But there’s nothing.
The undead moves as fast as an arrow through the garden, leaping off one foot, becoming a blur as it spins around, and now its back is to Kharuk and it’s flying toward him with the pointy end of the sword extending out of its back, thrusting toward the guard.
“My lady, stand aside!” Kharuk shouts as the undead crashes against him.
The blade pierces his chest, skewering both of them together, and they’re falling, and too late, I start to move, but Kharuk’s body has been pushed back with great force, and he collides with me.
We fall.
There’s a sharp burst of pain in my belly, just below my ribcage. With growing horror, I realize what it is. The tip of the sword that’s gone through the undead’s chest, then Kharuk’s, has impaled me too.
Warmth blossoms in my upper belly. Sharp, agonizing, terrifying warmth.
We hit the ground. I can’t move. Kharuk’s on top of me, and he’s heavy.
Still breathing, though. Still moving.
Is that my blood, or his? I can’t tell. I’m filled with horror as I realize that on top of us all is the undead creature. It kicks and flails, and the blade moves with it, worsening Kharuk’s wounds—and mine.
Stop.
Somewhere in the periphery of my vision, I’m aware of men surging into the garden. Frantic shouts fill my ears. My vision fades in and out.
The tightness in my chest is growing. The pain is becoming unbearable. The crush of Kharuk’s heavy body on top of mine makes me feel like I’m drowning.
I can’t stand it.
Stop.
I want to end it.
Stop.
I can’t die here. I can’t let my guards die. Why is it that I supposedly have so much power, yet I can’t do a thing?
Eulisyn, if you’re there, listen to me. Help me. Do what you did before, and end this.
What if I… won’t see Corvan again?
Something inside me breaks. It isn’t supposed to go like this. All of a sudden, I’m filled with anger. Pure, white-hot anger.
It’s like an inferno, threatening to consume me. I’ve never felt this angry before. At my pathetic father. At the selfish emperor. At the ambitious fools that would desecrate the dead in order to gain power.
Tormenting innocents for their gain. My mother. Corvan’s mother.
And for what?
How dare they cause such suffering?
How dare they keep me from what is mine?
Anger consumes my soul, threatening to engulf everything I’ve ever known.
And something inside me slides and clicks, like a key turning in a lock.
Everything falls into place.
A familiar voice echoes in my head. Righteous anger is the most cleansing fire of all. And after the fire comes renewal.
The tightness in my chest is so strong it’s turned into pure agony, fanning the flames of my anger.
Eulisyn?
But she’s silent again, and all I know is that the delicate manicured trees inside this perfectly landscaped garden are reaching toward me, and as I lie on my back with the weight of two bodies pressing down on me, my palms are pressed flat against the earth, and the tendrils shoot forth, forming roots that anchor me to the ground.
In the back of my head, there’s a faint rumble.
It grows. Louder and louder.
A little tremor courses through the ground. Through the cold, hard earth under my back, I can feel…
Everything.
The trees…
They start to grow.
Grow might be the wrong word. They explode, trunks groaning and stretching, turning massive in the blink of an eye, branches stretching toward the sky, leaves unfurling in a shock of verdant green. Taller and taller they grow, smashing windows, bending steel frames, cracking the stone walls.
And for the first time, I can feel them, as if they were an extension of my very own body.
They feed on my anger; on my despair, on my desperate wanting. Branches and vines grow long and move of their own accord, and I can’t see what’s happened to the undead, but I hear the crunching of bone and flesh, and all of a sudden, the coppery scent of blood is permeating the air, but it’s quickly swallowed by the earthy green scent of spring.
I’m in the earth. I’m in the trees themselves, being encased and lifted by their sentient branches, and Kharuk is being separated from me, and the undead creature is long gone, Goddess rest his soul.
Don’t hurt the guard. He’s a friend. Make sure he lives.
I plead with the trees, even as they grow and grow, and part of me is still tethered to the raw earth below, and I want to submerge in it, because I need something more.
I’m searching, frantically.
Because a part of me is still missing.
61
CORVAN
We go down several flights of stairs, deeper and deeper into the earth below. The air grows stale and dank. My senses tell me we’re well below the surface of the earth.
Ansar is silent. I stare at his back, wondering about the madness of ambition and all that comes with it. Discordant energy seeps from him. Death Magic. Chaos and corruption.
How in the Goddess’s name did Ansar think he was going to rule over Rahava when he’s like this?
One can’t rule over the living by raising the dead.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m going to kill him for all of this.
The other one percent thinks that just maybe, Finley’s mother will do the job for me.
I just need to see her—to be able to touch her. She’s been imprisoned for so long—first by Lucar Solisar, then by my father, and now the Talavarras have locked her up in the crypts of Deignar castle.
There are many ways to suppress a magical being. Serpenstone. Dampening irons—ancient and extremely valuable artefacts brought from Batava. Arcane enchantments that can drain a being’s innate magical energy.
I need to be careful here.
Things that are used to suppress something as strong as a dryad can also be used to suppress me.
And yet, I know Aralya’s alive. Without her, Ansar wouldn’t have become so powerful.
Besides, I think I can feel her.
The deeper we go, the stronger it becomes. An energy; similar to what I feel from Finley sometimes.
But if Finley’s magic is pure, sweet sunlight, then this aura is heat from the molten core that lurks deep beneath the surface of the earth.
As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Ansar stumbles. He utters a vicious Lukirian street-curse and presses his hand against the wall, steadying himself.
When did my sheltered-in-the-palace little brother learn to speak like that?
As the thought drifts through my mind, I’m already at Ansar’s side, my blade at his neck. His curious scent—incense and metal and blood—fills my nostrils. “What’s happening, little brother?”
Ansar grits his teeth. “A minor disturbance. It’s nothing. You want to see the dryad, or not?”
I sheath my blade. “Lead the way.”
His right hand hangs by his side, entangled in glowing crimson threads. His left is tucked inside his robes.
How curious.
I can’t help but wonder if half his gambit has already failed.
Ansar shoots me a baleful look and pads down the steps, reaching the bottom, where a large, circular chamber with walls of roughly hewn stone leads to a dark tunnel beyond.
A thought occurs to me.
What if I just cut off his hand at the wrist and severed those red threads?