He died with a sigh of relief.
Jeren dropped his corpse, pushing it away as quickly as possible, as if that would help. As if she could still escape.
She turned around, looking for something, anything that might help her. A way to stop it.
Indarin stood there. The other Feyna clustered around him, staring at her. Leithen—who she had told to escape, who had ignored her—fell to his knees, his face lifted to her in adoration.
“No,” she whispered. The sound bounced back from the stone walls, denying her, mocking her. “No, please.”
And then they came. All the voices, all the power, all the former Scions of Jern, right into her head and body, buffeting her, overwhelming her, taking her for their own.
Her body shook as they filled her and all their magic came with them. Was this what Gilliad had felt? This? Every day of his miserable life? No wonder he was insane. No wonder he felt such pain.
She struggled for equilibrium, for some small measure of control. She screamed out curses and clawed at their invisible touch. The fall should have hurt, but hitting the ground so hard was half as painful as the rush of noise inside her head.
“The sword.” The voice was older, masculine and filled with pity. “Where is my sword, Scion of Jern?”
Felan. It was Felan. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. He was here too, within her, his power and his presence.
“Sword,” she croaked, stretching out her clawed hand.
Leithen pressed the hilt into her hand, the hilt that gripped her as surely as she gripped it.
And suddenly all was still.
Jeren’s laboured breath calmed. The pain subsided and she forced her heaving chest to relax. She was drenched in sweat, but she was herself.
Yes, she was sure of that, at least.
Shan struggled against the others, their healing touch crawling over his skin like encroaching ice. They meant well, he knew that. He knew so much about them now, as much as they knew about him. Just the six of them left, changed, no longer one or the other, Fellna or Feyna, but other. In every way.
“What are we now?”
They didn’t know. He sensed it, understood it, but didn’t hear an actual reply. They were as scared as he was, taking comfort in each other, in their closeness, their memory of a hive. But even that had broken. The underlying panic told him that as well. They were no longer connected in the same way and they were scared.
His body healed beneath their ministrations. The Fellna lived and breathed magic in a way the Feyna would never permit themselves to. But this was different as well. It flowed from them, not malicious or malevolent. Peaceful, healing, filled with love.
Fellna turned on the weak, the wounded, devoured them as they would prey.
But these creatures he had unwittingly created—
“For you are part of us, though you stand alone, and we are greater than Fellna or Feyna. We are...”
Even they didn’t have a name for what they were.
Stronger, better. Other.
The darkness gleamed, no longer frightening, no longer evil. It was beautiful. Shan reached out, ran his hand over their skin, his own so pale in comparison, and where he touched the colour changed to a deep blue. He painted whorls and spirals on their bodies and they laughed with the joy of it, touching him in return, marking him with similarly beautiful patterns. Changing him as they changed them.
Otherlings.
Released from the shadows, from slavery to a cruel mistress and an evil god, they exalted in their freedom, in their feelings, in the beauty of all around them. Transformation made their joy apparent even on their surface. The dark eyes remained, black and endless, filled now with compassion and timeless wisdom.
But still a loss remained inside Shan. A point of pain.
Like a wave of gold, glittering with shards of agony, Jeren’s magic burst into the Otherlings’ retreat. They shied back, seeking to escape it but Shan held them still, calmed them with his will and they agreed to wait. To see. To experience this as well.
“I need to see her. My Jeren.”
They whispered among themselves, some chiding him, some trying to comfort him, but no one overruling the others. And even in that they amazed themselves.
“One should lead.”
“No, we should agree.”
“And if we cannot?”
“Then let the heart decide.”
The heart, Shan realised as they turned to him. They meant him. He was their heart. Perhaps. For as Fellna they had never felt such emotion before.
“I would dearly love to see her.”
“Though she rejects you? And us? Though she is as changed as you?”
He glanced down at his body, no longer pale Feyna skin but swirled with blue, vibrant and alive with magic.
“Even so,” he told them. “Just for one last time.”
They laughed and even that laughter was beautiful. “We know you better. One last time will never be enough. It will never be the last time, Shanith Al-Fallion.”
Jeren’s body brought her out of her confused and bewildering dreams. The sound of the Falls, the oppressive weight of the underground chamber, and all the horrors were gone and for a moment, just a moment, she prayed she was back in the Spring camp with Shan. She reached out, expecting to find him stretched out alongside her, his body relaxed in sleep. But he wasn’t. Her hand came down on cold, clean linen.
She waited for his hand to close around hers, but it didn’t.
And she remembered. He was gone. Forever this time.
The Fellna had taken him away from her. She didn’t even know if he was still alive.
A shell closed around her heart. The only way she might survive this was to close off her feelings and keep her heart safe.
Opening her eyes, she saw the tower room that had been her prison twice now. Fitting, really, since it would be that very thing for the rest of her life.
“Lady Jeren.”
She leaped from the bed, startled and ready to fight, only to find Ilydona standing over there, her hands folded primly in front of her. Behind her, Leithen’s back was visible through the open door. Jeren briefly registered that she was clothed, much to her relief. She wore a nightgown and someone had dutifully washed all the blood away. Her braids remained intact. For that she was grateful.
“Leithen, report.”
He turned, startled to be called inside. Ilydona hid a scowl, a little too slowly to be convincing.
Leithen glanced at her dubiously, but then carried on. He was used to dealing with intimidating women, after all. When Doria got here, Jeren couldn’t wait to see the showdown between her and this new, self-appointed lady-in-waiting.
It made her freeze for a moment. She had already accepted it, hadn’t she? That she would have to stay here.
“We’ve secured the city,” said Leithen. “With relatively little bloodshed. The Shistra-Phail have encamped beyond the Old River Bridge and the Ariah is on her way to greet you as the new ruler of the Holt. We’ve envoys from several Holts coming as well. The council, or what remains of it, will attend you at your leisure. And Vertigern wants to see you.”