Her eyes widened. She was afraid; he could feel her quivering. And then she looked to the next summit, where they could see the outline of her mother the queen, standing as her magic waged a battle that spun and spun, knowing no depth and no end.
Norah began to move, heading to the hill, Tristan in her shadow. A shower of arrows began to rain down on them, shot from desperate Hild bows in the valley, and Tristan waited for the impact. But the arrows split in two, turning back on themselves, hurling to return to their archers. Screams punctured the air, followed by another resounding boom that brought Tristan to his knees.
But Norah was walking, stealing up the summit. The wind gathered about her as she prepared to face her mother with only sword and shield. Tristan crawled to a rock, embraced it, and waited, watching her reach the crown of the hill.
He couldn’t hear their voices, but he could see their faces.
The queen had always been beautiful and elegant. In war, she was terrifyingly so. She smiled down at Norah, even as Norah opened her arms and screamed at her.
Tristan had read that magic in war easily went astray, that it fogged the wielder’s mind, that it fed off the bloodlust and hatred it found when two rulers clashed to kill and conquer. Liadan had written documents about it, how magic should never be used to harm, to kill, to annihilate. And Tristan was witnessing it firsthand.
He watched as the queen struck her daughter across the face—something she would never have done had the battle magic not corrupted her mind. The blow made Norah stagger backward, made her drop her sword. Tristan felt his blood simmer as the queen brought forth a dirk and reached for Norah. He responded without thinking, drawing an arrow, notching it to his bow, aiming for the queen. And he shot it, watched the arrow spin gracefully through storm and rain and wind, lodging in the queen’s right eye.
The dirk fell from her grip as she crumpled to the ground, the blood streaming down her face, down her dress. Norah crawled to her, weeping, cradling her mother as Tristan rushed to the summit.
He had just killed the queen.
His knees turned to water when Norah glared up at him, the magic gathering about her as sparks of fire, her mother’s blood smeared over her hands. And at the queen’s neck, the Stone of Eventide had turned purple and black, bruised with fury.
“I will cut you in two,” Norah screamed, rising and running toward him, her hands lifting to summon her magic.
Tristan grabbed her wrists and the two of them tumbled to the ground, rolling over each other down the summit, over bones and rocks and streaks of blood. She was strong; she nearly overcame him, her magic eager to break him apart, but Tristan found himself on top when they finally came to a halt. He yanked out his dirk and pressed it to the pale column of her neck, his other hand crushing her fingers into submission.
“Bring this battle to an end, Norah,” he rasped, telling himself that he would not hesitate to kill her should she threaten him again. “Stop the storm. Tame the magic the queen has set loose.”
Norah was panting beneath him, her face twisted in pain, in agony. But she returned to herself, slowly. It was like watching rain fill a cistern, and Tristan shuddered in relief when she finally nodded, tears flowing from her eyes.
He let her hands go, and he warily observed as she murmured the ancient words, her fingers flickering to the sky. Gradually, the magic unraveled and weakened, breaking like plates on a floor, leaving behind its residue as dust and gossamer in an abandoned house.
The storm clouds began to dissipate, revealing ribs of blue, and the wind eased, but the corpses remained. The destruction and the dead and the consequences remained.
Gently, he rolled off her, drew her to her feet. The dirk in his hand was slick, with sweat, with blood.
Kill her, a voice whispered. She will betray you. She is like her mother. . . .
“You want to kill me,” she whispered, reading his mind.
He held her by her wrist, and her eyes were fearless as she looked at him. He could feel her magic brush his bones . . . like autumn’s first frost, like a slow-consuming fire, like the seductive texture of silk . . .
He tightened his hold and lowered his face to hers, until their breaths intermingled. “I want you to disappear. I want you to vanish, to deny your right to the throne. If you come back, I will kill you.”
He shoved her away, even though the motion tore what little remained of his heart. He had come to admire her, respect her, love her.
She would have made an exquisite queen.
He expected her to fight, to summon the magic, to raze him to the earth.
But Norah Kavanagh did none of those things.
She turned and walked away. And she went five steps before she pivoted to look at him one final time, her dark, blood-matted hair the greatest crown she had ever worn. “Heed this, Tristan Allenach, lord of the shrewd: you have bought my House to ashes. You have taken the life of the queen. And you will steal the Stone of Eventide. But know that one day, a daughter will rise from your line, a daughter who shall be two in one, passion and stone. And she will bring down your House from within and undo all your crimes. But perhaps the greatest wonder of all? She shall steal your memories to do it.”
She set her back to him and walked, walked until the mist came about her.
He wanted to brush aside her words. She was trying to rattle him, make him doubt himself. . . .
Brienna.
Somewhere, a voice that reminded him of midsummer stars spoke within his mind. An echo trembled through the earth as Tristan began to ascend the summit once more.
Brienna.
He came to kneel at the queen’s side, her blood beginning to cool and darken, his arrow protruding from her eye.
Brienna.
The Stone of Eventide was his.
Just as Tristan reached for the stone, I opened my eyes, leaving his battle for mine.
The earth was hard and cold beneath me, the sky remarkably cloudless and blue as I squinted up at Cartier, the sun like a crown behind him. I drew in a long breath, felt the stabbing pain in my left arm, and remembered. The banners, the arrows, the fall.
“I’m all right,” I rasped, my right hand fluttering over my chest, finding his. “Help me up.”
I could hear the clashing of steel, the shouts and screams that preceded blood and death. Lannon and Allenach’s forces had broken through our wall of shields, and Cartier had carried me as far back to the line as he could, trying to rouse me. I glanced to my arm; the arrow was gone, a strip of linen fastened about the wound. My blood still seeped through it as he raised me up to my feet.
“I’m all right,” I repeated, and then drew my own sword, the widow in the amber. “Go, Cartier.”
His people were pressing forward, fighting without him. And it was evident to see we were outnumbered. I shoved him gently in the chest, smearing his breastplate with my blood.
“Go.”