Grow might be the wrong word. They explode, trunks groaning and stretching, turning massive in the blink of an eye, branches stretching toward the sky, leaves unfurling in a shock of verdant green. Taller and taller they grow, smashing windows, bending steel frames, cracking the stone walls.
And for the first time, I can feel them, as if they were an extension of my very own body.
They feed on my anger; on my despair, on my desperate wanting. Branches and vines grow long and move of their own accord, and I can’t see what’s happened to the undead, but I hear the crunching of bone and flesh, and all of a sudden, the coppery scent of blood is permeating the air, but it’s quickly swallowed by the earthy green scent of spring.
I’m in the earth. I’m in the trees themselves, being encased and lifted by their sentient branches, and Kharuk is being separated from me, and the undead creature is long gone, Goddess rest his soul.
Don’t hurt the guard. He’s a friend. Make sure he lives.
I plead with the trees, even as they grow and grow, and part of me is still tethered to the raw earth below, and I want to submerge in it, because I need something more.
I’m searching, frantically.
Because a part of me is still missing.
61
CORVAN
We go down several flights of stairs, deeper and deeper into the earth below. The air grows stale and dank. My senses tell me we’re well below the surface of the earth.
Ansar is silent. I stare at his back, wondering about the madness of ambition and all that comes with it. Discordant energy seeps from him. Death Magic. Chaos and corruption.
How in the Goddess’s name did Ansar think he was going to rule over Rahava when he’s like this?
One can’t rule over the living by raising the dead.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m going to kill him for all of this.
The other one percent thinks that just maybe, Finley’s mother will do the job for me.
I just need to see her—to be able to touch her. She’s been imprisoned for so long—first by Lucar Solisar, then by my father, and now the Talavarras have locked her up in the crypts of Deignar castle.
There are many ways to suppress a magical being. Serpenstone. Dampening irons—ancient and extremely valuable artefacts brought from Batava. Arcane enchantments that can drain a being’s innate magical energy.
I need to be careful here.
Things that are used to suppress something as strong as a dryad can also be used to suppress me.
And yet, I know Aralya’s alive. Without her, Ansar wouldn’t have become so powerful.
Besides, I think I can feel her.
The deeper we go, the stronger it becomes. An energy; similar to what I feel from Finley sometimes.
But if Finley’s magic is pure, sweet sunlight, then this aura is heat from the molten core that lurks deep beneath the surface of the earth.
As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Ansar stumbles. He utters a vicious Lukirian street-curse and presses his hand against the wall, steadying himself.
When did my sheltered-in-the-palace little brother learn to speak like that?
As the thought drifts through my mind, I’m already at Ansar’s side, my blade at his neck. His curious scent—incense and metal and blood—fills my nostrils. “What’s happening, little brother?”
Ansar grits his teeth. “A minor disturbance. It’s nothing. You want to see the dryad, or not?”
I sheath my blade. “Lead the way.”
His right hand hangs by his side, entangled in glowing crimson threads. His left is tucked inside his robes.
How curious.
I can’t help but wonder if half his gambit has already failed.
Ansar shoots me a baleful look and pads down the steps, reaching the bottom, where a large, circular chamber with walls of roughly hewn stone leads to a dark tunnel beyond.
A thought occurs to me.
What if I just cut off his hand at the wrist and severed those red threads?
Would it free her, or harm her?
It’s tempting.
It would be so easy.
Too easy.
I can’t risk it.
So I continue to follow him as he heads down a pitch-black tunnel, and he must have the same ability to see in the dark as I do, for there are no gas lamps or torches down here, and he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest.
The aura I felt before; molten heat, as eternal as the world itself, yet dampened and suppressed, grows ever stronger.
Can Ansar feel it too?
If he does, he gives no indication.
How can he act so arrogant; so indifferent? And yet I sense nothing from him—not anger, nor malevolence.
No remorse.
“What’s wrong with you?” I growl, unable to contain my dark thoughts any longer.
“Me?” My half-brother lets out a bitter chuckle. “You, the Golden Child in Shining Armor, are wondering why I, the second son that father barely acknowledged, would lower myself to the corruption of necromancy? You have no idea how the world is for ordinary people, Corvan.”
No idea? I resist a sudden urge to yank him backwards by his hair and wrap my hands around his neck. “Ordinary? You’re a Duthriss, Ansar.” Raised in privilege and wealth. Wanting for nothing.
He thinks I’ve been handed everything on a golden platter.
He has no fucking idea.
“I’m more Talavarra than Duthriss,” Ansar hisses. “Father was never interested in me. Never wanted me to get within striking distance of his throne, because he feared grandfather would use me as a proxy. The only reason he married my mother was to appease grandfather in the first place—so he would never try and take the throne. No, Valdon wasn’t interested me at all. He might have been, had he known that the dead have spoken to me for as long as I can remember.”
This is news to me. “Just because you have a talent, it doesn’t mean you should use it like this.”
“Bit of a hypocrite, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you do, brother? The reason you’ve been able to rule Tyron is because they’re all bloody terrified of you. Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do with my talent?” He stops and turns. “You? No one person should have as much as you have. You’re fucking dangerous.”
Before I know it, I’ve moved. I’m standing right in front of him, my face just inches from his.
Is he mad?
Is he intentionally trying to provoke me?
I draw on every last ounce of my self control.
Then I raise my hand and slap him, hard.
For a moment, Ansar just stands there, staring back at me, a look of perfect incredulity crossing his face.
“Just as I know little about you, you know next to nothing about me,” I say quietly. “Don’t presume to think you know me. And do not justify your actions with presumptions. Things are not always what they appear. And I am not responsible for our father’s actions.”
Ansar’s mask slips. For a heartbeat, I see uncertainty and fear; shock and disbelief.
He’s losing control.
Down here, I’m in control.
In the cold; in the darkness, I’m in my element. I can feel the subtle changes in the air; the faint tremors that run through the tunnel walls. I can see perfectly well, and I can hear.
The trickling of water. The slithering of small creatures that have never seen the light of day.
I can feel her aura; trapped, stifled, fractured.