“Release her.” His command echoed through all of them, even the Enchassa. She shuddered with the force behind the words and raised a hand.
The shadowy chains holding Jeren dissolved. She gave a sob, so frail and helpless a sound, and curled in on herself.
Everything that remained of Shan wanted to go to her, to gather her in his arms and take her far away. But the new part of him just wanted vengeance for what had been done to her. He wanted to see her attacker bleed.
More than bleed.
He advanced on Gilliad, the Fellna seething around him but before he could attack, the Enchassa gasped, sinking her claws into his arms, forcing him to stop.
“What have you done?”
Gilliad glared at them, a thin smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, understanding dawns.”
With a cry of horror, the Enchassa dropped to the ground, grovelling before him. And Khain—not Gilliad, but the dark god himself wearing the face of Shan’s loathed enemy—folded his arms across his chest.
“That will hardly help, will it?”
“Master, command me.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The Enchassa reeled back, the Fellna swarm falling away with her. She sobbed out a series of words Shan couldn’t catch, didn’t want to know the meaning off.
Dark power radiated from the man who was not a man standing before him. His mind recoiled. How could he have dreamed this would work? That he could stand before Khain when he was already half-Fell himself? A major part of his soul cried out to him to abase himself and beg for mercy.
But Khain was not a god of mercy.
And he’d attacked Jeren.
Shan’s grip tightened on the sword hilt and he clenched his jaw.
The pain came from everywhere at once. Lightning arched through his body, sending him to his knees. He fought to keep his screams inside. He wouldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give them the satisfaction. He ground his teeth together and blood filled his mouth.
Khain smiled, enjoying his suffering. But he wasn’t doing anything. There was no need.
The Enchassa circled Shan’s kneeling body, her cat-soft feet barely making a whisper on the stone. The pain ebbed, just a little, though it hummed on through him, a thin beam of agony that could, at any second blaze forth once again. He found his breath, gasped for air.
“You used me.” The Enchassa slapped his face, snapping his head to one side with the force of the blow. “You used us.” To get here, yes. But they’d decided it was Gilliad. By the goddess, he had thought it was Gilliad.
The Fellna behind him hissed and spat. They weren’t just angry now, but enraged. The blood lust was growing too much for them. He could feel it pounding through him, like a hammer at the base of his brain.
“I did what I had to.” He spat out the words, the only way he could produce them.
“For her?” The Enchassa flexed her long fingers, the steely nails glinting in the torchlight. “For a Holter? For his sister?”
“That’s not Gilliad.”
She hit him again, harder, using magic to reinforce her strength. “Of course it isn’t. It’s your god. Bow down and worship him. Beg for forgiveness.”
Like bands of iron pressing around his body, her power crushed him down. He fought it, even as his muscles burned, even as his bones compressed. His brain burned but he fought. He had to fight.
Khain wasn’t a god of forgiveness any more than he was one of mercy.
Nothing was going to make Shan bow down. Nothing.
His body burned, tears like acid in the corners of his eyes. Tendons stretched out like wires, and his arms jerked out in front of him.
“You’re going to kill him.”
Jeren, it was Jeren. Her voice, her beautiful voice, thin with terror.
Shan tried to focus on her, drawing strength from her presence alone. With Jeren near him he could fight anything, he would fight anything. For her. For her love.
“Eventually.” The Enchassa tightened her grip on him, the touch of her mind like knives in his brain. “I know what you’re thinking, Shan. I know—”
And it happened. A flurry of movement, the flash of a blade, the world twisted and the power snapped off as the Enchassa screamed.
Not anger, not rage this time. Pain. Genuine terror and pain.
She fell at Shan’s feet, Jeren’s sect knife in her back.
“No!” Khain’s roar knocked Shan flat on the ground and Jeren landed beside him, her face white and drawn with fear.
She reached out for him, her hand shaking. Shan struggled towards her, making himself move though his whole body protested.
“Shan, you came,” she said. “I prayed you would and you came.”
“Always. Whenever you need me.” Their fingers brushed and for a moment, just a moment, his heart leaped up in his chest with relief.
An invisible force seized Jeren and flung her away from him. She cried out but the sound was cut off as she slammed into the floor on the far side of the chamber.
The urgency, the fear, the panic all returned, almost crushing him, but Shan surged to his feet and the Fell flocked around him. With the Enchassa gone, they didn’t know what to do, so they followed him, feeding off his strength, calling to him.
“Are you seriously trying to defend her?” Khain walked towards him, a curious frown passing like a ghost over his brow. “Don’t you realise who I am?”
“I know who you are.” Shan reached out and the Fellna brought him his sword. It fitted back into his hand. It felt so right there. So very right.
“She’s mine,” said Khain, without reacting to the weapon, or the Fellna’s apparent conspiracy. “Come to that, so are you.”
The Fellna pressed closer, sliding against him, touching his mind and his will, steeling him. It wasn’t just the sword. He was the weapon.
Why were they helping him? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.
Only one thing mattered, and she lay too still. Far too still.
And Khain stood between them.
A god.
He was only a god.
A gentle touch brought Jeren from the shadows where she’d found respite. At first she thought it was Shan. It had to be Shan.
“Jeren,” said Indarin. “Jeren, can you hear me?”
She struggled weakly back to consciousness. Wearily.
The sound of swords drew her back from the quiet, from safety.
Her head throbbed and something warm and sticky covered the side of her face. It hurt. Dear gods it hurt.
“Shan.” Her voice grated out his name.
But Indarin answered. “We’ve got to leave. I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you hear me?”
He pulled her to her feet, but she shook him off.
And saw them. It was the Dance, just as Shan had called it so long ago. Combat so fierce, so fluid and so mesmerizing that she could hardly look away.
Shan and Khain danced across the floor, locked in that combat, their weapons a blur of silver while around him the shadows swirled and coiled in a maelstrom.
“Jeren.” Indarin again, his hand on her arm, insistent, pulling her away from them. “We’ve got to get out.”
“No.” How could she leave? Shan was there. Her Shan.
“Don’t make me carry you out.”
“The others. I have to help them.” Her sword lay on the ground beside her. Once she had thought of it only as Felan’s sword, but no more. She knew it now. It was part of her as much as her magic. She ran to it, snatched it up and headed for Leithen.
She’d promised Doria she would look after him. She had sworn an oath. Kneeling beside him, she pressed her hands to his bleeding body and unleashed her magic.