‘The mist is your tool, your weapon, your existence. Harness it, be it, and it will serve you.’
Ashe gasped at that unbidden thought. Words spoken by her father. By Canlon Carr. A memory from the past telling her this was wrong. The corners of her mouth turned down and the expanding emerald crystal froze, the whole left side of her body from hand to foot was lucent.
No! This is wrong! Her mind screamed in anger.
She tried to free her hand from Solanine’s grip, but it was molded solid, mist dancing along their faceted touch. In the aetheurgist’s other hand was the curved knife, and it was coming down, aimed for Ashe’s head.
“DESPAIR NOT, CHILD OF THE GODS. THIS IS TRUE LIFE.”
Never! I am my own soul.
“THE AETHER CAN CLEANSE YOU.”
‘The mist is your tool.’ Her father’s words. Canlon’s words.
Desperately Ashe sought the mist and it flickered to life, weakened, yet there. Concentrating on the corrupt grey, she breathed the essence into her arm, that primal notion, the carnal fire. The fog jumped to her bidding and rode the vessels of her lifeforce.
As the mist’s existence touched the crystalline atoms encasing her, there were audible snaps as the lattice began to splinter and crack in explosions of black. It dissolved back into the Meadows, her flesh becoming alive again. The Meadows clapped like thunder directly overhead. Solanine was thrown backward, arm shattered, right hand completely gone, under the flesh was purple blood and exoscales like a draconem. The aetheurgist snarled in pain as the non-walls of the Meadows began to ripple like rain pelting a clay-tiled roof, strong and fierce.
Ashe wasted no time and leapt toward the altar, colliding with Solanine, arms wrapped around the suddenly-non-humir aetheurgist, their bodies jolting from the Meadows as Ashe connected. Both tumbled. Scrambling to her knees, her head ringing, Ashe raised her arm as Solanine jumped at her, the wicked blade coming at Ashe’s face. She winced as it cut into her, through flesh and bone alike. Solanine fell upon her, knocking out her air. Ashe began to swoon as her lungs burned. The pulmo burst, firestorm. Lights danced in her mind.
And then, somehow, Solanine was off her. Ashe sucked in a breath, and sweet air filled her lungs.
Ashe found Solanine held between Cyan and Harlequin. A muzzle slapped upon the heart-shaped face, the runic covering keeping the aetheurgist from using aetheurgy. Solanine struggled against their grips, but was no match for them without aetheurgy, or without an exoscaled arm that bled orchid.
Finding the curved blade on the ground next to her, Ashe got to her feet.
Solanine’s all-onyx eyes narrowed as Ashe neared. ‘This isn’t over,’ the threat said from behind the muzzle.
“For you it is,” Ashe rammed the dagger into Solanine’s heart. The aetheurgist jerked, and the light faded in those all-onyx eyes. “See your soul in the Pit, you cu—”
“A pity.”
LVII
Ashe
ASHE TURNED TO find a man standing in the shadows, a pooling robe worn. Bathed in green light from the altar, the Fallen was.
“The Seal of Terris awaits your hand, child of Nightingale.” The sound of his voice was pure elegance and brought gooseflesh to her arms.
The vicars dropped the corpse of Solanine, ready for the fight that was expected, a fight they’ve trained for their entire lives. A fight in Justice’s name. Then they were both tossed by a gust of Aere laced with black lightning across the ritual chamber, clattering to the ground, axes and canisters of mist clanking on stone.
Ashe pointed at the corpse. “You made me do this. You allowed her to die.”
“Loyal Solanine was. Until the end.”
“You bastard.” Ashe coughed, her pulmo bringing up blood.
“It is in your blood. Godsblood. That is what you are. Blood of my blood. Blood of Eminence and the Pentax. You are bound. Until you realize that, the nigrum pulmonem will rage through you.”
“Fuck you.”
He smiled. “Fire in you for certain.” Then he turned, a smudge of shadows flew past.
The Fallen brought up both hands, great crimson robe fluttering. Aetheurgy crepitated, the smudge flung across the chamber. Crashed against the ritual chamber’s wall, the blur fading as the shadows of mist evaporated, revealing a figure. A woman, arms splayed, an owl-shaped dagger in one hand.
“BRYNN!”
Ashe gaped at the woman.
A woman grown, face of southern olive, same as her own. The mouth, the lips, the cheeks. All her own. Hair shorter, curlier, but the same hue of black. O Zenith…
“BRYNN!”
The owl-shaped blade was yanked forcefully from her grip, and to Ashe’s surprise, the blade divided into six equal blades, all twelve inches of blackened steel. There was a cawing, almost a tearing sound accompanying. Then the blades, one by one slammed into the woman, pinning her to the wall. Limbs pierced, torso. Crucified. She screamed, cried in pain. A single blade hovering at her throat.
The Fallen laughed as he toyed with the wearer of an Ashe mask. It’s… it’s… Mother…
“Enough, Lu Har.”
Standing in the entrance of the chamber was her father. Well, not precisely standing as Emre was held in the arms of a massive drakken, his body practically limp, blood everywhere. Behind came Ruane, the bikrome from the visions, and another Kanjan elfir who also resembled the man in her visions. The bikrome held a hammer in her pale hands.
“You lied to me!” the crucified woman hissed. “You never had her. You lied.” She cried harder, tears streaming. Mother… I… “You showed me nothing but false guises.”
“A tool, that’s all you are, Cadrianna Nightingale,” the Fallen said. “All you’ve ever been. Honed to a fine point. To bring us to this exact moment. You all seem to think this chronicle hasn’t been written yet by the scribes. Even with Bliss guiding you, this was all preordained. Fight it not. Fight it you cannot.”
