Prince Rune walked beside her, keeping up easily. “Is the Malstop going to collapse tomorrow? Or the day after?”
“No.” She could feel the barrier from here—sense the thin spots, the soft places under constant attack from the inside—and it wasn’t in danger of imminent collapse. But soon. Very soon. “The Malstop is weak, fracturing under the constant pressure of evil. I must destroy the rancor inside the Malice to ease the strain on the Malstop.”
“Can’t you stop the rancor from coming here?” he asked. “To this world, I mean.”
“The Rupture sits within the Malice, but it isn’t a door that can be opened or closed on a whim. One day, the Dark Shard and the laic plane will move out of phase. The gateway will close, preventing rancor from venturing here, but I don’t know when that day will be. Until then, my excursions into the Malice are this: fighting rancor and lowering the pressure of evil inside. The Malstop will repair itself in time, but only if it isn’t under constant attack.”
“That doesn’t seem like a very efficient system.”
“Some battles are fought solely for the sake of resisting. Of enduring. Of surviving.”
He glanced back the way they’d come, frowning. “I suppose.”
“If I could prevent rancor from traveling through the Rupture, I would. As it is, I must always hope that someone summons me at the first sign of weakness in the Malstop, before rancor escape their prison.”
The prince’s jaw clenched. “I fear one already has. I believe that is what chased Princess Johanne into the malsite. Her lady-in-waiting described a monster.”
As he repeated the descriptions—the barrel chest, the spines, the mushroom-gray flesh—a tightness grew around Nightrender’s heart. “Indeed, it was a rancor. Princess Johanne has likely perished.”
“I can’t believe that,” he said. “Not without seeing for myself. If we leave now, we can make it to the malsite by dusk.”
Nightrender turned away and stepped into the stairwell that led to the shrine room.
“Help me rescue Princess Johanne, and my parents will have no choice but to listen to you! We can hold Dawnbreaker trials. You’ll have everything you need to stop the Incursion. Armies. Obsidian. Anything.”
That was a tempting offer, but could he deliver?
She reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the room. Some of the surfaces had been dusted, a few pieces of rotting wood removed. Light shone through the window and open balcony door, and a single potted morning glory sat beside the rail outside.
“Sorry it’s not cleaner yet.” Prince Rune walked in behind her. He seemed more at ease, now that they’d been talking. Perhaps she could win back the rest, eventually: the respect, the trust, the armies she needed. “Everything will be in order when we return. Well, it will be comfortable, at least. A place you can rest.”
“I haven’t agreed to go with you.”
He flashed a tentative smile. “I think you will.”
Nightrender studied him for a long moment, the soft brown of his eyes, the straight line of his nose, the strong set of his jaw. He was muscular—most Caberwilline princes and princesses were—and had the posture to go with years of martial training, but there was a gentleness to him, too, the sort of hopeful warmth that wasn’t encouraged here.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She stepped deeper into the room and paused, head cocked, listening. Chewing. “I hear termites.”
“Um.” The prince glanced around, clearly confused. “I’ll make sure the staff is aware.”
“Tell me why they’re not here now.”
“The staff?”
She gave a single nod. “Clearly they began efforts to restore this place but left without finishing. I want to know why they’re not here now.”
He glanced out the balcony door, toward the morning glory. “They’re afraid of you. Everyone is.”
“Because I failed in my duty before. Because I did not cleanse the land of malsites.”
He drew in a sharp breath. His brow knitted. But then, he nodded. “Yes. That has something to do with it.”
That explanation didn’t quite make sense, but mortals could be irrational. And since they had not summoned her in four hundred years, they could have forgotten that she was here to serve them. She was their sword against the dark.
“You summoned me in spite of the fear,” Nightrender observed.
“My need was greater than my fear.” He turned toward the shrine, still filthy with cobwebs and embedded dust. “I acted impulsively, but I would do it again.”
If their anger at her—their fear—was because she had neglected to cleanse the malsites before, perhaps her fulfilling that duty now would appease them.
It wasn’t choosing a side in the war, she reasoned. If, by saving his princess (assuming she was even alive), she helped an alliance, that would mean she had furthered a hope of peace. And it would mean, more simply, that she cleansed a malsite. She would cleanse them from Embria and Ivasland, too. All of Salvation would benefit from her awakening.
She would do this. And then she would uncover the truth about Ivasland. And then she would march into the Malice, having attended to the kingdoms equally and—hopefully—proven that they could trust her again. If she did everything right, perhaps they would send their warriors along with her and begin training Dawnbreakers again.
“Very well, Prince Rune.” Nightrender drew herself straight, burying every single worry and fear—so foreign to her—beneath the armor of her duty. “Gather what supplies you need. For now, you will be my Dawnbreaker, and I will rescue your princess.”
8.
HANNE
It was impossible to say what saved her.
The obsidian? Her resourcefulness?
The rancor’s good mood?
Regardless, the rancor had not immediately killed Hanne, for which she was enormously grateful. Instead, it perched on a thick tree branch and peered down at her, its eyes glowing a sickly yellow.
In the morning light, its mushroom-colored skin gleamed damp, wet with dew or sweat or something even more vile. Though it had no nose—just raw, open holes in the middle of its face—it sniffed the air in her direction. Its mouth gaped and two tongues flickered out, as though it were tasting Hanne’s terror.
At first, she did nothing but tremble on the ground, waiting to be devoured or violently melted into black sludge like Lord Bearhaste. But after an hour, when the creature made no move against her, she chanced a sip of water. It helped clear her head. And then she darted for her pile of obsidian jewelry. Most of it was already on her person, but she’d been sleeping with the remaining pieces around her like some sort of mystical barrier. More than anything in the world, in that moment, she wished for her crown. The jagged tines of obsidian could be broken off and made into daggers, and she could attack the thing.