Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

As she had done the last three nights, she traced her fingers up and down Ludivine’s arm, from the tips of her scarred fingers to the sharp turn of her shoulder, and then up, across her neck and jaw, and down across her ribs and chest, where the newest scar tendrils showed black and blue against her pale skin. After a lifetime of friendship with Ludivine, Rielle knew very well the lines of her body, but this scar was new and still unfamiliar. She wanted to memorize it.

Ludivine watched her quietly, a gray blanket pooled around her hips, leaving her upper body bare for Rielle to work.

“You won’t hurt me,” came her soft voice.

Rielle avoided her tired, pale gaze. “I’m not worried about that.”

“I’m not so unwell that I can’t sense your feelings,” Ludivine said wryly. “Not when you’re this close to me.”

Rielle glanced up, noticing how carefully Ludivine held herself, how the bones of her face seemed more pronounced. It was as if she had determined exactly how best to sit to avoid as much pain as possible and was afraid to even breathe too deeply.

“I could hurt you though,” Rielle argued, looking away. “That man in Polestal. I could do that to you.”

“You won’t.”

“But I could.”

“Yes. You could.” Then Ludivine lifted Rielle’s gaze to hers, one gentle finger under her chin. “But that is where you are mightier even than your power. In it lies the capacity for both destruction and creation, and only you can decide how to guide it.”

Rielle was not entirely sure that was true. There had been times—many times, in fact—when her power seemed to easily get the better of her. The shadow trial, when she had launched the shadow-dragon at the Archon. The hills outside Styrdalleen, when only Audric’s presence had prevented her from abandoning the Borsvall capital to destruction. The villager in Polestal.

The Obex in Mazabat.

In those moments, she thought to Ludivine, unable to voice the terrible question aloud, was it indeed my power getting the better of me? Because I’m not strong enough yet to control it in moments of duress? Or was my power merely obeying my wishes? She swallowed. Was it aligning itself with my true nature?

Ludivine let her hand fall. “You have so much light in you, Rielle.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No.” Ludivine sighed. “It wasn’t.”

Rielle pushed on, suddenly not wanting to know the answer. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing left but to try. Match your breathing to mine. It will help.”

So had said the notes of Saint Katell, whose efforts at healing a grisly stomach wound had been more successful than the others’—though she had, of course, ultimately failed. That had been the attempt that made the saints resolve to never again try such a thing.

Healing, Saint Katell had written, is clearly not a power elementals are allowed. The empirium does not permit it. It is an unnatural act, and to attempt it is to succumb to one’s arrogance and pride.

Well, Rielle herself was an unnatural act. And pride and arrogance didn’t seem like such terrible things if they allowed her to ease the pain of someone she loved.

So she cradled Ludivine’s arm in her hands and slowed her breathing, deepening it, until her limbs flushed warm and calm, and the sound of Ludivine’s own breaths matched hers. A moment later, her unfocused vision had slipped into the realm of the empirium. Ludivine’s bedroom was a soft, golden landscape of slowly shifting light—but Ludivine herself was something else entirely.

Her form was misshapen in this realm. It was recognizably Ludivine, and then became something else, a figure taller and slimmer than Ludivine, with angelic wings spanning jagged from her back, and then it became Ludivine once more. The shift was so rapid that she seemed caught between the two—between girl and angel—and the effect left her looking malformed. The empirium moved rapidly through her body, a frantic wave of white-gold, as if it were a trapped animal trying desperately to escape its cage.

Watching it made Rielle dizzy, her stomach rising. She understood that she was looking at something that should not be—that Ludivine should not be.

But even more ill-fitting in the world than Ludivine herself was the scar of her left arm. Just as Rielle had seen the ragged shell of the Polestal villager’s burned skin, so could she now see the unmoving shell of light encasing Ludivine’s arm. A sickly light, as if seen through a dark veil, and tinged with an angry, alien blue.

A blue that did not belong in this world, Rielle instinctively recognized.

And it was that certainty, that revulsion, that sharpened her mind until it felt as keen and clear as a jewel.

She placed her hands on Ludivine’s arm, and it was as though there were two of her—one Rielle, in the land of the empirium, watching the light that did not belong, and another Rielle, distant and dull, touching Ludivine’s cracked skin.

You don’t belong here, Rielle thought—firmly but without anger, for she did not want to provoke the light or hurt Ludivine. Delicately, she knit her fingers along the dimly lit furrows of Ludivine’s ravaged arm, and she imagined that with each gentle press of her fingers, she was pushing the scar back into the world from which it came. She was warming a hand stiff with winter. She was banishing death and replacing it with life.

As she worked, Ludivine murmured words Rielle didn’t understand—angelic words, judging by their cadence—but she knew they were words of love. Ludivine opened a feeling to her that at first was little more than a distant bloom of warmth, and then, as the night wore on, it became steadier and brighter, until a feeling of such love enveloped Rielle that she felt light-headed and had to beg Ludivine to stop.

Then at last, abruptly, Rielle felt something shift inside her, like the wrench of a strained muscle, and knew it was finished.

She blinked, returning to the human world in which her body sat, damp with sweat. Ludivine was there at once, supporting her with two arms pale and smooth as cream.

You did it, came Ludivine’s voice—strong now, and clearer than it had been in weeks. Oh, darling, you are a marvel.

“Speak to me aloud,” Rielle murmured, pressing her face against Ludivine’s neck. “I’m too tired for mind-talk.”

“Of course,” Ludivine said, and then her arms came around Rielle, and she helped her settle among the pillows. Ludivine stroked her sweaty hair back from her brow until her skin had cooled and her wild heartbeat had slowed, and then she said something so unexpected that the true strangeness of it didn’t immediately settle in Rielle’s mind.

“I always knew you could do it,” she whispered against Rielle’s hair, her voice trembling with emotion. “I knew from the first time I sensed your power, when I was still trapped in the Deep. I knew you would be the one to deliver me.” e had done the last three nights, she traced her fingers up and down Ludivine’s arm, from the tips of her scarred fingers to the sharp turn of her shoulder, and then up, across her neck and jaw, and down across her ribs and chest, where the newest scar tendrils showed black and blue against her pale skin. After a lifetime of friendship with Ludivine, Rielle knew very well the lines of her body, but this scar was new and still unfamiliar. She wanted to memorize it.

Ludivine watched her quietly, a gray blanket pooled around her hips, leaving her upper body bare for Rielle to work.

“You won’t hurt me,” came her soft voice.

Rielle avoided her tired, pale gaze. “I’m not worried about that.”

“I’m not so unwell that I can’t sense your feelings,” Ludivine said wryly. “Not when you’re this close to me.”

Rielle glanced up, noticing how carefully Ludivine held herself, how the bones of her face seemed more pronounced. It was as if she had determined exactly how best to sit to avoid as much pain as possible and was afraid to even breathe too deeply.

“I could hurt you though,” Rielle argued, looking away. “That man in Polestal. I could do that to you.”

“You won’t.”

“But I could.”

“Yes. You could.” Then Ludivine lifted Rielle’s gaze to hers, one gentle finger under her chin. “But that is where you are mightier even than your power. In it lies the capacity for both destruction and creation, and only you can decide how to guide it.”

Rielle was not entirely sure that was true. There had been times—many times, in fact—when her power seemed to easily get the better of her. The shadow trial, when she had launched the shadow-dragon at the Archon. The hills outside Styrdalleen, when only Audric’s presence had prevented her from abandoning the Borsvall capital to destruction. The villager in Polestal.

The Obex in Mazabat.

In those moments, she thought to Ludivine, unable to voice the terrible question aloud, was it indeed my power getting the better of me? Because I’m not strong enough yet to control it in moments of duress? Or was my power merely obeying my wishes? She swallowed. Was it aligning itself with my true nature?

Ludivine let her hand fall. “You have so much light in you, Rielle.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No.” Ludivine sighed. “It wasn’t.”

Rielle pushed on, suddenly not wanting to know the answer. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing left but to try. Match your breathing to mine. It will help.”

So had said the notes of Saint Katell, whose efforts at healing a grisly stomach wound had been more successful than the others’—though she had, of course, ultimately failed. That had been the attempt that made the saints resolve to never again try such a thing.

Healing, Saint Katell had written, is clearly not a power elementals are allowed. The empirium does not permit it. It is an unnatural act, and to attempt it is to succumb to one’s arrogance and pride.

Well, Rielle herself was an unnatural act. And pride and arrogance didn’t seem like such terrible things if they allowed her to ease the pain of someone she loved.

So she cradled Ludivine’s arm in her hands and slowed her breathing, deepening it, until her limbs flushed warm and calm, and the sound of Ludivine’s own breaths matched hers. A moment later, her unfocused vision had slipped into the realm of the empirium. Ludivine’s bedroom was a soft, golden landscape of slowly shifting light—but Ludivine herself was something else entirely.

Her form was misshapen in this realm. It was recognizably Ludivine, and then became something else, a figure taller and slimmer than Ludivine, with angelic wings spanning jagged from her back, and then it became Ludivine once more. The shift was so rapid that she seemed caught between the two—between girl and angel—and the effect left her looking malformed. The empirium moved rapidly through her body, a frantic wave of white-gold, as if it were a trapped animal trying desperately to escape its cage.

Watching it made Rielle dizzy, her stomach rising. She understood that she was looking at something that should not be—that Ludivine should not be.

But even more ill-fitting in the world than Ludivine herself was the scar of her left arm. Just as Rielle had seen the ragged shell of the Polestal villager’s burned skin, so could she now see the unmoving shell of light encasing Ludivine’s arm. A sickly light, as if seen through a dark veil, and tinged with an angry, alien blue.

A blue that did not belong in this world, Rielle instinctively recognized.

And it was that certainty, that revulsion, that sharpened her mind until it felt as keen and clear as a jewel.

She placed her hands on Ludivine’s arm, and it was as though there were two of her—one Rielle, in the land of the empirium, watching the light that did not belong, and another Rielle, distant and dull, touching Ludivine’s cracked skin.

You don’t belong here, Rielle thought—firmly but without anger, for she did not want to provoke the light or hurt Ludivine. Delicately, she knit her fingers along the dimly lit furrows of Ludivine’s ravaged arm, and she imagined that with each gentle press of her fingers, she was pushing the scar back into the world from which it came. She was warming a hand stiff with winter. She was banishing death and replacing it with life.

As she worked, Ludivine murmured words Rielle didn’t understand—angelic words, judging by their cadence—but she knew they were words of love. Ludivine opened a feeling to her that at first was little more than a distant bloom of warmth, and then, as the night wore on, it became steadier and brighter, until a feeling of such love enveloped Rielle that she felt light-headed and had to beg Ludivine to stop.

Then at last, abruptly, Rielle felt something shift inside her, like the wrench of a strained muscle, and knew it was finished.

She blinked, returning to the human world in which her body sat, damp with sweat. Ludivine was there at once, supporting her with two arms pale and smooth as cream.

You did it, came Ludivine’s voice—strong now, and clearer than it had been in weeks. Oh, darling, you are a marvel.

“Speak to me aloud,” Rielle murmured, pressing her face against Ludivine’s neck. “I’m too tired for mind-talk.”

“Of course,” Ludivine said, and then her arms came around Rielle, and she helped her settle among the pillows. Ludivine stroked her sweaty hair back from her brow until her skin had cooled and her wild heartbeat had slowed, and then she said something so unexpected that the true strangeness of it didn’t immediately settle in Rielle’s mind.

“I always knew you could do it,” she whispered against Rielle’s hair, her voice trembling with emotion. “I knew from the first time I sensed your power, when I was still trapped in the Deep. I knew you would be the one to deliver me.”