Jeren ran ahead, despite Leithen’s protests. Even in the ridiculous gown, she could move faster than half the men there, except the Shistra-Phail.
“Indarin came back? Where is he?” And where was Shan? What had happened to him? She didn’t dare ask.
“Leading the assault on the citadel, trying to secure the heart of the Holt itself. He thought you’d be there, not here.” Elayne matched her stride for stride. “Where’s Vertigern? What did they do to him?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice shook as she lied. She guessed where he was. Gilliad had already told her his plan. Vertigern was in the Soul Chamber, waiting to die.
If he wasn’t dead already.
How could she tell Elayne that?
“Jeren I don’t know why he did what he—”
“Gilliad promised to return Alyssa. He lied. And Vertigern got taken in.”
They slowed as the light faded ahead and went on in near complete darkness. “But he... he believes in you.”
Jeren shook her head, gesturing for Elayne to lower her voice. “He loves his sister more. I don’t blame him.” And that was when she realised she didn’t. He was weak, a fool. That was all.
Sighing, she squeezed Elayne’s arm briefly and then raised one finger to her lips.
They moved on in silence. Jeren crept towards the mausoleum, the only place he could have used, the only space big enough in the warren of passages beneath River Holt.
And stepped out into a nightmare.
Torches burned all along the walls, and Gilliad’s guards gathered around each one. They were all armed, all blank-faced, their loyalty secured by magic. She could sense its taint in the air around them. But they were only a mote on the periphery of her world.
Gilliad had Vertigern on his knees in the centre of the room, directly beneath the dome. And the blade he held at the Holter’s throat, flashed gold in the torch light. But Jeren couldn’t fail to recognise it.
Her sect knife.
Elayne gave a cry of horror and dismay. It echoed off the ceiling,
“Let him go!” Jeren yelled the words, marching towards Gilliad, as if unafraid. She couldn’t let him see her fear. Couldn’t let him see her hesitate or give him a single moment of power over her. Where was the sword? If he had her knife he wouldn’t have left the sword, no matter how much he hated it.
And she saw it, abandoned at the foot of her father’s tomb.
But Gilliad’s face just stretched out into a manic grin. “So glad you’re here,” he said. “Just in time too.”
And he thrust the knife into Vertigern’s side.
Not a killing blow, or rather one that would not kill quickly, though untended that was the inevitable end. He would bleed first. Bleed and bleed.
Elayne stifled a scream as her lover convulsed and sagged onto the floor, his blood pooling beneath him.
Even as Gilliad stepped back, as Elayne ran forward and grabbed Vertigern, trying to staunch the flow of blood, to save his life, even as Jeren took in a breath to shout a warning, the darkness came.
It rose like a choking, cloying tide, robbing them all of sight, of breath, of everything. And in its place was laughter.
Dark and terrible laughter.
Jeren’s legs gave out and the floor hit her hard, stealing her breath. The tattoo seared into her flesh all over again, like lines of fire writhing beneath the surface.
He was coming.
She could feel it with every beat of her heart, with every laboured breath.
He was coming.
“Jeren!” It was Leithen. She could hear him, but not see him. The darkness was complete.
“I’m here.” Her voice came out thin and stretched.
“And here you’ll stay.” Gilliad laughed. “Here you’re mine. And His.”
His footsteps echoed across the stone, slow and calculated. Coming towards her. He could see in this. How could he see?
Jeren pushed the pain to another place in her mind. She could deal with it later. She’d have to. She forced herself up from the ground and shook her head, trying to clear it.
Illusions. That was what the Fellna were all about. Illusions and lies.
Another sound came to her now, laboured breath, the slow scrape of cloth and skin on stone... someone crawling.
“Jeren, where are you?”
It was Leithen. Closer now, dragging himself through Khain’s own darkness to reach her.
Steel scraped against stone. Not common steel, but lighter, sharper—Feyna steel.
Leithen had the sword. Felan’s sword. Her sword.
His hand found her legs. She nearly jumped away before she realised it was him. “Here.” The darkness was crushing the life from him, his voice breathy, his great frame pressed to the ground, but still he pushed himself on. “Take it, Jeren. You need to see.”
Jeren took it from his hands and the ripple of its touch was like fresh water flowing through her system, like moonlight on the pools of Aran’Mor.
The darkness drew back, just a little, and she blinked, trying to find Gilliad, to focus on him. Before something else came.
It was his spell. A blood spell he had cast. If she could find him, if she could...
Kill him?
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Kill him and become him. His child wasn’t born yet and until then...
“You’re hesitating.” His voice chimed out through the chamber. “While you do that, which one of them will I kill next? Your faithful traitor, Roh? Or the sword-maiden? Mind you I doubt that she’s much of a maiden now—”
A thud and a curse followed. “Doesn’t matter much, does it?” Elayne’s voice was a snarl.
“Lucky shot,” said Gilliad. “But I don’t need luck.”
Elayne gasped and the sound of something hitting the ground met Jeren’s ears. Something solid, clad in armour. Elayne.
Gilliad could see. Gods blast him, he could see in this cloying blackness.
The sword warmed in her hand and her magic flared to her aid. Not healing her, not exactly, but...changing her.
Dim shadows grew more distinct. Gilliad stood before her, but just as quickly darted away.
Where was he? Jeren struggled forwards, trying to move quickly while still allowing her eyes to adjust, to improve. Gilliad laughed, the sound drawing her on, pulling her after him. She cursed under her breath and kept going, pushing herself harder, faster. She had to find him. She had to stop him before—
The sound of steel on steel, the grunt of someone, a blend of surprise and pain, another body falling.
“No!” Her voice broke off the stones of the chamber. And her vision came back. It opened out around her, a dome overhead. Once the mausoleum, but the crypts had been shattered, the bodies gone. It was a Soul Chamber, the place of Khain’s power. And in the centre stood Gilliad. Leithen slumped at his feet, life bleeding out all over the floor.
Three of them now.
The pulse in the air quickened.
Blood feeds the body... blood feeds the god... blood feeds the swarm...
Elayne’s eyes stared at the ceiling like glass jewels, all the light draining from within them. Not dead, but bleeding out.
“God and goddess, no,” Jeren gasped. “Please no.”
But her gods couldn’t hear her. Not in this place.
The darkness swirled deeper once more, like ink in water. Not just Khain’s power this time, not just his imminent approach. A swarm was coming, a group of Fell so powerful they would take her, and hold her for her brother and their god. She needed to get out.
But Gilliad still stood there, laughing at her, blood dripping from the blade. He had to be stopped. Had to be put down.
She started forwards, Felan’s blade like an iron weight in her hand. It hadn’t been made for killing her own family, for killing those she loved. But it had to. She had to. And not for herself alone. For all the others. For all those she had allowed to die, allowed to fall beneath the shadow. For Shan. So he wouldn’t have to.