Leaves of Flame (68 page)

He tried to calm his breathing, tried to relax.

There.

Excitement cut through him, but he forced it back, focused on the one channel he’d chosen and then began pouring power through himself into the flows there. He pushed them to one side, tried to divert them into a new passage, as if he’d taken his hand and plunged it into the edge of a stream to affect the currents.

The Lifeblood reacted, swirling around him as if he were merely a stone, creating new eddies, but not blocking the main channel feeding the Well. The stream was too large. He needed more power.

Opening himself up further, he let more of the power of the Wells course through him, felt his presence expand in the stream, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed more. Shaking with the effort, he opened himself wider, and wider still, felt his control of the power trembling in his grasp. He had never extended himself this far, had never absorbed and held this much within himself, had never allowed so much of the Lifeblood to flow through him. He shuddered
in ecstasy, on the verge of allowing it to carry him away, tasted its coldness to his core, the scent of ice and loam and earth overwhelming him.

And it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t,” he murmured, trying to push himself further, to block the flow of Lifeblood. “It’s too far along. I’m not strong enough. I can’t stop it.”

His voice drew his awareness back to his body, drew him back to the edge of the Well, the Lifeblood a finger’s breadth away from the top now. He felt Aielan’s Light burning around him, felt Siobhaen and Eraeth’s presence on the far side of the Well, heard Siobhaen shouting something, her voice thick with warning.

“I can’t,” he whispered, trying to answer her, despair beginning to wash through him.

The Wraiths were going to succeed. Walter was going to win. They’d planned everything too well, Colin and Aeren and the dwarren reacting too late.

Then pain punched through the despair, a white-­hot, ragged pain that began in his back and erupted from his chest, searing through his body as it arched, someone grabbing hold of his shoulder to keep him steady as the pain widened, gripping his entire chest, sending sheets of fire into his arms and legs. He glanced down as blood gurgled up in the back of his throat, coating his mouth, and saw the end of Walter’s blade jutting out of his chest.

Walter’s breath blew hot against his neck as the Wraith whispered, “You never did open yourself completely to the Lifeblood and all it offered as I did, did you?”

The white fire of Aielan’s Light leaped from Siobhaen’s hands in an arc, burning into the outer ring of sukrael instantly, setting them afire. Their shrieks filled the blue-­lit chamber as Siobhaen pushed the fire outward, the Shadows
twisting and writhing as they tried to escape. Eraeth had an arrow nocked and ready to shoot, sight trained along its length as he swung it back and forth, searching for any of the sukrael that might break free, but there was no need. Siobhaen could
feel
them through the fire as it seethed through her, knew where to direct the tendrils of flame. They were like voids in the living world around her, pits of emptiness.

She filled those pits with fire.

There were over twenty of the sukrael left and they all died within the space of ten heartbeats. Their black bodies flapped in the white furnace that Siobhaen called forth, burned to embers as the Light flowed through her. She found herself murmuring prayers to Aielan, litanies from her youth coming to her lips without thought. She prayed to her ancestors, to the flames beneath Caercaern, to the fire she drew upon now, and when the last Shadow had ceased to exist she felt that fire taper off and die within her.

Weakness shuddered through her and she collapsed to her knees, then back onto her heels.

“Siobhaen!”

She turned toward Eraeth’s voice, removed from her body, hollowed out and burned to a cinder. She tried to smile in reassurance. “It came too easy,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I couldn’t control it.”

“You controlled it enough to kill the sukrael.”

She shook her head. He didn’t understand. “I could guide it, but I couldn’t control its power. It was too much. It burned me out.”

She could tell by his scrunched up look that he still didn’t understand.

Then movement caught her eye. Movement on the far side of the Well.

Shaeveran stood at the water’s edge, arms raised, staff in one hand, but his eyes were closed, his face tense with
­concentration. To her burnt-­out senses, he appeared to be throbbing, as if he were greater than he appeared, filled to bursting. The bluish light of the Well washed over him, casting him in strange shadows.

But the movement came from behind him and to one side.

“Eraeth,” Siobhaen said in horror.

The Protector spun at the warning in her voice, bow already rising, string creaking as he drew the arrow back, fingers near his ear. But the Wraith had already risen, had already slipped behind the oblivious Shaeveran.

The human’s eyes flickered. His mouth moved, as if he were speaking.

Siobhaen couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to, too drained by Aielan’s Light. But she could still talk.

She drew in a deep breath and screamed, “Shaeveran! Behind you!”

And then the tip of a blade burst from Shaeveran’s chest. He arched back, but the Wraith’s hand clamped onto his shoulder and held him as the blade twisted and the Wraith murmured something in Shaeveran’s ear.

With a jerk, the Wraith withdrew the blade and let Shaeveran fall to the side.

Siobhaen couldn’t breathe. Her chest had constricted, her throat locked shut, mouth open. Horror tingled through her body, paralyzing her.

But not Eraeth.

She heard the twang of the bowstring, saw the first arrow streaking across the now completely full Well, the shaft shimmering with light from the water beneath. She felt it sink into the Wraith’s chest as if it had struck her own instead. She jerked, drawing air through the constriction, something painful tearing deep inside. A second and third arrow were already speeding across the Well after the first, the sound of the bow somehow amplified in her ears. The
Wraith’s body had twisted, the force of the first shaft throwing him back. The second arrow hit him high in the shoulder, kicking him in the opposite direction, the third taking him in the throat.

The fourth took him in the eye.

He fell, Siobhaen so attuned to the chamber she heard his clothes rustle, heard the thud of the body hit the stone. Then Eraeth’s hands were under her armpits, heaving her up and slinging one arm across his shoulders so he could support her. She instinctively pulled away, not wanting his help, disgusted at the presumption, but when she dragged her feet under her, they would not support her weight.

“Come on,” Eraeth growled. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay down.” He began hauling her around the edge of the Well, heading toward the bodies. She noted he unconsciously veered around the blackened ash where the sukrael had died.

“He isn’t dead?” she asked, her voice dry and ragged.

“No.”

Stunned, she let Eraeth carry her for a moment, then began struggling to regain her footing, her legs tingling as the bloodflow returned to them. She hissed at the sensation, but by the time they’d reached Shaeveran’s side, she could stand on her own.

Eraeth let her go and dropped down beside Shaeveran, rolling him onto his back.

Siobhaen sucked air through her teeth.

The hole in Shaeveran’s chest still leaked blood, a large pool of it already surrounding his body, his clothes plastered to his side, his hair matted with it. More blood than Siobhaen had ever seen. Some of it had reached the edge of the Well, curling red-­black in the water before dispersing. Shaeveran’s face was ashen, his hands pale, his lips blue. And yet he breathed. If she hadn’t seen his chest moving, she would have known by the bubbles of blood that formed
at the hole in his chest. But his breathing was slow, perhaps one breath for every three of Siobhaen’s.

“Is he alive?” she asked.

Eraeth gave her a scathing look. “Of course.”

Siobhaen tensed at the derision, but Eraeth had already dismissed her, was digging through his satchel. He pulled out one of the waterskins, uncapped it, and upended the water onto the ground.

Siobhaen lurched forward. “What are you doing? We need that! We’re in the middle of a desert!”

He thrust the skin into her hands. “Fill this with water from the Source as best you can. He may want it when he awakens. Don’t touch the water. Don’t even touch the waterskin where it gets wet. And for Aielan’s sake, don’t drink any of it.”

He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed him, turning back to Shaeveran instead, ripping the bloody shirt apart over the wound and beginning to clean it, not being gentle. As soon as he cleared it, the wound filled with fresh blood. Dark blood, rich and vital. Eraeth swore and continued working, motions frantic.

Siobhaen shuddered and turned away. Shaeveran had told her he couldn’t die, but she hadn’t believed it until now. He shouldn’t still be alive. Any Alvritshai with a wound like that would have died before he hit the floor.

She gripped the waterskin in her hands, then made her way to the Well, stumbling only once on her weakened legs before kneeling. She made to dip the entire skin into the water, then remembered what Eraeth had said. Gritting her teeth, she held the skin along one edge and dipped the mouth beneath the smooth surface, the Well still pulsing with bluish light. Air bubbles escaped and rose to the surface, but she couldn’t get much of the Lifeblood into the skin, not without reaching into the water.

She tried a few more times, then swore and pulled the
skin from the Well, holding it as if it were made of glass, letting the liquid drip down one side. She could feel the power of the Lifeblood, as if she held her hand out to a fire. It smelled of earth and loam.

When she turned back, she caught sight of the Wraith.

He’d fallen on his back, the four arrows jutting up from his body—­chest, shoulder, throat, and eye. She grimaced at the last as she moved to stand over him. The sword that he’d thrust through Shaeveran’s body lay next to his limp hand, slick with blood. She kicked it farther away, afraid to touch it. Then she knelt down beside the body.

Unlike Shaeveran, the Wraith’s skin roiled with darkness, like ink. Blood stained his clothes as well, seeping from around the strange wooden arrows. His chest rose and fell in the same slackened pace as Shaeveran’s, but somehow it seemed more unnatural to Siobhaen. She reached her free hand toward the end of the shaft that had sunk into the Wraith’s eye socket, but couldn’t bring herself to touch it.

She stood abruptly, spitting a vitriolic curse at the body, then hurried back to Eraeth’s side.

“The Wraith isn’t dead,” she reported. “He’s still breathing. Even with that arrow through the eye.”

“It will take more than an arrow to kill them, even one given to us by the Ostraell. Be thankful that it’s hurt him enough to knock him unconscious.” Eraeth stood, staring down at where he’d bandaged Shaeveran’s chest, the cloth over the wound already stained red. He glanced toward the Well, then Siobhaen, narrowing his eyes. “We need to get him out of here.”

“What about the Source?”

“Without Colin, there’s nothing more we can do. And I don’t want to be around when the Wraith wakes.”

“But—­” Siobhaen turned to stare at the Well, at the bluish light that was beginning to dim.

Eraeth gripped her shoulder. “We won’t go far. We’ find
someplace in the city to rest until he heals enough to tell us what needs to be done.”

“Can anything be done now?”

Siobhaen’s heart lurched with pain at the grim expression that flickered across Eraeth’s face. Despair washed through her and she suddenly wondered if events would have turned out differently if she had turned on Vaeren before they had reached the Well in the northern wastes, if she hadn’t wavered between her duty to the Sanctuary and Lotaern and her duty to Aeilan’s Light and what she’d felt in her soul was right.

The thought that they would have, that Shaeveran would not be lying at her feet, his heart’s blood staining the stone beneath them, sickened her.

Eraeth squeezed her shoulder, then glanced down at the waterskin she clutched in one hand. It was still damp with the Lifeblood.

He snatched up his satchel and opened it. Siobhaen dropped the skin inside and he cinched it closed and threw it over his shoulder. He motioned toward Shaeveran. “We have to move. Now. Help me with him.”

They each took one of Shaeveran’s arms beneath a shoulder, the human surprisingly light, and began dragging him up the steps away from the Source toward one of the openings that led to the outskirts of the building. Behind, the bluish light of the Well continued to recede, night reclaiming the broken dome’s interior.

At the top of the steps, they paused to look back, the water of the Source placid, the light within as faint as moonlight now, washing the stone debris and the cracked walls of the chamber. The Wraith’s body lay still and shadowed.

Siobahen’s stomach suddenly clenched and she turned toward Eraeth, Shaeveran’s body between them, head sagging forward. “What about the dwarren? And the humans to the south? What about the Seasonal Trees?”