When I reached for another, the remaining splinters shuddered. They lengthened, curling like talons as they dug in deeper. My father, whatever was left of him, screamed. Images of my mother and brothers, of me, flickered across the inside of his soul, and then were torn asunder.
“Father?” I called, even though he couldn’t answer.
Something wound around my ankle, tripping me, dragging me—a tendril of the rot in Torin’s soul, drawing me closer, into itself, its malevolent sentience.
I severed it with my fist, but others wrapped around my arm, my calf, my waist, until I was covered in inky vines, just like what I’d seen dancing in Torin’s eyes for months. Fragments of Gwylor that had been consuming Torin’s soul.
Kicking, howling, I was wrenched into the god of death’s darkness, my mind smoldering as he branded it with memories.
A man who is not a man stands over three bodies: Aillira’s father and brothers. Lord Llewlin has a sword through his chest, another in his back. Andras and Cynfor still have their hands wrapped around each other’s throats even in death.
The god of death grins from inside the human shell he wears.
The scene shifts, and a battering ram smashes open the gates of a village. Gwylor storms through them on his warhorse and dismounts, ordering the men behind him to burn everything, to kill everyone they see. And they do.
“Gwylor!” A man stands in the center of the field, his gleaming sword held high. Handsome, noble Veronis. “You can’t have her, cousin,” he says.
“We cannot allow her to live.” The death god steps closer, tapping his temple. “She’s a mind-reaper. She’s seen inside our heads and holds all our secrets. Aillira must be destroyed, along with her descendants.”
“You don’t mean . . .” Veronis glances at the castle behind him, his eyes wild. In a window high above, five faces peer out: Aillira, arms wrapped around two girls, two boys. “Stay away from my children.”
“Gods are not meant to breed with mortals. Their offspring are unstable.”
“I’m no longer a god,” Veronis says.
“That body is mortal, but your essence, your memories, your mind—that immortality cannot be shed. Some of it leaked into your progeny. It will stain every generation that comes after.”
“I know how to end you, Gwylor. Aillira told me.” Veronis lowers his sword, running his palm across the blade. “Let her and my children live. Swear it, and you can do what you want with me and our brethren who stood against you. The secret to your destruction, and your sister’s, will remain hidden.” He holds out his bleeding hand to seal their pact.
Gwylor grips Veronis’s hand. “Are you so certain I’ll honor this agreement?”
“Gods cannot lie to one another. You know that.”
“Yes. But as you mentioned, cousin, you are no longer a god.” Gwylor draws something from beneath his cloak—a crystal dagger—and stabs it into Veronis’s chest.
Veronis’s mouth freezes on a silent cry. The sound is brought to life from the window above, where Aillira and her children watch and scream.
“I will let them live.” Gwylor twists the dagger and Veronis groans. “Ildja and I will send such plagues and sorrows upon them, they will wish they died this day. Should any of your descendants call me to this realm again, as Lord Llewlin and his idiot sons did, I will consider our deal broken. The war will begin anew. And this time, I will sever your line. I’ll ensure every last child of your blood dies in torment.”
The life drains from Veronis into the dagger, and Gwylor lets his body fall, ripping out the blade.
One by one, he goes after the other gods, plunging the blade into each of them, drawing out their immortal spirits. Gwylor flicks a finger against the blade, sloshing the swirls of color floating inside it—the souls of seven gods and goddesses.
He rides to a spot on the north of the island, in the middle of a forest, and tosses the dagger into a loch. The waters of the loch begin to boil, the trees around it start to rot.
The dagger washes ashore, the crystal blade empty.
The memory faded, but I was still inside Gwylor’s vision, standing on the shores of the loch that lay above a prison-realm in the otherworlds, surrounded by the decaying Grove of the Fallen Ones. Gwylor was there with me, not wearing a mortal’s skin, but in his god form—a blinding prismatic light that hurt to look at, forcing me to turn away.
He spoke into my mind: the fallen ones think to use you to free them.
“I didn’t ask for this power, this quest. I don’t want it!”
it matters not.
I was done worshiping the god of death. I was done fearing him. “You and Ildja’s monster of a son destroyed everything. My father, my clan, my home. Isn’t that enough?”
if you side with the great betrayer, you side against me, against ildja, who control the realms of the otherworlds. choose carefully. we can damn every one of your beloved dead to the halls of suffering and the mist for eternity.
Mother. Rhys. Reyker.
My knees gave out, and the putrid waters of the loch lapped around me. Not long ago, Gwylor told me my life meant nothing to him, but now . . .
now, little sacrifice. now your life offends me.
CHAPTER 14
REYKER
Reyker’s eyes were closed, but voices swirled around him.
“What did you do, Keeva?”
“I don’t know.” He recognized Keeva’s voice—the bone-healer. “I think it was the blood she gave me. I think it was the Fallen Ones.”
“Just put him with the other dead Dragonman.”
Reyker’s head swam as he focused on trying to breathe around the splinters in his chest. Something touched his side, over the broken ribs.
“I’m going to heal him,” Keeva said. “He wears a medallion of Aillira.”
“He probably stole it.”
“Why hide it under his clothes, Alane? Dragonmen flaunt their stolen prizes. Perhaps he’s a spy working against the Dragon. Veronis already sent one harbinger to us. Who’s to say there won’t be more?”
Warmth flowed into Reyker’s body, sliding around his fractured bones, shifting and smelting his ribs back together. He bit down, trying to keep still.
The infirmary door flew open. The healer’s hands fell away from him.
Reyker forced his eyes open, his gaze landing on a Dragonman who stood in the doorway. “What’s all this? Where’s the guard who’s supposed to be stationed here?”
Reyker’s mind and body snapped to attention. “I dismissed him.” He sat up slowly, blinking at the table—the corpse—behind him that, thankfully, had been covered with a sheet and hidden behind plants once more.