Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Eliana searched through the trees and found him at once: Remy, clutching his belly. Stumbling against a tree, only a few yards from her. Meeting her eyes through the rain and then, with a frightened, small cry, collapsing.

• • •

The world stilled.

The sounds of battle faded—gunfire from the adatrox advancing on them, Harkan’s shouts, and Patrik crawling toward her through the mud. Raptors shrieking, diving, devouring. Crawlers screeching half-made words. Killing and being killed.

Eliana’s legs took her to Remy. Her body was beyond instruction, operating purely on instinct and terror. The buzzing whine in her head was all she could hear. That, and Remy—his high, thin breaths, his keening whimpers. He pressed his hands to his belly. Blood painted them red, spattered his tunic.

Eliana sank to the ground at his side. She said his name, but she couldn’t hear her own voice. She touched his face, his torso, and her fingers came away hot with his blood.

Movement jarred her. She looked to her left, saw Harkan on his knees at her side.

“We have to get out of the crossfire!” he shouted, and then, when she didn’t move, he scooped Remy into his arms and ran limping for the wall.

Eliana followed, bullets chasing her heels. She scrambled over the slick wall, clumsy and shaking. Jessamyn, belt wrapped tightly around her thigh, helped her the rest of the way over. Patrik lay in the mud beside the wall, his face pale in the rain, arm cradled against his chest at an unnatural angle. He was saying something—they were all saying something—but Eliana understood none of it.

Then hands grabbed her arms, turning her.

Simon. Hair plastered to his forehead, stubbled sharp jaw. Blue eyes, blazing in a sea of scars.

In a rush of sound, the world exploded and returned to her. There was a new noise amid all the rest—ragged, gasping.

“Eliana,” Simon was saying, his voice clipped and firm. “Listen to me. You have to save him.”

She drew in a breath to reply—she couldn’t save him, she was no healer; she was nothing; she was a monster; she couldn’t heal, she could only destroy—but instead a cry burst from her lips, and she understood that the ragged sound was herself, that she was sobbing.

A high keening drew her eye to the ground. Remy lay there, his head in Harkan’s lap, his face gone white. He whimpered, trembling. Harkan had reached around to press Remy’s hands into his own wound. Their clasped fingers were a dark mess of blood.

Harkan looked up, despair writ plain on his face. His eyes locked with Eliana’s, and he shook his head.

“Don’t look at them,” Simon ordered. “Look at me.”

She complied, if only because she couldn’t bear for another second the sight of Remy’s wide, glazed eyes, losing all their light.

“Eliana.” Simon held her face steady. “Listen to me. Breathe, and listen.”

“He’s dying,” she sobbed. “Oh, God…”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have to. You can save him.”

She ripped herself away from him. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not. Your mother could do it. She could heal scars. She could create whole flesh out of battered wounds. She resurrected angels. And her blood runs in your veins—her blood, and your father’s.”

She shook her head, crawled for Remy. She gasped out his name.

But Simon yanked her back upright. “Listen, Eliana. You are not only your mother’s daughter. You are your father’s child too, and he was a good man, a brave man. He led armies and held his head high when everyone else had fallen to their knees. He was his kingdom’s hope. He was the world’s hope. He rode into a war he knew would be his end, and he fought with a sword as bright as the sun. I see him in you every time I look at your face. Eliana.”

Simon smoothed her wet hair back from her cheeks. “Do you hear me? He was the Lightbringer, and you are the light.”

She looked up at him, the rain carving soft lines down his worn face.

She held up her hands for him to see. Her bandages, wet and shredded, were nearly gone. The raw lines of her burns echoed the web of her castings.

“I don’t understand them,” she told him, tears choking her. “They frighten me.”

“I know.”

“I’m not her. I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” Simon agreed. “You’re not her, and you’re not him either. You’re both of them, and you will surpass them.”

Remy cried out, his face collapsing in pain.

“El,” said Harkan, his voice breaking, “if you can do something, please do it.”

Simon caught her hands, wrapping them in his own. Her castings dug into her palms. “You don’t have to understand them. You only have to trust them. Now.” He released her, shoving her at Remy. “Save him, or watch him die.”

Bullets arced over their heads.

Simon shouted over his shoulder, “Can either of you hit even one of your goddamned targets? Take them out!”

But his voice was distant to Eliana now. Slowly, she crawled away from him to kneel beside Remy. He shivered in the rain, all his color a dark puddle on his torso.

“Remy?” She touched his cold face, his thin shoulders. She was crying again and could not stop. “I’m here.”

“El,” he croaked, gasping. Tears leaked from his eyes. He tried to say something else—his mouth opened and closed—but no sound emerged. With one last heave of breath, his gaze found hers. He smiled a little, his face settling into something peaceful and terrible.

“Not a monster,” he said, and then his eyes fluttered shut.

The world wailed in her ears, clearing every last thought from her mind. Her castings leapt to life in a surge of grief. Her blood rose up to meet them, and she welcomed its ascent.

I am the light.

In Astavar, she had starved herself, deprived herself of sleep, driven her body mercilessly through exercise after exercise, until at last her mind had cleared enough for her to exist in whatever strange, fevered world had birthed her mother. A golden world that existed beyond the seen, and which she had truly accessed three times now—Rozen’s death. Forging her castings. Setting loose that fire in the Nest from which she and Harkan had barely escaped.

Maybe four times? The explosions at Caebris.

And now—now, a fifth.

The tiny metal box that held Zahra trapped lit up in her pocket, straining against its seams.

“Move your hands,” Eliana told Harkan, her voice coming out hollow and strange, but he had already begun to do so, for her own hands were ablaze—twin webs of light, blooming. They tugged her toward Remy’s body like birds that knew the right way home. a searched through the trees and found him at once: Remy, clutching his belly. Stumbling against a tree, only a few yards from her. Meeting her eyes through the rain and then, with a frightened, small cry, collapsing.

• • •

The world stilled.

The sounds of battle faded—gunfire from the adatrox advancing on them, Harkan’s shouts, and Patrik crawling toward her through the mud. Raptors shrieking, diving, devouring. Crawlers screeching half-made words. Killing and being killed.

Eliana’s legs took her to Remy. Her body was beyond instruction, operating purely on instinct and terror. The buzzing whine in her head was all she could hear. That, and Remy—his high, thin breaths, his keening whimpers. He pressed his hands to his belly. Blood painted them red, spattered his tunic.

Eliana sank to the ground at his side. She said his name, but she couldn’t hear her own voice. She touched his face, his torso, and her fingers came away hot with his blood.

Movement jarred her. She looked to her left, saw Harkan on his knees at her side.

“We have to get out of the crossfire!” he shouted, and then, when she didn’t move, he scooped Remy into his arms and ran limping for the wall.

Eliana followed, bullets chasing her heels. She scrambled over the slick wall, clumsy and shaking. Jessamyn, belt wrapped tightly around her thigh, helped her the rest of the way over. Patrik lay in the mud beside the wall, his face pale in the rain, arm cradled against his chest at an unnatural angle. He was saying something—they were all saying something—but Eliana understood none of it.

Then hands grabbed her arms, turning her.

Simon. Hair plastered to his forehead, stubbled sharp jaw. Blue eyes, blazing in a sea of scars.

In a rush of sound, the world exploded and returned to her. There was a new noise amid all the rest—ragged, gasping.

“Eliana,” Simon was saying, his voice clipped and firm. “Listen to me. You have to save him.”

She drew in a breath to reply—she couldn’t save him, she was no healer; she was nothing; she was a monster; she couldn’t heal, she could only destroy—but instead a cry burst from her lips, and she understood that the ragged sound was herself, that she was sobbing.

A high keening drew her eye to the ground. Remy lay there, his head in Harkan’s lap, his face gone white. He whimpered, trembling. Harkan had reached around to press Remy’s hands into his own wound. Their clasped fingers were a dark mess of blood.

Harkan looked up, despair writ plain on his face. His eyes locked with Eliana’s, and he shook his head.

“Don’t look at them,” Simon ordered. “Look at me.”

She complied, if only because she couldn’t bear for another second the sight of Remy’s wide, glazed eyes, losing all their light.

“Eliana.” Simon held her face steady. “Listen to me. Breathe, and listen.”

“He’s dying,” she sobbed. “Oh, God…”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have to. You can save him.”

She ripped herself away from him. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not. Your mother could do it. She could heal scars. She could create whole flesh out of battered wounds. She resurrected angels. And her blood runs in your veins—her blood, and your father’s.”

She shook her head, crawled for Remy. She gasped out his name.

But Simon yanked her back upright. “Listen, Eliana. You are not only your mother’s daughter. You are your father’s child too, and he was a good man, a brave man. He led armies and held his head high when everyone else had fallen to their knees. He was his kingdom’s hope. He was the world’s hope. He rode into a war he knew would be his end, and he fought with a sword as bright as the sun. I see him in you every time I look at your face. Eliana.”

Simon smoothed her wet hair back from her cheeks. “Do you hear me? He was the Lightbringer, and you are the light.”

She looked up at him, the rain carving soft lines down his worn face.

She held up her hands for him to see. Her bandages, wet and shredded, were nearly gone. The raw lines of her burns echoed the web of her castings.

“I don’t understand them,” she told him, tears choking her. “They frighten me.”

“I know.”

“I’m not her. I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” Simon agreed. “You’re not her, and you’re not him either. You’re both of them, and you will surpass them.”

Remy cried out, his face collapsing in pain.

“El,” said Harkan, his voice breaking, “if you can do something, please do it.”

Simon caught her hands, wrapping them in his own. Her castings dug into her palms. “You don’t have to understand them. You only have to trust them. Now.” He released her, shoving her at Remy. “Save him, or watch him die.”

Bullets arced over their heads.

Simon shouted over his shoulder, “Can either of you hit even one of your goddamned targets? Take them out!”

But his voice was distant to Eliana now. Slowly, she crawled away from him to kneel beside Remy. He shivered in the rain, all his color a dark puddle on his torso.

“Remy?” She touched his cold face, his thin shoulders. She was crying again and could not stop. “I’m here.”

“El,” he croaked, gasping. Tears leaked from his eyes. He tried to say something else—his mouth opened and closed—but no sound emerged. With one last heave of breath, his gaze found hers. He smiled a little, his face settling into something peaceful and terrible.

“Not a monster,” he said, and then his eyes fluttered shut.

The world wailed in her ears, clearing every last thought from her mind. Her castings leapt to life in a surge of grief. Her blood rose up to meet them, and she welcomed its ascent.

I am the light.

In Astavar, she had starved herself, deprived herself of sleep, driven her body mercilessly through exercise after exercise, until at last her mind had cleared enough for her to exist in whatever strange, fevered world had birthed her mother. A golden world that existed beyond the seen, and which she had truly accessed three times now—Rozen’s death. Forging her castings. Setting loose that fire in the Nest from which she and Harkan had barely escaped.

Maybe four times? The explosions at Caebris.

And now—now, a fifth.

The tiny metal box that held Zahra trapped lit up in her pocket, straining against its seams.

“Move your hands,” Eliana told Harkan, her voice coming out hollow and strange, but he had already begun to do so, for her own hands were ablaze—twin webs of light, blooming. They tugged her toward Remy’s body like birds that knew the right way home.