; each pained grimace as grubby hands clutched her thin arm sent a dagger flying into his chest. “No,” he breathed. It couldn’t be. He’d made sure she was safe!

Garith, quicker to action than Torian, brought his sword directly to Russell’s throat. The defeated but not beaten man dropped to his knees in the snow.

Helplessly, all Torian could do was watch as six Separatists forced Emariya, Jessa, and Rink toward them. Fury danced in Emariya’s eyes, urging him to keep calm.

“Let her go!” Torian screamed, whirling to face the man on his knees before him. “You tell them to let her go!”

“No. You’re going to kill me either way. I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the Stones separated forever before I go. I win, Your Highness.” Russell flashed an antagonistic grin.

“Unhand her,” Torian spoke through gritted teeth.

The pair of Separatists holding Emariya stepped forward, pressing knives firmly against her throat. Torian worried if she so much as swallowed, the blades might cut her. He could order his guards to kill the attackers—they outnumbered them easily—but what he couldn’t ensure was that one of the knives wouldn’t slit her throat as it fell from the men’s hands. He couldn’t risk it.

Behind Emariya, Rink was struggling fiercely to get away. Jessa had dissolved into sobs.

Garith tried to rush forward, but Torian put a hand out, holding him back. “We can’t risk it,” he said quietly.

Garith steadied himself and stepped back. “Then what?”

Torian shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Smart, Your Highness. I tell you what: if you like, we’ll kill you in her place. Same to me either way, really.” Russell shrugged.

At that, Emariya’s eyes finally filled with something other than a deadly calm. Her Roth blue eyes were screaming at him with the voices of the spirits, even while she said nothing. Torian didn’t waste a single moment. Life without her would be no life. If he were gone, Garith would take care of her, but if she were gone, his life would be over. He threw down his sword. “Do I have your word, sir?”

––––––––

Emariya fought the panic rising within her. She would
not
let him die for her.

Her eyes darted around. Russell and his men must realize they had already lost.

The Royal Forces were ready to pounce; all it would take was a signal, and they’d end it. But who would be ended with it? Her? She could accept that. Torian? Garith? Those were not casualties she was willing to bear.

She heard Russell addressing Torian. “My word? I don’t think so. This is a bargain, after all. You’ll die. I’ll die. Maybe she will live, maybe she won’t. I imagine that will be up to your men and mine.”

Torian, don’t be so bloody stupid
, she thought. Russell picked up Torian’s sword, pausing to admire it. Garith was inching slowly closer to her, but he’d never reach her in time. He should be going for Russell and Torian. By The Three, had both of their wits abandoned them? She closed her eyes.

A silent rumble reverberated through the ground, radiating directly away from where Emariya stood.

When she opened her eyes again, the situation had drastically changed. Everyone near Emariya—including Jessa, Rink, and their captors—had fallen to the unsteady ground. The two Separatists who’d held her captive appeared to have been dazed, but they were already struggling to their feet.

Royal Forces soldiers who’d been standing farther away when the ground had begun shuddering stumbled towards her, intercepting her assailants.

Garith dove for Russell but missed, thrown off by the quaking under his feet, and he landed in the snow.

Rink began flailing his wild fists on his former captors as Jessa kicked at hers. More Royal Forces closed in, coming to their aid.

Torian seemed to be the only one unaffected by the shaking ground. He looked to the ground, but his sword was gone—it was still in Russell’s hands.

Russell, seeing he was losing the upper hand, whirled toward Emariya, a deadly glint in his eye, frothing rabidly at the mouth. Emariya held up her hands and cringed backward. At any moment, Russell’s blade would still her heart, exactly as he’d stilled her mother’s.

She could hear Torian screaming for him to stop. Emariya opened her eyes. Time slowed. Two Separatists—the ones who had held Jessa, perhaps—rushed Torian.

Instead of the cruel bite of a blade, Emariya felt two hands shoving her back. Leil stood facing her. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. In that look, everything passed unsaid between them.

In his brief smile, he told her he was sorry.

With his brief nod, he told her to carry on.

Emariya stared straight ahead as Russell plunged Torian’s sword through Leil’s neck from behind, sending blood spurting over her.

The entire battlefield paused in shock.

As Emariya regained her focus, her vision narrowing at the reality of the scene before her, the ground beneath her feet continued to tremble. The very earth itself shuddered in mourning at the peril of its Cornerstone. Child of the soil, Emariya watched Leil sink to his knees.

Stepping past him toward Russell, Emariya tugged the sword from Leil’s dying body. Torian had the two Separatists who’d lunged at him, but he wouldn’t be able to get to her in time. She had the briefest moment where she could have hesitated. Had she wanted to, she could have aborted her plan. Instead, with a primal scream laced with hatred and fear, she thrust the sword forward with all her strength.

The razor sharp blade plunged through Russell’s stomach just as Torian and Garith reached her side. She trembled, feeling the vibration travel through her arms, resonating into Russell himself as he looked back at her with unfathomable sadness.

In his last moment, he whispered, “I tried.” His final apology to a world for his failure to stop what he saw as their sure demise.

Disgusted with him and with herself, Emariya released the handle of the blade, turned, and walked away, ignoring both Torian and Garith’s worried questions behind her. As she went, a haunted keening could be heard as the ground lamented, lending her its strength, sharing in her misery.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Unable to face any of them, Emariya shut out their questions, their fear, and their disbelief. Accompanied only by the accusing assault of the wind, she walked and walked until she reached the bank. There she sat, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

Slowly, as the rage abandoned her, leaving her exhausted and utterly alone, the ground stilled. The heart-wrenching wail carried aloft on the wind rolling across the plain continued its chant. So sad was it’s song, Emariya couldn’t help bursting into sobs. Lowering her head to her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around them, she let herself cry.

Only twice had Emariya seen death up close, and both times, those lives had been given for her. Its cost was too great; it was a debt she feared she could never repay. First, the injured man, Eshan, had suffered unimaginable wounds to bring her news of her father. And now Leil. He’d only just found forgiveness. He’d taken the death that should have been hers, and he’d taken it willingly. He’d bought her survival with his own life. How could she ever repay that?

Was killing Russell in revenge a start? No. If she were being honest with herself, it wasn’t. Her vengeful choice paled in comparison with Leil’s noble sacrifice. Russell could have been taken prisoner. He didn’t have to die. She’d sentenced him herself, and carried out his execution.

He’d taken her mother’s life, and she’d taken his. In a way, things had come full circle. She could almost say it was he who had started everything. Everything that had been hard in her life could be attributed to Russell.

Russell destroyed her family—both sides of her family, even. Had he not killed Valencia, Valencia wouldn’t have bitterly plotted from the world of the spirits with her rogue son. She wouldn’t have sent Khane to push Reeve down his darkening path. Oren wouldn’t have become broken and lost. Emariya could have grown up being loved by both of her parents.

In fact, in his fear over the Stones combining, he’d motivated exactly what he hoped to avoid. And she had taken his life.

Did that make her any better than her mother and Reeve?
Oh, Mama, where did we go wrong?
Emariya tried to stifle her sobs, and then abandoned it as pointless. Perhaps the Roth blood was cursed after all.

She couldn’t regret Russell’s death. The Three Corners would undoubtedly be better without him and his Separatists spreading their hateful diatribe throughout the three lands. He’d thought he was doing the right thing, but that didn’t excuse his actions.

Emariya, too, had done the right thing, but she knew she’d done it for the wrong reason. Was that any better? Was it better to do the right thing for the wrong reasons opposed to the wrong thing for the right reasons? Did it even matter? He was just as dead, regardless, wasn’t he?

Taking a steadying breath, Emariya looked up, watching the snow swirl about on the frozen river. The entire world had become bathed in a rusty shade of gold as a weak, hopeful band of sunlight forced its way through hazy clouds, reflecting off of the snow.

Her back stiffened as footsteps approached from behind.

“Go away,” she said without turning to see whom it was.

“No.”

Jessa. Maybe they thought that given Jessa’s recent adventures, she’d be the best choice to get through to her. They were wasting their time. Jessa, of all people, wouldn’t understand. She’d killed someone and had had no other choice, but still felt bad for it. Emariya felt a lot of things, but ‘bad’ wasn’t one of them. At least not for the fact that Russell was dead.

“We need you back there.” Jessa’s voice wasn’t unkind.

Emariya didn’t answer. She couldn’t face their looks. Their worry would crush her.

Jessa tried again. “Emariya, I know it’s hard, and it hurts, and you feel—”

“You know I feel what, Jessa?” Emariya spat. “Guilty? No. I’d do it again. And again and again and again!” Emariya screamed, letting the wind rip away her violent words. She shoved to her feet, staring defiantly into Jessa’s large, compassionate eyes. “That’s just it. You don’t understand, because
I’d do it again
.”

“Riya…”

“That makes me awful, right? Killing is wrong—I know that, don’t you think I know that? But it’s the truth. He killed my mother! He destroyed my family. And I hate him. And he killed Leil, who I still sort of hated, too.”

“Riya, I know.” Jessa came tentatively closer, putting her hands around Emariya’s shoulders.

She wrenched herself away. “It wasn’t noble, Jessa. Torian and Garith would have stopped him. It wasn’t my life or his. And I killed him anyway.”

“By The Three, snap out of it! We know, all right. I know, Torian and Garith know, we all know. And any one of us would have done it. Maybe not so powerfully, or definitively…” Jessa gave a shaky laugh. “But not one of us can blame you for it.”

Emariya looked up sharply, thinking maybe she’d misheard.

“Not even me, Riya. I don’t blame you. I will, however, blame you if you don’t quit pitying yourself and get down to that battlefield and help me tend to the wounded. Some people, they just don’t deserve to live. Russell was one of those people. Others don’t deserve to die. His men who followed him knowing no better—you can help them, and maybe they do deserve to survive this day.”

Emariya looked out across the river. Could she help those who had tried to kill them?

Jessa hugged her arms around herself as her cloak whipped in the wind. “Put your hurt aside. You have a duty to more than just Eltar and Torian now. All of The Three Corners needs you. Come help your people. Or will you cast aside your duty out of your grief?”

Slowly, Emariya shook her head. Jessa was right. She was grieving. For her mother, for her brother, and for herself. For everything they’d gotten wrong, she would have to try extra hard to get it right.
Will of the soil, blood will flow.
Blood had spilled this day from people’s fear of the Cornerstones.
Never again
, Emariya vowed. Russell had started this war because of what she was. To keep it from happening again, she would bring her people together; she would prove to them that she could be a force of good, even if she had to get a little blood on her skirts along the way.

––––––––

With no protection from the salty wind, the plain grew even colder as the little warmth the sun provided faded into the night. Wearily wiping exhaustion from his brow, Torian looked around. Most of his men still stood, waiting for orders.

Several ambled around in various states of shock. While they’d had a lifetime of training, for many, this was their first real battle. The four of them had discussed it, and they’d all agreed that Jessa was the best choice to go after Emariya. Even though he desperately wanted to go himself, Torian suspected Jessa could get through to her better than he could, and his men needed him. He’d already left them behind to take her to the Roths; he couldn’t leave them now to console her.

Once Jessa headed toward the bank, Torian divided tasks. “Rink, I want you to fetch the servants. Bring them here.” It seemed as if their crossing that morning had been days ago instead of hours. Before heading to their chosen battlefield, they’d left the servants safe on the other bank. Torian had tried to convince Emariya to wait there, but she would hear nothing of it. If she had… He put it out of his mind; he couldn’t think about that now.

“Yes, Your Highness!” Rink turned to hurry off and find a horse. Suddenly, he turned back. “Your Highness…” His young eyes were wide with apology.

“Not now, Rink,” Torian said, giving the boy an understanding smile. “Go on.”

After the boy was gone, he turned to Garith. “Find the least injured of our men. Have them construct our camp. Start fires, then build what tents they can. We’ll need hot water, and food. Soon. Those that are injured, send them this way.”

“Where do you want the camp?” Garith looked around.

“Over there, almost to the bank, I think.”

“And the dead?” Garith’s voice was flat.

Torian sighed. He tried to be thankful that only three of his own men were among the dead. Still, something would have to be done. Glancing around, he wondered what the Separatists would have done with their dead. Unfortunately, there were none he could ask. After Russell had lunged, madness erupted. His guards had killed the few remaining Separatists fighters. A few were on the ground, moaning softly, but they were in no shape to give directions.

“We’ll tend to the living, then we’ll worry about the dead.”

“Should we move the injured away from them?”

“Take the injured to camp. Set up a tent for them—the larger command tent should work.”

Garith strode off and headed toward the bank, beckoning for the soldiers on their feet to follow him.

Torian flagged down a few nearby men that seemed relatively unharmed. Together, they grabbed the arms and legs of one of their more injured companions.

As they made their way toward the bank, Torian saw Jessa heading toward him with Emariya following closely behind. His love’s head was up, proud and determined as her blonde hair whirled around her. Her dress was torn and bloody, but it was her haunted eyes that threatened to still his aching heart. Even battle scarred, she was impossibly beautiful. She strode toward him, a battlefield angel come to offer salvation, or perhaps condemnation.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the man Torian was carrying, but she didn’t speak. After a quick glance behind her at Emariya, Jessa asked, “What can we do?”

Torian’s eyes never left Emariya’s as he said, “Follow me. We’re going to set up a tent for the wounded. If you’ll oversee helping them, I’ll get them to you.”

Jessa pulled something from a fold in her cloak and shoved it into Emariya’s hands. “I brought your herbs.”

Still silent, Emariya took the little pouch and followed.

Torian’s muscles groaned with the strain of carrying the wounded. He was already tired from the battle, and rest was still a ways off. He stood and stretched. Resisting the urge to go check on Emariya, he helped construct an enclosure for the horses, saw the last of the injured carried to the tent where Riya and Jessa waited, and oversaw the building of a large bonfire upon the spot where Russell had fallen.

After the dead Separatists’ bodies had been placed on the pyre, Torian stepped back and waited. His two fallen soldiers were washed and laid out with Leil beside them.

Feeling her at his back, Torian turned and took her in his arms. “You don’t have to be here for this.”

She looked up at him, speaking to him for the first time since that morning. Her voice was dry and raw, and the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard. “Yes. I do. They died for me. I’ll not turn away from them now.” The promise in her voice made the Royal Forces nearby smile.

“I wasn’t sure what you would want done for Leil. I know he was of Thalmas, but I didn’t know if you’d want to bury him as you do in Eltar. We’ve committed the Separatists to the Final Fire. They’re from all of The Three Corners, but the ground is frozen. Digging would be laborious, and they aren’t our men. We’re too far away to cast them into the sea, even though we are in Sheas. I thought a Final Fire would be appropriate, as they died at the hands of Thalmas.”

“Whatever you think is best.” Her voice was tired.

“And Leil?” Torian asked gently.

“He is of Thalmas, and now, so am I. He deserves the traditional honors of Thalmas.”

Torian nodded, agreeing with her. By unspoken command, the Royal Forces surrounded the bonfire. Rink brought Torian a lit torch and he stepped forward. After a moment of prayer, he touched the torch to the waiting kindling. With a telltale sizzle, then a
whoosh
, the bonfire caught, sending the spirits of their warriors into the sky.

––––––––

Torian’s arm slipped around her shoulders, making an offer of comfort that she was finally ready to accept. Sobs wracked her body as she leaned against his chest, hiding her eyes.

Behind her, her back felt the full heat of the fire as it reduced those who’d died that day to ash, returning their bodies to the earth.

When the sobs had at last run their course, she lifted her head and looked to the fire. The flame’s reflection flickered in her eyes. Each man upon the pyre had given his life for her, be it to lend their aid, or to try and stand in her way. She felt responsible, though she harbored no regrets.

For as long as people continued to fear the Cornerstones and the prophecies, all Stones and those that would stand with them would be in danger.

Ripping her bloodstained cloak from her shoulders, she stepped forward. Raising her cloak above her head, she threw it into the fire. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke. “This tragedy will not happen again.”