CHAPTER
42

Aunn heard footsteps racing up a staircase through an archway ahead of him, and ran after them.

“Stop!” someone cried.

Aunn reached the stairs and saw Vec, now back in his unremarkable killer’s face, raced up toward a soldier of the palace guard who pointed a spear down the stairs at the approaching assassin. Vec dodged around the soldier’s thrust and knocked the spear out of his hand, but Aunn noted with satisfaction that the soldier already had a sword in his free hand, and he swung a strong, accurate blow at Vec. The palace guard was a cut above the rank-and-file soldiery of Fairhaven.

Vec parried the guard’s blow, slowing enough for Aunn to gain a few steps on him. If the guard could just hold him another moment—

Vec’s blade sliced across the soldier’s neck, and his other hand pulled the man forward so he tumbled down the stairs toward Aunn. Aunn couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, and the soldier’s foot caught him in the face, pulling him back down to the foot of the stairs, with a few hard collisions on the way.

Aunn pulled himself back to his feet and looked up the stairs. Vec was out of sight. Ordinarily, three or four guards would have blocked the stairway, with the two in the back thrusting spears around their comrades in front. Someone—perhaps a traitor in the palace guard, perhaps just someone who viewed the attacking mercenaries in the courtyard as a greater threat than someone sneaking through less obvious passages—had diverted the bulk of the palace guard to deal with the minotaurs.

Aunn raced up the stairs and found himself in a guard post, now deserted. The room stretched ahead a few paces and then bent around the wall of the adjacent tower. He crept to a point where he could see around the corner, expecting Vec to leap out at him as he drew near. He saw another soldier bleeding out her life at the top of another staircase, but no sign of the assassin. A door of heavy darkwood engraved with arcane sigils stood closed beside each stairway. It didn’t seem that either seal had been broken.

Where did he go? Aunn wondered.

Following the trail of blood, Aunn went to stand beside the fallen soldier. He bent to check the woman’s pulse while he listened for footsteps. The woman was quite dead, and all he heard was the sounds of fighting from the courtyard. Vec might have gone down the other stairs and back out into the fray, but Aunn couldn’t imagine that he would get this far into Crown Hall and then retreat.

Frowning, he stood at the door near the dead guard. He closed his eyes and let his fingertips graze across the surface of the door, not quite touching the wood but feeling the lines of the magic that coursed within it. The ward was strong, but Aunn felt a weakness in it as well, the echo of Vec’s passage through the door.

“Damn,” Aunn muttered, opening his eyes and letting them wander over the sigils on the door. The ward was designed to prevent the door from opening. Vec hadn’t opened it—he’d gone right through it.

Aunn weighed his options. With enough time, he could either bypass the door’s wards or he could weave an infusion into his armor that would let him pass through the door as Vec had done. But time was exactly what he didn’t have. If Vec was on the other side of the door, he could be a blade’s length away from the queen already.

He took a closer look at the sigils on the door, a slightly crazy idea taking form in his mind. His hunch proved correct—the ward wasn’t so much designed to prevent the door from opening, but to kill anyone who opened it without disabling the ward, while raising an alarm throughout the palace. One of those results was actually desirable under the circumstances, and the other …

“I think I can handle it,” he said aloud. “Please, let me survive this.”

He traced a quick ward of his own across the front of his belt, giving himself some protection from fire. It wasn’t enough to shield him completely, but it might keep him alive. With that ward in place, he threw himself against the door.

An inferno erupted around him as the door gave way, and every nerve in his body screamed its agony as he fell to the floor. His ears rang with the noise of it, which at least gave him comfort that an alarm would be raised.

He heaved himself up from the floor and looked around. He was on a narrow balcony, with the magnificent ceiling of Crown’s Hall arching high above him. Every inch of the ceiling was covered with gold leaf that seemed to glow with an inner fire of its own, bathing the hall in warm light. The balcony extended all around one wing of the great hall, offering a vantage point where the palace guard could keep their watchful eyes on the queen’s visitors below.

Sliding a healing wand from his pouch, he got his feet beneath him and pulled himself up on the balcony railing, searching the hall below for Vec. Chaos reigned in the hall, with every face upturned to the source of the explosive sound, and many fingers raised to point at him. Shouts of alarm were raised as soldiers ran for stairways and clustered beneath him in case he jumped off the balcony. Aunn swore to himself—with his noisy entrance, he had probably created the distraction that would allow Vec to get close to the queen.

Queen Aurala stood in front of the gilded throne where she granted audiences. Aunn cursed her as he felt the healing power of his wand course through him—she should have retreated to safety when the first alarms were raised. Her pride had almost certainly prevented it.

He spotted Vec, a dark figure lurking at the edge of the hall, perhaps ten yards from the queen. Aunn shouted and pointed down at Vec. “He’s the assassin! Guard the queen!” A few soldiers paused and stared around the hall, trying to follow Aunn’s pointing finger, while Vec darted toward the queen.

More soldiers started to pour onto the balcony from stairways to either side. Aunn had no choice but to jump down and hope he could reach Vec before Vec reached the queen.

“I think I can handle the fall,” he muttered, smiling to himself. “Please, let me survive this!”

He ran along the balcony to get as close as he could to the throne before going over the edge. Soldiers ran toward him—one tossed a javelin that flew right by his ear. No time to lose—he looked over the railing, and saw Vec withdraw a bloody dagger from the queen’s ribs as she sank to the ground.

*  *  *  *  *

“Storm and dragon are reunited,” Gaven breathed, turning the Draconic words over in his mind as he stared up into one of the dragon’s enormous yellow eyes. His chest was tight and his mind reeled at the sight of the magnificent beast. Shakravar had left his memories in a nightshard at least four hundred years ago, and Gaven had always had the sense that the dragon was already centuries old at that time. How incredibly ancient was the creature revealed before him?

“Listen to me, Storm Dragon,” Shakravar said. “We stand at the culmination of six centuries of planning. You have a part to play. So far, you’ve done everything I desired, unwitting though you were. You need only continue on the course you’ve already chosen for a few more hours, and this will all be over.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Why would you do that? Just to spite me? You can’t refuse. The Prophecy is unfolding exactly as I planned.”

Gaven shrugged. Senya’s tattooed face smiled in his memory. “Who you are now is who you have been and who you are yet to be.”

“Give me the dragonshard,” he said.

Shakravar chuckled—a low rumbling that Gaven felt in his gut and through his feet. The dragon reached out, and Gaven saw the bloodstone pinched between the scythe blades of Shakravar’s claws. He took it and felt its power coursing through him.

“So what happens next?” he asked.

“Look at the sun, Storm Dragon. ‘The moon of the Endless Night turns day into night.’ We face the Blasphemer’s forces together!”

“Where are they?” Gaven asked. “They approach from the northwest.”

“Then we’d better get moving. This darkness can’t last long.”

The dragon lowered his head almost to the ground. “Climb on my back, Storm Dragon. We will fly as one.”

“And break as one,” Gaven said, stepping up to the dragon’s shoulder. He reached a tentative hand up, found a hold, and pulled himself onto Shakravar’s back.

“As a storm breaks, Storm Dragon—a storm such as this world has never seen.”

Gaven found an awkward seat at the dragon’s shoulders, behind the spiny crest that ran down his neck and in front of the larger spines running down its back. As he was still settling, Shakravar spread his wings and leaped up, beating his wings fiercely to catch the air and lift them skyward.

Gaven scratched fiercely at his neck and chest, and started in surprise as he felt a raised pattern emerging on his skin.

Storm and dragon are reunited indeed, he thought.

Clouds formed above and around them as they flew, thunder echoing through every part of Gaven’s body and shaking the dragon’s wings. Shakravar flew over the Aundairian legions, sending waves of fear rippling through the soldiers’ orderly lines but not breaking them. They soared across acres of swamped and trampled farmland and swept down upon the massed hordes of the Blasphemer.

Three smaller dragons rose into the air as they approached, circling warily around the ancient Shakravar, who roared a challenge to them. As one, they swooped in to attack from all sides, but Shakravar snapped his wings and thunder boomed around them. Gaven spread his arms and drew lightning out of the surrounding clouds, spearing all three dragons as they reeled in the thunder of Shakravar’s wings. Lightning flowed through him and the dragon beneath him, binding them together in the heart of the storm.

I am the storm, Gaven thought. The lightning sang as it coursed through his veins, thrilling every nerve. He stood on the dragon’s back, rooted to Shakravar’s scales by the lightning still coursing through them. We are the storm!

Shakravar swooped lower as the three small dragons plummeted to the ground. A great wind howled past Gaven and swept over the barbarians massed below, and bolts of lightning crashed to earth from his fingers and Shakravar’s gaping maw. Chaos and devastation rained down on the Blasphemer’s forces, and the barbarians scattered.

Shakravar rose higher and wheeled around for another pass over the horde, and Gaven saw the Aundairians charging in their wake, rushing in to take advantage of the destruction they had wrought. Shakravar swept back over the barbarians, flying low to batter them with the thunder of his wings as Gaven streamed lightning down on them from the stormclouds.

At the front of the Aundairian charge, a tattered green banner rode amid a ragtag group of what looked like Eldeen militia—like a herd of cattle driven to slaughter ahead of the regular troops. A figure draped in red near the banner caught Gaven’s eye and made his heart leap in his chest. It was Rienne.

*  *  *  *  *

“For the Reaches!” Cressa screamed.

“For the Wood!” came the cry in answer, three hundred voices managing a ragged unison. That was Rienne’s army—making up in fervent enthusiasm what they lacked in training and discipline. Rienne’s heart swelled.

The blue dragon wheeled in the air and began another pass over the Blasphemer’s forces, flying low and battering the barbarians with thunder and lightning. She didn’t dare to hope—

But then she saw him, standing tall on the dragon’s back, streaming bolts of lightning linking him to the sky and to the ground. Gaven was here after all, wreathed in storm like a vengeful god of thunder, smiting the Blasphemer with his wrath. She watched him fly overhead, tears filling her eyes.

The momentum of the charge carried her forward, and Maelstrom sprang to life as she reached the first ranks of the barbarian horde. The Blasphemer’s forces were in disarray, still reeling from the assault of Gaven and his dragon. Maelstrom cut a swath through them, and the Readers behind her fought with surprising ferocity, inspired by her example.

Cressa still held the tattered banner in one hand, and she clutched a light sword in the other. She seemed to fight as much with her voice as with her weapon. She shouted encouragement to Rienne and the rest of the forces in earshot—her high, clear voice carried far over the din of battle—and occasionally she struck a telling blow with her little blade. But everyone around her, even Rienne, seemed to fight harder because of her.

Rienne let Maelstrom do its work, and the barbarians fell away before her. She scanned the battlefield for the Blasphemer, conserving her strength for that final confrontation. She saw Gaven’s dragon alight on the ground, the storm still swirling around it, and took comfort in knowing that she would not be alone.

*  *  *  *  *

Aunn hurdled the balcony railing and tried to brace himself for the impact of hitting the ground. He landed clear of the guards below and let his forward momentum carry him into a roll. After turning several times on the hard stone floor, he got up running to where Vec still stood over the queen’s body, fencing with two of the queen’s failed protectors.

Blood pooled on the floor beneath the queen, spreading quickly across the smooth marble as her heart pumped its last beats. Aunn breathed a desperate prayer as he ran, imploring the Silver Flame to close her wound and preserve her life.

Vec grinned at him as he drew closer—which meant that the assassin didn’t see the faint silver glow hovering over the queen, or the slight stirring of her head and hand that told Aunn she would survive the attack.

Still grinning, Vec dropped his unremarkable killer’s face and took on the blank gray and white of his natural form—which was practically indistinguishable from Aunn’s face, at least to the human eyes of the palace guards. He laughed, a high-pitched cackle, as his dagger slashed across the throat of one of the guards. Before the dead man could fall to the ground, Vec yanked his body into the path of the other soldier, who stumbled back. Vec’s dagger flashed, blood spattered on the floor, and both guards fell lifeless to the ground.

The nearest guards dead, Vec just waited for Aunn to draw closer—close enough that the pursuing guards would have trouble distinguishing them. Of course, Aunn doubted that the guards would even care which changeling they killed.

Rather than get close enough to use his mace to wipe Vec’s grin from his face, Aunn pulled the crossbow from his back, cocked a bolt, and traced a few quick sigils on the shaft with his finger. The steps of the guards pursuing him grew louder—they were almost upon him, despite the weight of their armor. He loosed the bolt with a whispered prayer that it would strike true.

Vec was ready for it, and nearly dodged out of the way. The bolt just grazed his shoulder, though, and it erupted with writhing tentacles of gleaming silver light that coiled around Vec and rooted him to the ground. Aunn sprang back into a run, and in a few seconds he was beside Vec, standing over the body of Queen Aurala.

“Aunn, my friend,” Vec said, his mocking grin replaced with an exaggerated simper, “free me, and we can still escape these buffoons.”

“Friend?” Aunn said. “I doubt you know the meaning of the word.” He bent down to check on the queen, opened a knot of magic to send healing power into her wounds—and then remembered that he didn’t have a wand in hand. He looked down at his hands, perplexed.

The pouch where he kept his wands was empty—they must have spilled out in his fall. He’d had one in his hand on the balcony, but that was gone as well. So how had he healed the queen?

“Brother!” Vec cried, his eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Don’t do this!”

“I am not your brother.” Yes, there was magic in his hands, magic unlike the knots of power in his wands. Perhaps it came from the torc around his neck, or maybe it came from the Silver Flame or Tira Miron, from Vor or Dania as their spirits added their brightness to the Flame. Kalok Shash burns brighter.

“But you are! Kelas told me we were born of the same mother. And he always demanded to know why I couldn’t be as good a spy as you, my brother.”

Aunn looked at Vec with loathing. Was he lying? Had Kelas lied to him? Or was it true, that the same blood flowed in Aunn’s veins as in Vec’s?

The queen’s eyes fluttered open just as the palace guard finally reached him. Two soldiers grabbed Vec’s arms while a third held a sword to his throat, and two more seized Aunn and dragged him away from the queen.

“Stop!” Aurala commanded, and the soldiers froze. “Help me to my feet.”

Aunn watched as two soldiers took the queen’s arms—far more gently than those still holding him—and lifted her up from the ground. She had a reputation for beauty, and Aunn could see why. Her skin was as smooth and white as alabaster, and her hair was like gold spun into gossamer thread. She wore a velvet gown of rich green, and jewelry of thin gold wire wrapped in exquisite patterns around emeralds. Once she was back on her feet, she was a commanding presence—her authority came from more than the crown on her high brow. Aunn could think of a dozen reasons to hate her, but he was glad he saved her, and he fell to his knees before her, surprising the soldiers who held his arms.

“Two changelings came uninvited this day into my audience hall,” Aurala said. “One to kill, and one to save. All beneath a darkened sun, even as the barbarian forces reach my western border. What am I to make of these portentous events?”

“Your highness, you are not yet safe,” Aunn said. “Mercenaries loyal to the conspirators are battling your palace guards in the courtyard outside. You should find a more secure refuge.”

“Who are you?” the queen asked him.

He dared to look up and meet her questioning gaze. “I am Aunn.”