Lightbringer

Navi laughed softly in astonishment. “Three weeks? That’s as fast as an imperial warship.”

Ysabet grinned. “My mother was good at what she did. I’m even better. But a fast ship is nothing without a mission to guide it.”

Navi glanced back at the cannons standing proudly in their docks. She recognized the design. “Those are imperial cannons.”

“I like to keep my people busy.”

Navi heard the little dip of darkness in her voice, the glint of an inner shield. She held Ysabet’s gaze and placed a gentle hand on her arm.

“I have also lost many,” she said quietly. “I know what it feels like to know you live because others have died, how the grief sits in you like a stone you cannot dislodge. I have to believe that if they could see us now, they would be proud of our fight and would not regret their part in it.”

Eyes bright with tears, Ysabet gave her a wry smile. “A princess, indeed. You have a way with words, Your Highness.”

“And you have a ship, while I have a mission.”

“And you have an army.”

“A small one.”

“As is mine.” Ysabet clasped Navi’s hands and squeezed. “But together, our troops are not as few. Together, they are stronger.”

Navi grinned, breathless with rising joy. What a relief, to no longer be so alone. “You’ll help us, then?”

“Yes, princess. We’ll help each other. I’ll push my people until they wish they loved me less so they could allow themselves to hate me. A month, I think, is all we’ll need.”

Ysabet bent to brush her lips across Navi’s knuckles. Then she jumped out of the boat and onto the pier, shouting commands at the soldiers who waited nearby.

And Navi sat for a moment, catching her breath. The warmth of Ysabet’s lips lingered on her skin. She folded her hands against her chest and held them there until her thoughts steadied. Malik was coming fast down the pier, his smile bright and broad. Her brother, still alive, and so was she.

Eliana, she prayed, hold fast to your iron heart. Stay strong. We are coming.

20



   Audric

“The most remarkable thing has happened. I’ve met an ice dragon. A godsbeast, a creature of lore made flesh. Her name is Valdís, and she travels with one of the Kammerat, the legendary dragon-speakers—a man named Leevi. He looks to be Audric’s age, perhaps a year or two younger than I, and has told me an astonishing story. Leevi and Valdís have escaped a place called the Northern Reach. For long weeks they’ve been traveling to the High Villmark, where other Kammerat live in secret, guarding their dragon companions. Valdís has been ill, poisoned by angels, and I think Leevi might have killed me when I stumbled upon them, were it not for Valdís, who sensed in me the blood of Grimvald and found strength Leevi says she hasn’t shown in months. Tomorrow, we will ride together to the Kammerat. Leevi wants them to help free the others imprisoned in this angelic fortress. He says I, as Borsvall’s king, can help convince them. But how can we hope to win a war against beings so cruel and ingenious? I don’t know the answer, but I do know this: Tomorrow, sweet saints, I will ride a dragon.”

—Journal of Ilmaire Lysleva, dated January, Year 1000 of the Second Age

There she was—Rielle, in some distant Astavari forest, surrounded by ferns and brambles. Damp curls of hair clung to her cheeks and neck, and she sat in a bed of moss, wearing only dark tights and a thin white tunic, her hands and clothes stained with mud.

Audric nearly fell to his knees at the sight, fighting every instinct he possessed not to rush toward her at once. He tried to say her name, but it came out a whisper.

“Audric?” Rielle stared up at him, her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes shadowed and sleepless.

“Yes, I’m here. But not for long.” He took a halting step forward. He remembered Ludivine’s warning: pushing the boundaries of the mental connection she had reawakened between the three of them, forcing the vision beyond its limits, could cause it to lose its cohesion immediately—or worse, draw Corien’s attention.

“He’ll find me soon,” Ludivine said, behind him and to his left. Through the link of their minds, Audric could feel her trembling with exertion. Waves of longing butted gently against him, and he found it comforting to know that Ludivine was also in agony—to see Rielle, and yet not be able to touch her. A torment that stole away his breath.

“I’ve been practicing, Rielle,” Ludivine said, “growing stronger, working to extend the reach and stealth of my mind, but it still requires…” She paused, and Audric felt the breath of her exhaustion pass through him. “It requires enormous effort, and I have much still to learn.”

Rielle watched them in silence. Wherever she was, the light shifted, drawing out a strange gleam in her eyes.

“Darling, are you hurt?” Audric asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. “How are you feeling?” He searched her body for signs of injury and drank in all the things he had missed—the wild dark fall of her hair, the turn of her jaw, the space she occupied in the world. He imagined her warmth, the sweet weight of her body beside him, her head tucked under his. She seemed softer, somehow, even though her shadowed face was worryingly gaunt. Clearly, she was neither sleeping nor eating well.

Suddenly, he could no longer stand there and pretend to be strong. If he didn’t touch her—even only this pale, half-real brushing of his mind against hers, buoyed on the river of Ludivine’s power—if he did not reach out to her, cup her face in his hands, rest his brow against hers and feel her breathe with him, the ache in his chest would consume him. If he could not protect her, could not help her, he could at least try to reach for her.

He hurried forward, choked out her name, ignoring Ludivine’s backward tug of alarm—but Rielle scrambled away from him. As if he would hurt her, as if he had cornered her.

Immediately, Audric stepped back, his stomach pitching with shame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He held up his hands. Tears built behind his eyes, but he refused them. “There is no excuse for the things I said to you that night. I understand why you left. Rielle…” But the memory of their wedding night, the bitter echo of what it could have been, was too terrible, too heavy, and it cracked his voice in two. “I am so sorry, my love.”

Rielle watched him in silence, her gaze bright and hard. It flickered to Ludivine, then back to him, and then, saying nothing, she rose to her feet and smoothed her hands down the front of her tunic, flattening it against her torso.

Audric nearly laughed with relief to see her standing there, her shoulders square and tense. Because there she was—his beloved, his Rielle—and there were her arms, there was the dip of her throat, the folds of tunic and trousers around her every curve.