Summerfall (11 page)

15

R
INKA FELL INTO
a light sleep and startled awake to find Alban lying beside her, her back against his front.

“It’s all right, you fell asleep,” he whispered against her hair. “My guard should arrive any moment now. I’m here.” He kissed her temple. “I’m here.”

Rinka settled back into the warmth of his embrace. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend they were in her bed, back in her chambers, windows open to the stars. Alban gently shifted their position so he could put his ear to Rinka’s belly, feeling their child kick. He laughed, looked up at her.

“She’s moving,” he whispered.

Rinka smiled to see the wonder on his face. “She? You think so?”

“I don’t know, of course. But I think she might be.”

Despite everything, Rinka found herself beaming at him. She let her eyes fall closed again, focused on Alban’s hands beneath her, cradling her. She could almost,
almost
pretend . . .

Then a soft weight in the air, a slight scent of bitterness, drew their attention to the floor beside them, where a single envelope manifested out of nothing.

Alban reached for it, hissing as the magic coating it bit his fingers. Cold magic;
mage
magic.

Rinka sat up, instantly alert, a pit of horror opening inside her.

Alban opened the envelope, pulled out the paper inside, and went still.

A dragon, stamped in red.

Rinka stared at Alban, wordless and frozen, and then—from the hallway, from the stairs, came the sounds of swords clashing, men screaming, great weights being thrown against walls.

Alban sat up. “My guard . . .”

The other prisoners screamed, pounding against their locked doors.

The doors, the walls—
shaking
. Somewhere deep below them—in the bowels of the castle itself?—something groaned, shifted, gave way.

A pulsing, slithering wave of cold magic.
Mages
. Rinka thought she tasted a flavor in it—murky, colorless—that reminded her distinctly of Lord Rohlmeyer.

“They’ve come for us,” she whispered.

The paper began dissolving in Alban’s hand. He stared at the silver ash on his palm.

“They were waiting until you came for me. They knew you would. It was only a matter of time, and somehow they knew, and—” Rinka shook him. “Alban, they’ve
come
.”

He reached for her, helped her rise. Shielding her with his body, he hurried with her out the door of her cell, and turned left—up the climbing stairs. The guards at the door had run toward the sounds of fighting below, and had not returned. Mage magic snaked up the stairs and nipped at Rinka’s heels.

“There’s a window, up there,” Alban instructed, pointing ahead of them to the next landing. “We can get out that way, climb onto the roof.”

Rinka reached the window and froze, looking out. The window was narrow, the height tremendous.

No sooner had Alban slammed the landing door shut behind them than crude fists of mage magic smashed into it. The door splintered, buckling.

Alban put Rinka behind him, shoved her toward the window. “Rinka, go. Hurry.”

She stared out the window; the world swayed. “I can’t.”

“I’ll turn the mages around. I’ll order them to stop. They have to listen to me. They’ll have no choice. It’ll give you some time.”

Rinka was not convinced. If that were the case, why were his mages breaking down the door? She wondered, with a thrill of terror, if hate could overpower even the blood magic of their binding.

Ottmeyer, flinging himself out his tower . . .

Alban had moved closer to the door, shouting something. Commands to stop, to obey him. He was their
king.

“Go, Rinka,” he hissed.

“They’re not listening to you.” And then a great sadness burst in her heart, because she saw his expression and what he meant to do.

No.

Not now, not after everything.

She grabbed Alban’s arm and pulled him with her toward the window. “Come with me. We can both go. We’ll head for Geschtohl with Garen and the others. My father will—”

Alban was frantic, watching the cracking doors. “There’s no time, Rinka,” he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he silenced her with a kiss—his hands in her hair, his lips bruising hers. When he let her go, grief twisted his face, and Rinka sobbed, reaching for him, but he pushed her toward the window.

“Go. Darling, go!”

But she couldn’t; she
wouldn’t
. She held her belly, frightened and reeling. She couldn’t possibly. The landing was coming apart, the stone ceiling raining dust. Mage magic flickered through the air like cruel tongues, seeking her.

Alban.
Alban
. She shook her head; she found his hand, brought it to her lips.

“No, Alban,” she choked out. “No,
please.
”

Then, with a tremendous crash of wood and a rush of magic, they were inside—Rohlmeyer, the other mages of the Seven; the Queen’s Guard.

And the Drachstelles, dark and triumphant in the torchlight. Steffen gave a sweeping bow and intoned, “Long live the king.”

But Alban had already stepped before Rinka, shielding her.

“Stop this madness at once,” he commanded, and three of the mages paused. They lowered their hands, they collapsed to the ground as if in horrible pain. The room stilled; the torchlight blazed high, and then dimmed.

Rohlmeyer, though—Rohlmeyer would not stop. He took step after impossible step, each one a battle. Blood trickled from his nose in silver rivulets—from his eyes, from the corner of his mouth.

“Lord Rohlmeyer, stop,” said Alban, putting out his hand. “I order you to stop.”

A wave of authority emanated from Alban, its origins far below them in the earth itself. Rinka felt the force of his connection to Cane as though it were a chain stretching from his heart to the kingdom’s, deep underground.

But Rohlmeyer would not stop. He began to scream, screams to tear the world in two, and still he did not stop. He flung his fist at the king, held out his dark stone. Magic surged out from it, imprecise, ragged, and Rinka pulled Alban back by his collar. The magic grazed Alban’s arm, so cold it set Rinka’s nose burning. Then he turned before Rinka could protest, and pushed her toward the window, and out.

Momentum forced her on. She cried out, slid onto the sloping white roof, found purchase on the gutter and steadied her footing. There was a storm, and the stone was slick. By the time she heard the sounds of struggle from inside—men fighting, magic slamming into stone—she had already scrambled to safety, to the elevated walkway bordering the western courtyard. Gargoyles, spewing rainwater, leered at her as she continued across the rooftops, but she did not falter until she heard Alban scream in pain—scream
her name
—and then fall abruptly silent.

She nearly fell, rain and tears making a mess of her vision, but she did not stop running—across walkways and down gutters, cutting through courtyards and the stable yard. She held her useless pendant to her like a treasure, and she ran, even though something was following her now—mages.

Arrows began flying after her, mage magic cutting into her skin like lightning. She made the mistake of turning, and an arrow pierced her side. Mage magic sliced off the skin of her scarred thigh like paper, leaving frostbite behind. She ran, and she did not stop—until, stumbling through the forest behind the castle, slipping on the slick grasses, she ran straight into Garen, waiting for her.

He caught her in one arm. Rinka saw the other five appointed faeries behind him—cloaked for travel, bruised, emaciated, huddling frightened in the storm.

“Garen,” she sobbed, weak with pain. “It’s Alban, they’ve—” She couldn’t say the words.

Garen’s eyes widened. A realization seemed to cross his face—the gravity of what had happened, and what would happen next.

Then he said, “Rinka, I’m sorry,” and she even thought he meant it.

She watched in dull astonishment as Garen used his other arm—the one bearing his
bretzhenner
band—to thrust his palm into the air and then draw it back while closing his fingers, all in one brutal movement.

A wave of scorching magic blasted back into Rinka’s face. There was a rippling of soft, uneven light, and Garen stepped through it, bringing her with him. The others followed, and they emerged on the other side of the lights in a quieter part of the forest.

Rinka looked feebly behind her to see the lights of Wahlkraft—now farther away. They must have stepped through a Door. She understood now. Of
course
, talented Garen could have managed to open a Door.

“It’s all right.” Garen stroked her soaked head, his voice harsh with anger. “They won’t find you. We’ll keep going, and they’ll never find you. We’ll find a healer.”

But Rinka was fading; she was drenched with rainwater and blood, and couldn’t keep her eyes open. Then she felt a sharp pain in her belly, and another not long after. She cried out and sagged against Garen, and he lowered her, frantic, to the forest floor. He pressed a hand to her head, urged her to rise, but Rinka couldn’t. She knew nothing but these increasing waves of pain.

“Oh, blessed Ebba, help us,” she heard one of the other faeries say. “The child is coming.”

Rinka could have laughed. Obviously, her child would want to come at such a moment. Her
unique
child, her warrior daughter. Rinka longed for the steadying presence of Leska. She hoped they had not hurt her.

“Save her,” she heard herself whispering. She found Garen’s hand and held it to her face. “Garen. Save her.” She put her other hand to her belly. Would her daughter be pale as a faery, or dark as Alban? Would she believe in destiny? Would she grow up in a world at war?

“Save her,” Rinka gasped, and the last thing she knew was Garen’s voice at her ear, apologizing, telling her that he loved her. He loved her, still and always.

He would save her child, and he would love her just the same.

Epilogue

F
ELAZITA WAS ASLEEP
when they arrived, but she awoke soon enough from the commotion.

Garen, and five of the other appointed faeries, returned home after a wild, desperate flight from Erstadt—a flight through an impressive series of
Doors
. A difficult, ancient bit of magic, but then, Garen had always been talented in that way.

Garen—road-weary, heartsick, newly gaunt, blood-streaked. Reeking with the lingering touch of mage magic. A burn on his cheeks, cracked and frozen as if frostbitten.

Garen, with a screaming infant in his arms.

By the time Felazita pushed her way through the throngs of whispering faeries to her mother’s side at the Council seats, she had caught enough of the story to understand, and to feel ill with grief.

The king was dead. He had fallen in love with Rinka, Garen said, and now he was dead. The family with the dragon on their crest had murdered him and taken over the capital, and Rinka . . . Rinka was dead, too. The child was hers, and the king’s. Their
daughter
. A half-breed. A little two-blooded royal, whom the dragon family would no doubt do anything to kill, if they ever found out she was still alive.

Felazita felt a sudden, passionate fascination for the child, as she heard its screams, as she climbed atop the Council table and saw Garen holding it close to his chest.

Felazita glanced at her mother, who stood at the head of the table, glaring at the crying infant like it was a bug she wished to stomp out of existence. The other Council members seemed equally disgusted—except for poor Kaspar, who had shut himself into his rooms. The crowds were growing hysterical—shouting their opinions and clamoring to be heard.

Kill it! The traitorous blood of humans runs in her veins!

Save it—it’s only a child!

Save the child—she could be of use to us. Think of it: a two-blood, a half-breed.

Think of what she could be.

Felazita watched her mother’s face as she spoke with the other Council members, and finally Felazita could bear the tension no longer. She rushed to her mother’s side.

“Mother, please, let her live,” she said, tugging on her mother’s gown.

Her mother considered her, as did the others. It seemed Felazita had spoken more loudly than she had thought, and the crowds began to silence, seeing that she had the attention of the entire Council. Only Rinka’s baby continued to make a fuss.

Felazita felt suddenly shy, embarrassed. She was only a child, after all. What did she know? This two-blooded baby could be dangerous.

But then, hadn’t Rinka always told her to listen to the bend in her heart that sometimes directed her down surprising paths?

The humans call that destiny
, Rinka had told her, hugging her close.
They think our paths are written in the stars. All we have to do is find them.

A pretty idea, even if stars reminded Felazita of mages, who had most certainly given Garen that nasty burn on his cheek. Felazita held the memory of Rinka close to her, and said to her mother, “We should save her because she is Rinka’s, and Rinka was one of ours.”

In the silence following Felazita’s words, something seemed to change. The air took on the bittersweet pangs of memory, and Felazita’s throat twisted, tight and hot. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Rinka’s voice. She could almost pretend it was Rinka beside her, holding her own child, instead of Garen.

And that, it seemed, was all it took—the crowds subsided, though Felazita, even young as she was, could see the lingering distrust and hate on many faces. Even when the decision was announced, after hours of Council deliberation during which Felazita had fallen asleep under the table, that the child would live, and be raised as a normal faery child—even then, Felazita knew the battle for Rinka’s daughter had only just begun.

Later, in Garen’s rooms, Felazita held the baby, cooed at her nonsensically, kissed her soft, wrinkled forehead with as much love as she could muster. This child would need it, in the years to come.

Felazita glanced up at her brother, who stood at his desk, staring at nothing. She wished she could comfort him but didn’t know what else to say. She worried he might never smile again.

Then an idea came to her. “Garen?”

He turned, his face a wreck of sadness—and something darker, something that frightened Felazita and made her wish her brother was not a
bretzhenner
but something harmless like an artisan, or a clockmaker.

She worried the
bretzhenner
’s life would simply make him angrier. For that was it, stewing beneath his sadness—anger. Garen was furious at the people who had killed Rinka. And Garen was not one to forget.

But Felazita tried not to think about that and what it would mean—especially for the child in her arms—and instead said brightly, “I’ve thought of a name for her. Do you think I could name her? I don’t trust you not to name her something horrid and fusty.”

The barest smile, on Garen’s haggard face. “I don’t see why not. I think Rinka would like that.”

Felazita beamed at him, and then returned her attention to the child, who stared up at her with unsettlingly blue eyes. Even by faery standards, they were piercing, and Felazita felt a swell of love.

“Anise,” Felazita whispered, tucking the blanket more closely around the child. The word dropped from her tongue like the beginning of a dance. “I’d like to name her Anise.”