Unbelievable, isn’t it?
I’ve scanned the books in Valdon’s secret library. I’ve learned that my mother’s kind are powerful and that the ancient heart-seed is supposed to protect me. In theory, I should be able to manipulate the trees and even wood that’s long dead.
I just don’t know how.
Apparently, a dryad is just supposed to know from the beginning. It’s an instinctive thing.
We reach the garden. Einvar opens the door. Kharuk ushers me through. They begin to follow me.
I turn around and hold up my hand. “Would you mind giving me a moment? I just need some… space. You can keep an eye on me from the doorway. It isn’t as if anyone can come in here, anyway.”
The guards exchange a glance, some silent communication passing between them.
“As you wish, my lady,” Einvar says at last. “Take as much time as you need.”
“I appreciate it.” I leave them guarding the doorway, watching me through the tall windows as I step out into the small garden. It might have been Valdon Duthriss’s private sanctuary, a place where I comforted my betrothed at the height of his grief, but it still brings me a sense of peace.
When I’m around living things—plants and trees—the wild, brittle magic inside me becomes a little calmer.
It’s growing. It’s changing.
I’m changing.
And just as I yearn for Corvan, the magic inside me yearns for him too, for when he’s here, we’re in perfect balance.
I look up at the clear night sky. The air is cold and crisp. A soft woollen shawl—given to me by the guards—is draped across my shoulders.
I pull it tighter.
The stars are bright tonight; pinpricks of brilliance in the darkness.
I wonder if Corvan can see these very same stars right now. Or is he caught in some terrible battle?
Whatever he’s doing, I can only put my fear aside and trust him. He’s far too clever to get caught…
Isn’t he?
A gentle breeze tugs at my hair. It’s strange, but I almost think I can feel the plants and trees around me; reaching toward me, exuding a certain sense of comfort.
I can’t explain it.
Everything will be fine.
That’s what I try to tell myself.
But then I hear something behind me; a commotion, a clash of metal on metal.
Peace was only fleeting; I should have known it would go back to this.
For chaos seems to be the eternal state of the world.
Did I read that in a book somewhere?
I turn around.
The Elite Guards are fighting… with Emperor Valdon Duthriss.
Emperor…？
I blink furiously, trying to clear my vision. Am I seeing correctly, or am I hallucinating.
No. It’s real. The dead emperor is on his feet, swinging a heavy sword in a way that should be physically impossible for his frail body. Behind him is another attacker—a slender man wearing white robes, his hair concealed beneath white wrappings.
The embalmer.
He’s got a sword too. How does an embalmer know how to wield a sword?
There’s a crimson bloom in the center of his chest. Blood. He’s been stabbed.
Dread turns my throat dry.
As I catch sight of them, both the emperor and the embalmer look at me.
Their eyes glow unearthly green—the same as Kinnivar’s did when he abducted me.
They turn toward me.
Oh, my Goddess.
They’re undead, and someone’s controlling them.
My mind makes a silent plea; a desperate wish. I say a silent prayer to my beloved. Corvan, if you’re anywhere near the necromancer, please do something!
Einvar and Kharuk attack, holding the animated bodies—for that’s all they are—at bay with a supreme display of swordsmanship. I can see why they’re Elite Guards. They move with deadly grace and brutal efficiency, in contrast with the undead, whose attacks are crude and vicious.
But the undead are frightfully strong and fast, thanks to the magic that animates them. I swear I can feel it; a dark, discordant energy that fills the space between us.
Einvar is yelling, calling for his comrades; barking orders at his battle-partner.
Kharuk raises his blade and backs away, moving in my direction. He enters the garden, never taking his eyes off the attackers.
Protecting me at all costs.
Bless these guards. They really did swear complete loyalty to Corvan.
Einvar fights like a tempest; fierce and unrelenting. He kicks the first undead—the creature that was once Valdon Duthriss—in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards. Then he swings his blade and lops off the other one’s leg.
The undead figure—that poor, wretched embalmer—loses its balance and crashes to the floor, sword clattering away.
To my horror, it starts to crawl, leaving its severed limb behind.
“Take off the head!” I shout. “That’s how you kill them. You must cut off the head!”
But Einvar suddenly has his hands full with the other one. The once-emperor of Rahava is nothing but an empty husk, filled with the malevolent will of a master manipulator.
He’s caught up in a flurry of vicious sword blows, and he appears to be losing ground.
Meanwhile, the crawling undead has reached the gardens.
“I’ll take care of it, my lady,” Kharuk growls. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
Believe me, I wish I could.
Why, oh why, is this feeling of dancing lightning spreading through my body? Why do my fingers tingle? My mind feels detached from my body… as if I’m both inside it and outside it at the same time.
And there’s that tightness in my chest again; that pressure, growing so intense I can barely breathe.
And the world moves both fast and slow. I can see everything in vivid detail, right down to the fine hairs on the back of Kharuk’s neck as he walks toward the undead creature, his blade raised. I see moonlight gleaming on cold steel. I see the tremor in the guard’s powerful arm.
I smell the sweet fragrance of the winterlilies, a dozen times more potent at night.
Kharuk’s blade falls. Einvar’s attack falters. He’s being pressed back. The emperor has been transformed into a glowing-eyed demon.
It’s impossible, how that thing can move so fast.
At this rate, Einvar will fail. He’s a formidable warrior, but he’s only mortal.
Kharuk goes for the neck, just like I told him to.
But the crawling undead creature moves unnaturally fast, evading the blade. The silks covering its hair come undone, revealing a shock of russet curls, a reminder that this body was once human.
It launches itself at the guard. Kharuk throws his blade, piercing the undead’s chest.
The creature falls, impaled by four feet of cold steel.
For a moment, it’s perfectly still.
But then it rises to its knees; teeth bared, eyes glowing lurid green. It curls up like a spring, body becoming taut. It’s going to strike again.
Kharuk has no blade. Said blade is still protruding from the undead’s chest.
But he doesn’t back away.
He’s going to defend me with his bare hands. This brave, loyal man.
I don’t want him to die. I don’t want Einvar to die either, but even though he’s fighting valiantly, he’s starting to tire.
He’s wounded. Blood drips from his right arm; his sword-arm.
I look around wildly, searching for something I can use. I rack my brain, trying to remember all the infuriating little snippets of knowledge I’ve gleaned from the books. I try to recall Eulisyn’s brief conversation with me.