Mistress of Winter Read online

  Baelandra turned to look at her. The dim light and rain-soaked hair made her look older than Shara had ever seen her before. “How can you condone such a pointless waste of life?”

  “I don’t condone it, but I understand it.”

  “Then explain it to me. How can her death solve anything? You don’t actually think she can return with another Heartstone?”

  “She’s not looking for a Heartstone. She’s looking for forgiveness.”

  Baelandra opened her mouth to disagree, but the words never came.

  Shara reached over and took her friend’s hand. “Sometimes we have to seek out horrendous pain to save our souls.”

  “Is that what you are doing then?” she asked. “Killing yourself to make these stones?”

  Shara turned away and stared into the falling rain, but she didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry,” Baelandra finally said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  Shara squeezed her hand.

  “I went to the Zelani school when you were casting,” Baelandra continued. “I saw Caleb cleaning up. Do you know what went wrong?”

  Shara shook her head. Her throat was tight when she tried to speak. She swallowed hard, then said quietly, “No. It should have worked.”

  She closed her eyes and opened them again, fighting to breathe. Did Brophy lose hope when he looked into his future at that last moment atop the Hall of Windows?

  He had such love in his eyes that moment before he shut them forever. How could he love so much in the face of such despair?

  How could she do any less?

  “You take too many risks,” Baelandra said, standing on her tiptoes and kissing Shara on the cheek. “The emmeria is dangerous. How many times can you dive into those waters and not drown?”

  Shara pulled back and offered her a weak smile. “You never drown until you stop swimming.”

  Baelandra’s green eyes flashed, and her voice was thick with emotion.

  “Listen to me, Shara. I’ve never said this before, but it’s something you need to hear. You are like one of my own. My sister. My daughter. I long to see you and Brophy reunited, but you need to accept that it may never happen. You and Ossamyr have given up your entire lives waiting for him to return.”

  “Baelandra, please, not now.”

  “Shall I wait until you are ripped apart by a corrupted of your own making, wait until you are overwhelmed yourself?” Baelandra shook her head. “No, you will listen to me now. Now may be the only time I have. I wasted too much of my life waiting for Krellis to wake up, waiting for him to become the man I thought he should be. Life is too precious. Seize joy whenever you can. Life is for living.”

  Shara closed her eyes, waited for the weight of the wasted years to rise and fall within her chest. “I know, Bae, but I’m not you. And Brophy is not Krellis. I do not seek to change his nature. I seek to unlock his prison. I have the power to do it.”

  “Shara, child, no matter how powerful we are, some things are just beyond us.” She touched Shara’s cheek. “We all live in the shadow of Brophy’s sacrifice. Every one of us owes him our lives, but that was a gift he chose to give. Not a debt he expected to be repaid.”

  Shara shook her head, and Baelandra drew her into an embrace. “You are not alone. This entire city has pledged to share your burden.”

  Shara pushed her away. “I know. But it’s not just a matter of holding the wall against the corrupted. The bonds of my spell are weakening, and that foul voice within the emmeria is getting stronger, smarter, more determined.”

  “What do you mean? You said you weren’t worried about that voice, that Brophy was safe.”

  “I wasn’t worried then. I am worried now.”

  Baelandra’s eyes tightened. “How worried?”

  “Very worried.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Shara gave her a sad smile. “You seemed so happy.”

  Baelandra bit her bottom lip as it began to quiver. She pulled Shara into a fierce hug. “You do too much, child. You do too much. You are not alone.”

  A single sob escaped from Shara’s throat as she returned the tiny woman’s embrace. “I miss him, Bae. I miss him so much.”

  “I know you do. We all do.”

  They stood like that for a long time until Faedellin walked up and kissed them both on them top of the head. “Let’s get out of this rain,” he said in his deep voice.

  Shara broke the embrace and backed up. Faedellin shrugged off his fur-lined, leather cloak and set it over her shoulders. Shara pulled it tight around herself, grateful for the warmth.

  “I’m all right,” Shara assured them. “You can go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t go back to the school,” Baelandra begged her. “Come and spend a few days with us.”

  “I’ll make mussels in cream sauce,” Faedellin assured her. “And I just bottled a new batch of plum wine. It’s not too bad if you mix it with enough fruit juice.”

  “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to see you and the kids again, but I need a few days alone first.”

  Baelandra started to say something, but Faedellin put his hand on her back and began to lead her away. He looked back at Shara and offered a sad smile. Shara smiled in return.

  She watched the two of them hurry away, then turned back to stare at the rain. The golden feather Brophy had given her a lifetime ago sat tight in the sheath of a silver comb in her sodden hair. She touched it, closing her eyes for a moment, thinking of that day on the Kherish sailing ship so long ago.

  “At least you are safe in our beautiful dream, my love,” she said. “If nothing else, I know that you are happy.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Wake up, my love. It’s time to go home.”

  Brophy slowly opened his eyes and smiled to see Shara leaning over him. The setting sun painted her face with a golden glow. A small comb held her hair back behind her ear, and the golden feather attached to it fluttered in the slight breeze.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek.

  “You’ve been asleep for a very long time.”

  “Then it’s time to wake up.” He pulled her toward him, her breasts pressed against his chest as their lips met. His desire swelled as she overwhelmed him with the smell of her skin, the heat of her touch.

  “Shall we fly again?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. “Let’s fly again, one last time.”

  Shara rose and helped him to his feet. They stood atop the Hall of Windows, on a warm autumn night. The four torches flickered all around them. “You won’t need that anymore,” Shara said, touching his wrist. “You can leave it here.”

  Brophy looked down and saw the Sword of Autumn in his hand. He gripped it tighter as tendrils of doubt crept into his belly.

  “I can’t leave my sword,” he said, looking around for his belt, scabbard, and the rest of his clothes, but there were none to be found.

  She smiled, shaking her head. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand, and together they ran off the edge of the platform. Brophy spread his arms wide, sword in one hand, Shara’s wrist in the other. They dived past the dazzling glass of the Hall of Windows. They swept low over the gardens, laughing as they barely dodged the trees and bushes. In moments they flew beyond the edge of the Wheel and over the bay. Shara led him east over the Night Market, rising higher and higher.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “I have a little surprise for you, just on the other side of those clouds.”

  He looked up at the fluffy white clouds just above them. A chill crept up his back, prickling the hairs on his neck.

  “I can’t leave the city.”

  “You can now. This dream is over, Brophy. You’ve done what you needed to do. Let’s go home.”

  A rush of cold fear coursed through him, and he slowed down. She’d said that before…

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t.”<
br />
  Shara pulled on his hand. “Just a little farther. We’re so close.”

  Brophy glanced at the buildings far below. His lip trembled, and he felt sick to his stomach. “Shara, please,” he whispered. “I can’t go.”

  The air grew colder as they entered the wispy edges of the clouds. She smiled down at him, her eyes filled with love. “Come on, Brophy!”

  “No!” He yanked his hand out of her grip and tumbled away from her.

  “Brophy!”

  He clutched his sword, plummeting toward the ground. Shara swooped down and caught him under the arms. Their bodies pressed together as she held him tight.

  “What are you doing? I have to get you out of here.” She slowed their descent and began to rise back toward the clouds. He struggled against her, but he could not break her hold.

  “Let me go,” he demanded, filled with a sudden revulsion.

  “Don’t fight me, Brophy.” Wisps of mist swirled all around them. “It’s me. It’s Shara.”

  Lightning arced across the sky.

  “You’re not Shara.”

  He plunged the Sword of Autumn into her body, ramming it through her chest and out the other side. A gout of black blood gushed from the wound, burning his arm.

  She screamed and lashed out at him, slashing his face with her nails. Her eyes turned solid black, midnight orbs filled with rage.

  Brophy reeled backward. The sword slipped from her wound, and he began to fall. He spun head over heels, clinging to his sword. Black clouds rushed in, blotting out the sun. Angry voices whipped around him, buffeting him about, trying to yank the sword from his grip.

  He clutched the blade to his chest, hanging on with both hands. The ground rushed toward him faster and faster.

  He screamed just before he hit the ground.

  Brophy woke up screaming. He leapt to his feet, the Sword of Autumn in hand. A flood of rage swept through his body, and he was ready in an instant, ready to run, ready to kill.

  He crouched naked in the Night Market. Black clouds crowded the sky, locking the city in perpetual gloom. The wind carried angry voices, like distant screams not quite heard. Successive flashes of lightning revealed ghostly shadows hunched between the buildings. This was how it began. This was how it always began.

  Brophy gripped the Sword of Autumn more tightly, aching for something to use it on. His lip curled into a snarl as he remembered the dream. It was all lies. Dreams within dreams. A labyrinth of deception.

  The Fiend was out there somewhere, waiting for him, baiting another trap, crafting another torture he could not escape.

  Gritting his teeth, Brophy jogged forward. The streets were clogged with bodies, Physendrians in full armor, slaughtered Ohndarien civilians, Ohohhim soldiers with open eyes and painted faces. The dead meant nothing. They weren’t real.

  The Sword of Autumn glowed red in his fist, its scant light illuminating the streets with a bloody glow. The sword was connected to the Heartstone, the only thing that held back the night. If the sword still glowed, then the Heartstone lived on. Ohndarien lived on. That was all that mattered.

  A flash of lightning split the darkness, and Brophy saw a man walking toward him, picking his way through the contorted heaps of corpses strewn across the ground. The man was slight, narrow-shouldered, with a curved sword and a sour frown.

  Scythe paused and gave him a Kherish salute with his blade. Brophy swallowed his turbulent emotions. He gripped the pommel of his sword in both hands, dreading what was to come, knowing there was no way to avoid it.

  “Are you ready to be the Heart of Ohndarien?” the Kherish assassin hissed. “Are you ready to protect your own?”

  Brophy refused to respond as Scythe spun his blade in a lazy circle. With a sneer, he charged. Brophy met the curved blade with two quick parries. He danced back, barely avoiding the flashing sword.

  The thing looked like Scythe, sounded like Scythe, even fought like Scythe, but it was all part of the lie.

  Brophy backed up, tripped over a corpse, and went down. The curved blade lashed out and cut him across the chest.

  Brophy gasped and spun back to his feet.

  “Open your eyes, Brophy,” Scythe said, twirling his sword. “The world is an ugly, brutal place, and you are alone in it.”

  “Shut up, Fiend,” Brophy snarled. Tendrils of corruption seeped from his wound, flowing around his heartstone like a stone in a river. Brophy felt like he was swelling, growing larger and more powerful.

  The thing with Scythe’s face attacked again, and Brophy met it with a roar. New power rushed through his arms, and the Sword of Autumn slammed the creature’s blade aside, slicing deep into its shoulder. Brophy yanked his weapon out and swung it again and again.

  It was over in seconds. Scythe’s double lay dismembered in the street, soaking the cobblestones with inky blood.

  Brophy looked around, wanting more. There was always more. He sprinted past Scythe, leaping over corpses as he crossed the square.

  The dream hadn’t always been like this. The Fiend hadn’t always been there. It started with little nightmares, brief interruptions to the blissful time he spent with Shara. He’d wake up screaming, not remembering where he was. The nightmares grew longer and longer, one dream fading into the next, until Shara faded away entirely, never to return. He never knew if the Fiend locked her out or if she’d abandoned him. Either way, Brophy was alone.

  He’d tried running at first, tried to flee across the Long Market, into the bay, or up the Wheel. But there was nowhere to run. And he could not leave the city; he would never leave the city. So they always found him, surrounded him, overwhelmed him. They flayed the flesh from his arms, trying to rip the sword from his grip, but he’d never let go. Not yet.

  Brophy ran to face his tormentor, seeking out the cause of his pain. He could sense the Fiend nearby, watching, waiting. It was a deadly game they played, locked together in endless nightmare, neither able to escape until the other gave in. His nemesis was getting stronger, but so was Brophy. Each time he woke more angry, less frightened than the time before.

  He rounded one corner, then two, wending his way through the corpse-strewn streets. His adversary was that way. In the main square.

  He ran between two buildings and skidded to a stop as he reached the plaza. The Fiend stood on the lip of a fountain, amid a crowd of blackened and twisted creatures. His enemy’s white face was a ghostly light in the darkness. Robes like black oil flowed from delicate shoulders to the ground.

  A mob of corrupted lay between them, their contorted bodies bristling with spikes and claws. The Fiend waited for Brophy, taunting him from behind a wall of tainted flesh.

  Ready to try again? You can’t resist me forever.

  The voice slipped into his mind like a blade into a sheath. Brophy gagged on bile water and forced it back down his burning throat.

  The corruption had spread across his chest. His flesh twisted and bubbled. He could already feel it seeping into his bones. He didn’t have long.

  He had cut through almost all the lies, but he’d never reached the Fiend itself. All others died on his sword. Corrupted friends, family, but never the Fiend. He had never come within a blade length of his opponent, and with each failure, Brophy’s rage grew.

  “I’ll gut you this time,” he whispered.

  You want me, little brother. Here I am. Come claim your freedom.

  Brophy heard a sound behind him and looked back. Multiple shapes ran toward him through the shadows.

  He rushed into the square, and the dead bodies around him began to move. Corpses writhed in pain, their limbs twisting and elongating, sprouting spines, scales, and spurs. Dead flesh split, folded in on itself as the corpses struggled to rise.

  With a growl, he rushed into their midst, hewing left and right. He burst through them and spun like a madman, following the serpentine path cut by his sword. Phanqui, Tidric, Lewlem, Medew, Garm, and Femera all fell before his sword.

  Is that the best you ca
n do? You are a lone, pathetic candle in a growing storm.

  Claws caught his ankle, and Brophy fell. He rolled back to his feet, rammed his shoulder into a hulking beast with Athyl’s face, and kept on running.

  He charged left into a tavern, kicking the door open. Running across two tables, he leapt for the stairs, landing in stride. A dark shape vaulted over the balcony, and he caught Celinor’s neck in midair with his hand. Twisting his body, Brophy threw the creature over the rail. Its claws raked through his forearm as it fell.

  Brophy gasped, his legs pumping up the stairs. That was another wound. There would be more. He had to reach the Fiend before they overwhelmed him.

  He charged up two more flights, bounded off a wall, and headed down a side hallway. Ossamyr sat on the railing, with her legs wrapped around Phandir’s waist. Her back arched as the king kissed her neck. “I’m sorry, Brophy,” she said, laughing. “Forgive me. I had no choice.”

  Brophy shouted and cut them both down without breaking stride. Heavy feet pounded up the stairs behind him.

  He burst through another door. His aunt Baelandra fought four Ohndarien soldiers who pinned her to the bed. Her dress was in tatters, her face contorted in anguish. A fifth man strained on top of her, his pants around his thighs. He turned to Brophy with a smile. “Hey, Broph,” Trent said. “You want a turn?”

  He cut Trent down with a single blow, and the others grabbed him. Brophy twisted out of their grasp, lashing out with his knees and fists until he had room to use his sword. He’d barely cut them all down before Baelandra leapt naked upon his back and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

  He flung her away and dived out a window. Landing on his feet, he slid down a red tile roof, struggling for balance. At the last moment he jumped toward the roof garden on the next rooftop.

  He cleared the gap and landed in a thorny hedge. He ignored the scrapes and ran toward the Fiend. All he needed was one chance, one brutal stroke of his sword.

  Brophy’s wounded arm was already black and shriveled. Jagged bone sprouted from the tips of his fingers, leaving his skin in tatters. The dark power coursed through him, driving him toward his goal. He would catch him this time, claw his way to his enemy’s throat, and crush it with one hand.