The White Mists of Power (38 page)

As Kensington hit the ground, he grunted but did not loosen his grip. Byron brought a knee against Kensington’s groin and for a brief instant felt the hands about his neck go slack. He took a gulp of air and pushed Kensington away. Byron got up, breathing heavily, unwilling to grapple in the dirt like a child.

A second later, Kensington was on his feet, a dagger in his hand. Byron heard the spectators gasp. Swords were the agreed-upon weapons. He couldn’t see past that knife, wanting to kill the man. Byron swung a fist at Kensington, but Kensington ducked and slashed. The knife slid across Byron’s stomach. He staggered from the blow. Kensington lunged again and fear made Byron dodge.

He grabbed Kensington’s wrist and pulled him to the ground, trying to knock the dagger free. Kensington struggled, but Byron held on for a moment. Then he let go and stood up. A look of confusion crossed Kensington’s face. As he pulled himself to his feet, Byron kicked the knife, knocking it from Kensington’s hand. It soared straight above them, and they forgot each other in their scramble to catch the dagger. Kensington’s hand closed around the blade, but the pain made him release it. Byron caught the hilt, then grabbed Kensington’s shirt, and tossed him back into the dirt. Byron put the blade to Kensington’s throat, digging the sharp edge in ever so slightly.

“Do you concede? Or do I have to kill you?” Byron asked. Kensington pushed Byron, but the bard retained his position. He pressed harder against Kensington’s throat. The spectators leaned closer.

Kensington’s eyes glittered. “Concede,” he said, his voice harsh from the blade’s pressure. “I concede.”

Byron tossed the knife point down into the ground and helped Kensington to his feet. Kensington rubbed his neck. Byron walked toward Seymour, feeling dizzy with the loss of blood, knowing he was near collapse. Then he heard the thunk of a blade piercing skin. He turned to see Kensington fall face forward in the dry earth, Alma’s dagger in his back.

Byron’s anger returned, banishing his weakness. “Almathea!”

Alma caught the anger in his tone. Her dark eyes flashed with a light of their own. She took a few steps forward and flipped Kensington over, not noticing as his blood stained her white gown. In his hand, the lord held his dagger.

“He was going to stab you in the back,” she said. “Should I have waited to see if you noticed?”

Byron ignored the sarcasm. He dropped to his knees beside Kensington. The lord smiled and let go of the dagger. Byron took his free hand.

“Seymour.”

Seymour and Vonda both came over and propped Kensington on his side. Kensington’s breath came in gasps. They began to work on his back when the lord’s grip on Byron’s hand tightened. Fear shot through Kensington’s face and his breath rattled in his throat. After a moment Byron reached up and closed Kensington’s eyes.

Byron stood, feeling another wave of dizziness flow through him. He steadied himself and then turned to Almathea. She was staring at him, her chin jutting out slightly. He had never seen her looking so beautiful.

“Almathea,” he said, extending his hand. “Come here.”

She took his hand and he pulled her into his arms. Her touch was light, careful of his wounds. He didn’t know how long they stood there, his face buried in her hair, his arms encircling her small frame, but he needed her support to prevent his collapse. She had supported him from the moment she saw him. Perhaps that meant she loved him. Perhaps she only saw that her future was best with him.

But it didn’t matter. He had what he wanted now. He wasn’t going to lose it.

Epilogue

The grove still smelled of burned trees. Byron stood at the edge and watched the Enos crouch over the land. They cleared the burnt earth, watered it and fertilized it, as if they expected it to grow again. He would miss the whistle-woods. They had touched his childhood.

The Enos came to him, her head bowed. She looked like Lord Demythos’ Enos, but he wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry about the whistle-woods,” he said.

She held out a hand to him. Burns scraped along the palm, removing skin, revealing a substance beneath that looked like wood.
Come.

He took her hand and followed her to the mouth of the Cache. “I can’t,” he said when he realized that she wanted him to go in. “It’s forbidden.”

Things change.
He thought he felt a touch of sadness and fear mingled with the words in his mind. The Enos led him inside the Cache.

The air was cold and damp. Glowing rocked led them to a cavern. The air inside was humid and the light intense. An indoor garden greeted him.

Come.

He followed the Enos up a footpath and saw before him a grove of thin saplings. Whistle-woods. She must have heard his thought.

Our future.
And again he felt that rill of fear.

He nodded, pleased to see the trees. He wished he could show Alma, but knew that he would never be allowed inside the Cache again.

The Enos took his arm and led him to the center of the grove. He sat on a rock, smelling the tangy scent of the whistle-woods.

“No prophecy?” he asked the Enos before him.

She bowed her head, then reached and touched his temples. Slides moved in his mind, the barriers she had set up decades before. He felt her pull them from him.

The old ways are gone with the Old Ones. The future is dark, and we make our own choices now.
Her fingers left his temples.
Peace between us?

Byron nodded, wondering if there had ever been any strife.
Yes,
he thought, knowing that thoughts meant more to the Enos than spoken words.
There will be peace between us always.

Peace.
The word seemed to echo through his head, as if it were spoken by hundreds of different voices. He leaned back in the whistle-wood grove, felt the trees touch him.

Our future,
he thought and smiled. He finally believed he had one.

Award-winning, bestselling writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch has published books under many names and in many genres. Her fantasy novels have been published all over the world. Her most famous, the five novels of the Fey, were recently rereleased in the United States as audio books by Audible.com. She has won the World Fantasy Award and is the former editor of
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
magazine. She also writes fantasy novels under the name Kristine Grayson. For more information on her work, go to kristinekathrynrusch.com.

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The White Mists of Power,
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The Fey: Victory

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