Fantasy of Fire (The Tainted Accords Book 3) (30 page)

I almost sob with relief as I cling desperately to the wooden beam, but my fingers will only support me for so long. I dangle nearly fifteen paces above the food hall floor, hanging by one of the smallest limbs of my body.

My mind firms. This I can do.

I trust completely in my stronger right arm as I slap my left hand on the beam. My right follows. I swing side to side and shift. In no time, I’ve used momentum to get both forearms on the beam. From there it’s simple. I have to trust Brovek isn’t there yet, or everything I’ve done has been for nothing. I dash away thoughts of the fire taking hold as I scramble to my feet.

I refuse to believe this is over. The hawk’s entrance is to my right. I run along the beam. I have no trouble with this. It’s much sturdier and more reliable than the rooftops in the Outer Rings.

I assess the hawk’s entrance as I near. The entrance is a trapdoor that usually opens with the hawk’s downwards weight, but it can be pulled open from below. I climb up a diagonal truss and wrench the large ceiling door toward me with the thick rope attached to it. I wince at the noise the door generates as it’s opened. Brovek will hear that if he’s already there.

I know from my time spent on the roof that the hawk’s entrance is surrounded with metal railing to protect the castle roof sentries from accidentally falling through. I’d leant against them while waiting for the Ire’s report not long ago. Now, I’ll use these vertical bars to pull myself up.

I strain to reach the railing through the door while maintaining a stable footing on the beam. This isn’t working. I hold on to the trapdoor’s rope with one hand, and raise on tiptoes. My feet are still on the truss, though my body is slanting precariously over empty space. My fingers fumble on the cool surface of the railing.

I stretch further, rising onto a single leg on the beam.

My right hand finally closes around the bar. It’s enough. I let go of the rope in my left hand and swing into empty space, relying completely on my right arm on the roof rail to support me. I outstretch my left arm and quickly locate a neighboring bar.

Devoid of any weight to draw it down, the trapdoor pushes up under my feet, helping me as I shimmy my hands up the railing, my body swaying beneath me.

The roof slowly comes into view as I struggle upward. I swing my legs up onto the solid stone roof and take a moment to absorb what I’m seeing.

I’m glad Hare accidentally warned me, because the sight of over fifty slaughtered men, piled in a heap, disturbs me on some deep, unspeakable level. The bodies are strewn between chairs, tables and sticks. Bunches of clothing have been thrown on top of them too. Anything that will light on fire to form a massive signal. This fire will be seen for miles—just as the Elite intended.

That’s when I see Brovek on the other side, busy lighting torches. I slither soundlessly over the barrier and sweep low toward him. If I can catch him unawares, this could all be over in seconds. I just want this nightmare to end.

I don’t know what alerts him. Probably the excellent instincts that elevated him to his station in the first place. Either way, he turns to me. His face turns from shock to focus in seconds. In the next few moments he looks from my sprinting approach, down to the few lit torches at his disposal. I understand his brief deliberation as if I
were
him. And a part of me congratulates him on his choice when he picks up a single blazing torch, while the other part hates him for it. He’s decided to set the fire before he fights.

But he’s too slow. With no finesse and no plan I throw myself at him, hitting the ground with a thud. I fight against the loss of breath as Brovek rolls to his feet and reaches for the torches once again.

I free myself and lunge his way. He abandons his reach for the torches and delivers a cruel kick to my stomach instead. I roll away until I hit the stone balustrade of the roof. Veni, I can’t be caught against the wall with a man of Brovek’s size.

I push to kneeling, but fall away from his fist as it cuts in front of me.

“Not so confident without your brother here to do most of the work,” he snarls.

I push my legs over my head, curling backwards, and regain my feet, startling the panting man. Both of us are recovering from our race here. My arms are still burning from the climb.

“You won’t be lighting that signal,” I say. “Step down and I will allow you to live.”

He laughs snidely. “I’d rather die.”

He follows up on his words, darting in. I twist to the side and we engage in a flurry of activity. I lose myself to the automatic movements of my body. Nothing matters except stopping him.

He punches my side. The pain cuts through me, reminding me of the slash there. I return the favor with a crossing blow to an already swollen eye. There’s no hope in me. I won’t allow it because the Elite leader and I are exactly matched as we dance across the rooftop. I lick at his left leg and watch it buckle. He clips the side of my chin with an upper-cut.

I dart in and pick up his fallen dagger, kicking the lit torches farther away from the heaped bodies behind me. Brovek snarls in fury as I sink down, weight on my toes.

“You giving up?” I ask. He lets out an outraged bellow and charges me. I switch my footing in response to his dodging.

I shouldn’t have bothered. I watch in shock as Brovek slips on an unlit torch bracket, going down in a crashing heap of corded muscle straight on top of the blazing fire of another torch. His clothing alights and the burning orange spreads rapidly as he rolls side to side, struggling to free himself from the flames. He screams in pain, shouting obscenities as he throws his legs and arms around eratically.

It’s every Solati’s worst fear: burning to death.

I stand between Brovek and the signal fire and simply watch as he frantically pats down the flames licking his body, tearing off what clothing he can. He succeeds in taming the fire after a time, but I can see from here that much of his body is blistered.

Brovek falls to the ground in an exhausted heap. It’s not good enough for me. I leap astride his smoking frame, pinning his arms to his side with my legs, dagger in hand.

“Get off, filthy whore,” he wheezes. I don’t submit to my vanity by voicing words.

I plunge the dagger into his stomach and jerk it out again. The acids and leaking bile should start working immediately. One of the slowest and most agonizing ways to die. Fire is agonizing, too, but it’s quick.

I consider that as Brovek writhes beneath me. Twenty minutes is too long for him to remain alive. I stand slightly and open a gaping line between his hips, from left to right, making sure to sever an artery.

“Your mother should have … killed you,” he gasps.

I allow myself a few words now that he’s incapacitated.

“I could say the same about yours,” I say.

“I should have crushed you when you were—” He breaks off as I open the arteries in both thighs and stand on top of his stomach wound, pressing. His eyes roll up with the pain. I kick him roughly until he regains consciousness and then crouch down by his head.

“Your decisions today killed the Elite.” I watch his face for remorse. There is none.

“Your actions during my childhood helped me become the person who is killing you today.” A flicker of fear flashes in his eyes as he acknowledges his fate.

I draw myself close and whisper, “In your last moment I want you to know, every thing you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve tried to uphold. The
horror
you’ve inflicted on the innocent.” He stills at my words. “It was all for nothing. Osolis will be restored.”

I slit his throat and watch as his blood soaks onto the stone of the castle roof. His head drops to one side as his last breath leaves him.

I hesitate before moving to him and feeling for life. He’s truly dead. I limp to the scattered torches and smother them, before throwing them over the side of the parapet. I don’t have the time or strength to shift all the bodies and furniture, but I can’t leave the torches so close while I make sure my friends are safe. I peer over to the First Sector, but there’s no way I’ll be able to see the Oscala from here. The Solati couldn’t have seen the flame from a single torch, could they?

* * *

One hand pressed to my slashed side, I walk under the stone arch, favoring my left leg. At some point someone must have landed a blow to my thigh. Malir and Olandon meet me at the base of the second set of stairs, flanking me on either side. Relief staggers through me as I pick out my remaining five companions from the throng of crying and white-faced women and children. Rhone is pale. He got stabbed and definitely shouldn’t be standing. I doubt anyone will dare to point that out to him. Rian stands off to one side, the assembly Bruma giving him a wide berth. I don’t blame them.

I gesture Olandon and Malir ahead, and they leave my side to help with the injured. My brother aids Greta, who has been badly beaten, to lay on a bench. Malir grabs a bawling Sadra in a tender hug.

We did it. Tears well in my own eyes. We saved them.

There is a sound.

I frown at first. Puzzling over the noise as I’m forced forward by a pressure behind me.

Still confused, I glance up and see Olandon racing toward me. Malir whips his head around and his eyes widen in … anguish? Some of the women cover their mouths, while others have them wide open like Cameron did in my nightmare.

Why can’t I hear the screaming? I peer down at my body, dumbly registering there’s something there which shouldn’t be.

The pointed edge of a sword. A Solati sword.

A voice whispers in my ear. “Mission accomplished.”

The surrounding noise returns. My brother roars as I slide forward onto my knees, finally understanding I’ve been stabbed. Blood throbs in my head and black creeps on the edges of my vision. Weapons clang behind me. Olandon is fighting someone. Who did we miss? What if there are others?

The roof!

I put one hand down on the ground and look up blearily into Shard’s panicked eyes.

I need to tell him something. The signal fire. It can’t be lit.

“Make sure,” I get out, but something wet comes out of my mouth. The rusty taste tells me it is blood.

“No one gets to roof,” I gasp. Hands lower me to the ground; my head rolls around on my shoulders, no longer under my control.

“Don’t talk, Olina,” a soft voice says. Blizzard?

“Roof,” I blurt again.

A large hand strokes my hair. Malir’s face blurs above me. “Someone’s going right now. Shh, now.”

I relax and the dark dots begin to connect. I’ve heard the pain from such wounds is excruciating. And I know what it means that I can’t feel a thing. I should tell my friends how much I love them, but my mouth doesn’t work. I should try to hug Olandon—maybe ask him to tell the twins how sorry I am.

Jovan will never know how I feel. I’ve waited too long to admit to myself that I love the king of Glacium. My attention focuses on a lone tear tracking down my temple. He’ll never know that I’d die ten times more to make sure he was safe.

That thought is worse than all the others put together.

Something cool brushes my skin.

“You are the strongest person I know.”

Soft voices whisper against my hair, murmuring worried words. Why are they worried? I wish I could reassure them.

“What’s wrong with her?

Someone needs to help me. The bed is on fire. I writhe side to side, trying to get out, but someone has laid stone brick on me to pin me down. I can’t move. I scream for help.

“Fever, my King.”

Someone cries heartbroken sobs. A feminine sound. It’s my mother. My mind is so hazy and weak I did not recognize her.

“It has been a long time,” I whisper.

The crying stops. My mouth twists for a moment before that too becomes exhausting.

“Are you crying for me?” I croak. Does my mother love me after all? I finally see that she didn’t want to do it; she had to.

“Frost, it’s me. Are you awake?”

Frost? The word is familiar. Who speaks? I can’t place the familiar word before I sink into darkness once more.

The coolness is back. There are regular strokes of a cloth on my skin. My body is not my own. Repeated attempts to open my eyes go unanswered.

“Please come back to me, Lina,” he says. A trembling kiss presses against my forehead. Or maybe I’m shaking. The warmth of his breath is nice in contrast to the cold water. I sigh, tilting my head toward the person. I love this man. I only wish I could remember his name.

“Did you see that?” The man’s voice breaks. “She moved!”

“I saw it, brother,” a younger voice affirms.

I’m glad this man has someone who cares for him.

It’s always dark.

I come to realize it is because my eyes are closed. Such a simple movement, but it is beyond me. I can’t remember if I’ve tried this before, but the frustration is familiar, like it has happened several times.

“Why she hasn’t woken?” a voice asks.

“Shh, love. You’ve done everything you can. She has to want to come back.”

I frown at that. Of course I want to come back. There’s someone … a man.

Jovan.

My lips twitch in a smile. That’s the man’s name. I want to say it aloud, to remember how it feels.

“Jo—” I say.

“Hush, Malir. She’s trying to speak.”

I can’t summon enough wetness in my mouth to clear the parched dryness in my throat. I need to say the name.

I rip the name through cracked lips. “Jovan.”