But the undead are frightfully strong and fast, thanks to the magic that animates them. I swear I can feel it; a dark, discordant energy that fills the space between us.
Einvar is yelling, calling for his comrades; barking orders at his battle-partner.
Kharuk raises his blade and backs away, moving in my direction. He enters the garden, never taking his eyes off the attackers.
Protecting me at all costs.
Bless these guards. They really did swear complete loyalty to Corvan.
Einvar fights like a tempest; fierce and unrelenting. He kicks the first undead—the creature that was once Valdon Duthriss—in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards. Then he swings his blade and lops off the other one’s leg.
The undead figure—that poor, wretched embalmer—loses its balance and crashes to the floor, sword clattering away.
To my horror, it starts to crawl, leaving its severed limb behind.
“Take off the head!” I shout. “That’s how you kill them. You must cut off the head!”
But Einvar suddenly has his hands full with the other one. The once-emperor of Rahava is nothing but an empty husk, filled with the malevolent will of a master manipulator.
He’s caught up in a flurry of vicious sword blows, and he appears to be losing ground.
Meanwhile, the crawling undead has reached the gardens.
“I’ll take care of it, my lady,” Kharuk growls. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
Believe me, I wish I could.
Why, oh why, is this feeling of dancing lightning spreading through my body? Why do my fingers tingle? My mind feels detached from my body… as if I’m both inside it and outside it at the same time.
And there’s that tightness in my chest again; that pressure, growing so intense I can barely breathe.
And the world moves both fast and slow. I can see everything in vivid detail, right down to the fine hairs on the back of Kharuk’s neck as he walks toward the undead creature, his blade raised. I see moonlight gleaming on cold steel. I see the tremor in the guard’s powerful arm.
I smell the sweet fragrance of the winterlilies, a dozen times more potent at night.
Kharuk’s blade falls. Einvar’s attack falters. He’s being pressed back. The emperor has been transformed into a glowing-eyed demon.
It’s impossible, how that thing can move so fast.
At this rate, Einvar will fail. He’s a formidable warrior, but he’s only mortal.
Kharuk goes for the neck, just like I told him to.
But the crawling undead creature moves unnaturally fast, evading the blade. The silks covering its hair come undone, revealing a shock of russet curls, a reminder that this body was once human.
It launches itself at the guard. Kharuk throws his blade, piercing the undead’s chest.
The creature falls, impaled by four feet of cold steel.
For a moment, it’s perfectly still.
But then it rises to its knees; teeth bared, eyes glowing lurid green. It curls up like a spring, body becoming taut. It’s going to strike again.
Kharuk has no blade. Said blade is still protruding from the undead’s chest.
But he doesn’t back away.
He’s going to defend me with his bare hands. This brave, loyal man.
I don’t want him to die. I don’t want Einvar to die either, but even though he’s fighting valiantly, he’s starting to tire.
He’s wounded. Blood drips from his right arm; his sword-arm.
I look around wildly, searching for something I can use. I rack my brain, trying to remember all the infuriating little snippets of knowledge I’ve gleaned from the books. I try to recall Eulisyn’s brief conversation with me.
But there’s nothing.
The undead moves as fast as an arrow through the garden, leaping off one foot, becoming a blur as it spins around, and now its back is to Kharuk and it’s flying toward him with the pointy end of the sword extending out of its back, thrusting toward the guard.
“My lady, stand aside!” Kharuk shouts as the undead crashes against him.
The blade pierces his chest, skewering both of them together, and they’re falling, and too late, I start to move, but Kharuk’s body has been pushed back with great force, and he collides with me.
We fall.
There’s a sharp burst of pain in my belly, just below my ribcage. With growing horror, I realize what it is. The tip of the sword that’s gone through the undead’s chest, then Kharuk’s, has impaled me too.
Warmth blossoms in my upper belly. Sharp, agonizing, terrifying warmth.
We hit the ground. I can’t move. Kharuk’s on top of me, and he’s heavy.
Still breathing, though. Still moving.
Is that my blood, or his? I can’t tell. I’m filled with horror as I realize that on top of us all is the undead creature. It kicks and flails, and the blade moves with it, worsening Kharuk’s wounds—and mine.
Stop.
Somewhere in the periphery of my vision, I’m aware of men surging into the garden. Frantic shouts fill my ears. My vision fades in and out.
The tightness in my chest is growing. The pain is becoming unbearable. The crush of Kharuk’s heavy body on top of mine makes me feel like I’m drowning.
I can’t stand it.
Stop.
I want to end it.
Stop.
I can’t die here. I can’t let my guards die. Why is it that I supposedly have so much power, yet I can’t do a thing?
Eulisyn, if you’re there, listen to me. Help me. Do what you did before, and end this.
What if I… won’t see Corvan again?
Something inside me breaks. It isn’t supposed to go like this. All of a sudden, I’m filled with anger. Pure, white-hot anger.
It’s like an inferno, threatening to consume me. I’ve never felt this angry before. At my pathetic father. At the selfish emperor. At the ambitious fools that would desecrate the dead in order to gain power.
Tormenting innocents for their gain. My mother. Corvan’s mother.
And for what?
How dare they cause such suffering?
How dare they keep me from what is mine?
Anger consumes my soul, threatening to engulf everything I’ve ever known.
And something inside me slides and clicks, like a key turning in a lock.
Everything falls into place.
A familiar voice echoes in my head. Righteous anger is the most cleansing fire of all. And after the fire comes renewal.
The tightness in my chest is so strong it’s turned into pure agony, fanning the flames of my anger.
Eulisyn?
But she’s silent again, and all I know is that the delicate manicured trees inside this perfectly landscaped garden are reaching toward me, and as I lie on my back with the weight of two bodies pressing down on me, my palms are pressed flat against the earth, and the tendrils shoot forth, forming roots that anchor me to the ground.
In the back of my head, there’s a faint rumble.
It grows. Louder and louder.
A little tremor courses through the ground. Through the cold, hard earth under my back, I can feel…
Everything.
The trees…
They start to grow.