A Darkness Forged in Fire (40 page)

S
omething tugged at the Viceroy's mind. He slowed the horse to a canter, trying to make sense of the feeling. A scream all too familiar to him tore through his head, sending him reeling. The horse reared and screamed as well, gnashing its teeth at nothing until they splintered, and still the scream did not end.

The table!
Its pain was beyond measure. This was nothing like the fire of before. Worse, he was not there to protect it. Thoughts of vengeance and the star fled his mind as the screams grew in intensity. He fought to control the horse and managed to turn it around, digging his spurs deep into its sides, and galloped back toward the palace.

Fear and agony lent speed to the horse. The miles merged as all sense of time blurred into nothingness. He rode with screams echoing in his mind until he screamed, too, the pain as real as if it were his own. He rode with complete abandon, his hands clenched so tightly around the reins that the leather melded into his new flesh. The horse beneath him never tired, its gait as manic as the look in its eyes. The ground rushed past, the horse moving much faster than any horse the Viceroy had ever ridden, the animal's speed a raging hunger that ate the miles with savage appetite; yet it was not fast enough.

It was the smell that first assaulted his senses as the Viceroy pulled up in the rear courtyard of his palace, a thick, dry smell that overpowered the wet stench of the horse beneath him. He ripped his hands from the reins, barely feeling the sting of raw flesh exposed, and ran into the palace, climbing the steps to his bedroom four at a time.

He entered his bedchamber and saw the shattered door. He crossed to it and stepped through, his limbs shaking with fear and rage. He took two steps into the room and stopped, the horror of what he found too great to allow him to approach any closer.

Her creation, Her Emissary's
ryk faur
, his power…was now but a single-leg upturned with a white doily draped over the clawed foot. Resting on top was a small potted fern. A rustle of wings at the window made him turn, and he saw the white bird.

"Looks much better, if you ask me," the Duke of Rakestraw said, walking up to stand in the doorway behind him.
"Gives the room a more homey feel."

The Viceroy tore his eyes away from the pelican and spun on his heels, his hands already clenching as he prepared to rend the very soul from the Duke's body. Before he could, something large and heavy hit him in the stomach, knocking him to the floor.

He looked down to see a large bag of ashes and charred wood spill on the flagstones around him.

"Thought you might like that, bit of a souvenir," the Duke said, casually strolling into the chamber. Several more soldiers of the Duke's cavalry stood equally at ease near the door, hands resting on saber hilts and pistol butts.

The Viceroy lurched to his feet, the hood of his cloak falling away as he did so.

The Duke turned back to him, his scarred face dominated by a wide grin.
"Well, well, well, I see the table wasn't the only thing that got fried."

"You will pay for this!"
the Viceroy shouted, stumbling to his feet, calculating the odds of killing them all. He was tired from the ride, it would be a close-run thing.
"I will destroy you!"

The Duke stood a little straighter at the sound of his voice, but he did not back up.
"You could try, but I think it'd be the last thing you did. By the way, that horse chase you sent me on worked out better than I thought. Not only did I round up enough horses to pay off all my debts with a tidy sum left over, I even had a bit extra to pay you back for your kindness," he said, waving a gloved hand toward the plant.
"It was the very least I could do." The grin grew fiercer.

"When I got back and you weren't home, I found lovely
Inja here, who was kind enough to show me around your accommodations. What, I
said to myself, can I do to thank the Viceroy, and then Inja had a wonderful
suggestion."

The Viceroy turned his glare on her, and she backed up a step. She, too, would suffer.

"No need to thank me," the Duke said, giving the fern a pat as he walked back out of the room,
"it's what friends do." He paused at the door, one hand resting on the pommel of Wolf's Tooth, the other taking Inja gently by the arm.
"Another thing friends do, Viceroy, is look after one another."

From the open window came the sound of the Viceroy's horse screaming in anger, followed by a volley of musket fire and a heavy thud.

"What was that?"

"That," the Duke said over his shoulder as he led Inja away,
"is what you do to sick creatures. Worth keeping in mind, Viceroy."

Long after the echo of the Duke's horses had faded, the Viceroy remained standing in the middle of the room, his rage and despair pinning him to the spot like the weight of a hundred mountains.

Finally, his need to make the Duke of Rakestraw and the elfkynan stable girl pay propelled him to move.

He brushed the ashes from his cloak and turned and looked at what remained of the table. It took him a moment to feel the change in the air; it was growing colder. He leaned closer and saw the leaves of the fern slowly turning white, then black, as frost fire consumed them. He reached out a hand and touched the leg, but it felt as dead as the room around him.

"I don't understand…"
the Viceroy said.

"You will,"
said Her Emissary, a dark shadow rising from the ashes, its anger flaming to life in the black dagger in its hand.
"You will."

The screaming lasted all night.

T
he sun rose like a glowing ember caught high on a morning breeze, casting its light on the ruin of battle. The Colors were blown full out from their poles, their ends snapping as a strong wind picked up. Konowa stood in the middle of the battlefield, looking at what he'd done.

Everywhere, the trees burned. Their black limbs slashed the air in a futile attempt to put out the flames that consumed them. Screams filled his head as the
sarka har
died, their dark need extinguished in a blaze of pure, red light. The sapling towered above them all, now a great tree, its limbs reaching high into the sky. The Star was now a bridge between the earth and sky, a tree coursing with power so pure, so elemental that the very air around it thrummed like lead crystal.

The acorn against his chest beat with the rhythm of his heart, its cold need satisfied, its oath unbroken. At the very edge of his understanding, Konowa heard another scream. It confused him at first until he understood it wasn't a scream at all, but laughter.

The Shadow Monarch was laughing.

The Iron Elves stared at him in silence. Konowa had consigned them all to a fate none had asked for. In trying to save them, he had doomed them all.

In choosing to destroy Her forest here, Konowa had condemned the souls of the Iron Elves.

The enormity of it threatened to crush him where he stood. All he had ever wanted was a chance to make things right for the regiment and the soldiers he commanded.

Visyna had seen the truth, but he hadn't listened to her. He thought he could control the power, bend it to his will, but in the end all he managed to do was Her will.

The Shadow Monarch had deceived them all. She'd allowed Konowa's father to escape with the acorn from Her silver Wolf Oak, knowing the wizard would bring it to him. And she counted on Konowa's thirst for redemption, and like a fool he had allowed that desire to blind him to the truth.

The Shadow Monarch had never wanted the Star.

She wanted Her children back.

She wanted the Iron Elves.

Konowa raised his hand and let it brush the top of his ruined ear, feeling the scar that marked Her curse. He looked at the burning forest.

In the fire and the heat, a new purpose rose from the ashes.

A cold, merciless smile crept across Konowa's face as black frost began to sparkle along the shattered remnants of his saber. So the Shadow Monarch wanted Konowa and the Iron Elves for Her own. So be it. Konowa would show Her just how deadly it could be to get what you wished for.

All around him, the trees screamed as they burned.

I began taking riding lessons in the course of writing this book. I wasn't charged for the added bonus of learning how to fall.

I saved a fortune.

Still, each time I dusted myself off and climbed back into the saddle, I realized that writing a novel is not all that different. You are going to make mistakes. You are going to wonder why you ever embarked on this in the first place. You are definitely going to become intimate with entirely new types of fear. And you are going to feel an exhilaration unlike anything else.

Still, anyone who tells you writing is as easy as falling off a horse has never suffered the added indignity of being sat on by the same horse. When that happens, and it will, you'll want friends around. When they stop laughing, they usually help you up. I have such friends, and their support and advice—and laughter—throughout the writing of this novel saved me on more than one occasion, and for that I am in their debt.

My best friend, my brother, Michael, is always there for me, and always will be. You demonstrated just how deep fraternal bonds can go by reading every draft of this book and always finding something encouraging to say, even if it was to compliment me on my bold choice of black ink on white paper.

Deb Christerson, friend from the beginning, a writer of amazing vision, and a most kind and generous person. Hereafter and forever more, the dandelion beer is on me.

Shelly Shapiro, a brilliant publishing maven and writer by profession, and a life coach by choice. I will be eternally grateful that you aren't professionally licensed to give advice or I'd never be able to pay you back.

Karen Traviss, Clarion classmate and trusted companion on this long and winding road, gifted writer, and patron saint for those in harm's way. You are an inspiration.

Chris Schluep, my American brother, fellow editor and writer, co-commiserater and lighthouse forever guiding me back to calmer waters when I set sail into a storm.

Bill Takes, wise beyond his years, who kindly and repeatedly offers me some of the soundest advice I've ever received (even if I don't follow it) and the epitome of class.

At Simon & Schuster's Pocket Books I want to thank my editor, Ed Schlesinger, for his exceptionally keen eye and unflagging energy, which has kept me going, and Deputy Publisher Anthony Ziccardi, comrade in arms from the old days, for taking a chance on something new.

My agent, Don Maass, for representing the very best of me (while sweeping the rest under the carpet).

Special thanks to a true American hero, Col. Robert W. Black and his wife, Carolyn; Edith Dunker; Owen Lock; Steve Saffel; everyone at Stackpole Books for their encouragement along the way; Jeff Young; and the very helpful staff of the New York Society Library.

I'd also like to acknowledge the many historians who have inspired me over the years, first as a student, then historian, editor, and now writer. It would take a whole other book to truly bear witness to what I've learned from their words, and in some cases, advice, so I will simply name them here with my unconditional thanks: George G. Blackburn, Christopher R. Browning, Terry Copp, Bernard Cornwell, Len Deighton, Richard Holmes, John Keegan, Rudyard Kipling, T. E. Lawrence, George MacDonald Fraser, Barbara W. Tuchman, and Gerhard L. Weinberg. If you haven't read their works I highly recommend that you do, but be forewarned: doing so may cause you to embark on a writing adventure of your own.

And finally, my grandfather, Robert James Whitson, who's up there somewhere smiling right now saying,
"that's my grandson," and my parents, both for their unwavering love and support—even after I told them I was tossing my academic career—and for instilling in me that single, unquenchable spark of sheer bloody-mindedness to never give up.