Illusion: Book Four of the Grimoire Saga (24 page)

Elana pulled at her braid and sat on her boulder.

The Kirelm army reached the castle. Fireballs rained upon the castle, lighting up the growing darkness even as Elana’s eyes adjusted to the coming night. Flares of fire surged, burning white streaks into her vision as the war waged below her.

“It’s just you and me, now,” Blood Aurora said.

Elana tore her eyes away from the melee long enough to see the queen sit on a nearby boulder. Her metal wing grated against stone, sparking. Aurora cursed and shifted her weight, trying to settle onto the rock.

A whisper of shame trickled through Elana. She couldn’t join the fight, but neither could her queen. Of them, the queen had a right to be there. Elana suppressed the burning need to point out that the armies should have waited before diving in, but it was a moot point now. No need to antagonize her Blood.

“Are you okay?” she asked instead.

Blood Aurora chuckled, but the laughter died in seconds. “No.”

“Would it help to talk about it? I mean, if you want. Only if—well, if it would, uh…” Elana wanted to punch herself. She snapped her mouth shut and tugged again at her hair.

Blood Aurora hesitated. “If I told you the truth, could you handle an imperfect queen?”

Elana twisted in her seat. “Of course.”

“It isn’t pretty.”

“That’s okay.”

Blood Aurora nodded and rubbed her temples, eyes cast to the snow. “I am… disappointed. I, Blood of Kirelm and Lady of the Skies, was carried to war in a basket. I’m a ground-ridden ruler of those who can fly.”

Elana fiddled with her hem, not sure of what to say. Pinpricks dug into her throat as she imagined what it would be like to never again fly, to never again savor the rush of wind caressing her face or the chill of a cloud’s bite—agony.

The queen continued. “I smile and carry my burden with all the grace I can muster. But to those I trust—Gurien, you, and perhaps Kara when she’s no longer overwhelmed—you see the truth.”

Elana shifted on her stone, leaning toward the young queen. “I wish I had something wise to say.”

Blood Aurora smiled. “That’s not necessary. I shouldn’t have said anything—this is certainly not the time. Please, stay focused, Elana. We can’t be distracted. Have you updated the others?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, go on.”

Elana turned and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. What a disaster. She should have said something, anything, to comfort her queen. But she’d lost the opportunity, and she may never get it again.

She pulled out the inkwell from around her neck. She fished the quill from between the pages of her grimoire and wrote a note for Roj and the Lossian armies, updating them on General Gurien’s attack and Garrett’s plight. Hopefully, someone could help him.

With that, her usefulness ended. She sat on the edge of her seat, book open on her lap, and stared into the fires quickly turning the Stele to rubble. She hoped Braeden would have something to rebuild once he killed his father. At this rate, he would have only corpses to rule.

Chapter 17

Dual Citizen

Roj, vagabond and Lossian scholar, stood in the Stelian aqueducts beneath the main castle, waiting for word to attack. A current of water pulled at his bare feet as he waded through the city’s fresh water supply. Lossians swam better without shoes, and Blood Frine ordered boots-off in an effort to prepare as best they could. Roj’s webbed toes wiggled against the smooth floor, relishing the cool flow over his skin in their newfound freedom. He hated boots.

The aqueduct’s stone walls formed a wide arc three yards tall and twice as wide. Water swept over their ankles, only two feet deep in the shallow points. Every dozen feet or so, trickles of sunlight broke through a hole in the ceiling—likely the wells citizens used to access the fresh water below. With each passing light, the beams seemed to darken as the sun no doubt sank behind the mountains he’d seen once the Lossian army crossed through the Stelian lichgate. No one on the streets above could imagine the thousands of Lossians filling the aqueducts below, prepared to attack at Roj’s command. He squirmed at the thought. Blood Frine led the way, though the Lossian Heir was forced to remain behind lest something go sour during the battle.

Blood Frine raised his hand, palm out—the signal to stop. So they would join the war from here. Two Lossian soldiers trotted toward the hole above. One knelt beneath it, while the other stood on his hands. With two quick thrusts Roj almost didn’t see, the second Lossian sailed into the air and grabbed the rocks of the well. He swung, catching his heel on a protruding stone, and paused with his body blocking most of the opening. He reached into his pack and pulled out a rolled collection of planks and rope. He leaned into the wall, freeing his hands to work. Moments later, he leapt to the pavement and landed on his feet, a rope ladder unraveling behind him.

Roj’s clothes clung to his sides and legs, soaked from their trips through the aqueduct’s deeper channels. Now that they stood in a shallow area near the city center—according to Braeden’s maps, anyway—his grimoire lay open in his hands. His wide hand balanced the cover across his palm, cradling the precious book as if he held a child. Protecting its knowledge was an honor, one he simply could not refuse when offered. He monitored the open page, waiting for the signal to strike. Kara’s order already came through, and now he waited for the first wave of attack.

Blood Frine stood beside him, and Roj could barely contain himself. The Blood stood within ten feet and would look to him for the order to attack—Roj! His heart fluttered with joy. He admired his Blood’s tenacity and devotion to his people, as well as the sense of honor and nobility he instilled in those he ruled. Roj had left the great Lossian’s command for the vagabonds with significant guilt. But he and the Vagabond Kara shared a dream. As much as he respected Blood Frine, he longed even more for peace in Ourea. Agreement. Open trade. A sharing of ideas and knowledge. He’d tasted that life in the Vagabond’s village, where he learned the basics of self-defense from a Kirelm and traded a Lossian bracelet for an Ayavelian book on magical theory. Another bubble of excitement washed through him. Peace was possible; Kara’s village had shown him as much. He hoped this final battle would make his dream real.

The water gushed by.

A screech echoed through the sky far above, muffled by the aqueduct’s stone walls but powerful nonetheless. The scream blasted through the tunnel. Echoes followed, reliving the sound over and over in softer tones. Roj froze. He’d never heard a cry like that before, one that could freeze him to the ground.

The shriek blasted through the tunnels again, louder this time. Whatever this beast was, it had come closer.

A clamor of voices slipped through the well opening above as Stelians apparently rushed to their posts. So the battle had begun. The cries must have been due to Garrett. Roj hated to imagine what monster the muse had transformed into, but if the Stelians shouted loud enough to be heard in the aqueduct, it must have been quite a sight.

Fear crept up Roj’s throat. He gripped his grimoire’s spine.

Prepare,
a voice said in his mind.

Frine’s silent command rocked through Roj’s core like an earthquake. He recognized it, having lived through dozens of similar commands in his time at the capital. He tensed his jaw, trying to hide the effects of hearing the command. Though he felt no compulsion to obey, his heart raced at the sudden intrusion into his head. While he admired Blood Frine, he never cared for this part of his rule. The mandates were an element of his old life he’d wished away, but not even a vagabond’s life could disconnect him from his Blood’s commands. At least he didn’t have to obey.

He chanced a glance at his Blood, only to see the king already studying him. The man’s brow wrinkled in concentration. Roj swallowed out of nerves, his throat suddenly dry. The Blood beckoned him closer.

Roj leaned in, feigning calm. “Yes, Blood Frine?”

“You must know I hold no ill will for you, vagabond. You are still welcome in Losse, despite your vagabond nature, regardless of the outcome of this battle.”

A smile crept onto Roj’s face as a rush of relief swam through him. “Thank you, my Blood.”

Blood Frine nodded and once more studied the well, shoulders tense.

Roj examined his grimoire, but his eyes didn’t focus on the pages. A full pardon, given in person. The guilt of betraying his people sank away. He meant to protect them, and it seemed Blood Frine knew that as well. Roj no longer had to choose between nations—he lived to serve both the Vagabond Kara and Blood Frine.

His smile grew until a rumble shook the aqueduct. He stumbled, his grimoire sliding in his hands. His stomach churned as he grabbed it, catching the cover before it splashed into the water. Rocks tumbled from above. He shielded his head with an arm as pebbles rained on him.

Another scream from the beast. Another rumble through the rock.

His grimoire shivered, and he glanced at it in time to see lines scratching from an invisible quill onto the page. Richard signed the short note, signaling Elana’s team to attack.

Roj turned to his Blood. “Hillside is moving in. The Kirelms will wait fifteen minutes and then attack.”

Blood Frine stood straighter and nodded. “It is almost time, then.”

Ready yourselves.
Again with the voice in his mind
.

The Blood’s silent mandate shook Roj’s core yet again. He turned away in time to hide the grimace, but he couldn’t hide the flinch. He simply hoped his Blood hadn’t noticed, but he wouldn’t turn around to see for himself. That would simply raise suspicion.

Screams. Rumbling. Yells. War raged above them, and yet the Lossians remained still. None moved. Every soldier eyed the well opening through which they would momentarily slip into the battle above. They had to wait until all attention was focused elsewhere lest they be picked off one by one as they left the tunnels.

A quiet pang in Roj’s chest sent a wave of shame down his to his toes. He wouldn’t contribute much to the fighting. He was a scholar, not a soldier. When the Lossians sailed into battle, he would be the last up through the well. He would keep his Blood in sight and use his magical talents as best he could to fend off attackers, but the sword the Vagabond Kara forced him to wear would go unused. He could wield magic, but he didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with a blade.

He turned again to Blood Frine, examining the Lossian as he prepared to dive into battle with his soldiers. Roj wondered if he would see his Blood’s daru, the dark side of every royal yakona—a being of immense power drawn from the subjects around him. He doubted he would see such a sight, however much he longed to. Taking on the daru would help Blood Frine’s fight, of course, but it would leave any subjects nearby powerless as he drained their energy. They would be killed instantly, and he would lose access to their energy. It was a risk he doubted the king would take unless cornered.

The ground rumbled again. The crackle of fire hummed nearby. Wood splintered, its echo carrying in the aqueduct. Roj balled his free hand into a fist. He couldn’t endure this much longer.

He stared at his grimoire, silently willing Elana to write the words he needed to read for this tension to end. As if she heard him, her handwriting crawled across the page. Roj whipped his head around. Blood Frine caught his eye.

“The Kirelms are attacking.”

“Already?”

“It appears they didn’t want to wait.”

“Then neither shall we,” the Blood said.

Roj opened his mouth to speak, to explain why that was a bad idea, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t dissuade a Blood; he was no equal to royalty. Instead, he prepared for the silent mandate ordering the attack. His shoulders tensed. To distract himself, he fished out his quill and scrawled a note to Rieve explaining the change of plans. After a few breaths on the ink to dry it, he wished away the book. Its blue dust sailed into the air, dissolving into his grimoire pendant. He smiled, a dash of joy seeping through the fear. His pendant’s stone glowed blue, the light growing stronger as more of his grimoire disappeared inside.

Attack.
Blood Frine’s order still pummeled through him like a fist to the gut, but he didn’t flinch this time.

The well opening blasted apart, revealing a gaping hole three times its original size. The ladder fell to the floor. Fire rained upon the soldiers. Lossians yelped and dove out of the way. Without pausing to doubt himself, Roj gathered the air around him and shot it upward like a shield against the fire, propelling the flames back from where they came.

He guided the flames away. They dissolved with a whoosh, and Roj wondered if a building collapsed or if they would need to find another exit. As his mouth parted to raise debate, a Kirelm with no shirt shot through the opening, his silver skin a contrast to the dull stone. His black wings consumed the ceiling. He dove into the Lossian soldiers with his sword drawn. The blade sailed through a Lossian soldier’s stomach. The man screamed. Blue blood rushed over the blade. Other Lossians drew their swords and attacked the Kirelm. He lay on the stonework within seconds, swallowed by a swarm of blue heads.

This couldn’t be. This had to be a mistake. The Kirelms were on their side.