Now, Rielle, please!

Rielle knew she would hear those words for the rest of her life—Ludivine’s frayed voice, trembling with fear, begging Rielle to kill her.

She would remember everything that happened in those seconds before the end. How she reached for Corien and Ludivine, held them in her palms as if she were the god that had made them. How Corien realized too late what she intended and screamed for her to stop, his voice shattering. She would remember gathering the empirium—every speck of it, every shimmering strand within reach. How eagerly her power responded and how devastatingly fast it flew at them.

The world flared hot and brilliant—the dark mountain, the burning castle atop it. Rielle’s mind, her palms, the air whining as if ready to pop. All went white, and then there was nothing. A silent, booming darkness. The fire, gone. The lights streaming through the castle, vanished, as if they had never been made.

Rielle fell hard to her knees.

Breathed once, twice. Three times, and a fourth.

Shaking, she looked up.

Spots of color bloomed before her eyes. She blinked, the world returning to her. The mountains, the city, the stars beyond. The battlefield somewhere below. A quilt of light and fire, baffled dark shapes darting through the air.

Rielle stared, and stared, and as she looked at the charred spots where Ludivine had stood and where Corien had fought her, she felt something rising inside her. Something savage and lonesome, like the forest at night, like a sea seized by storms. There were not even ashes left behind, some ruin of them that she could touch. Her power still simmered in her palms and in the hollow of her throat, in the crooks of her elbows and the bones of her feet. It hummed quietly, satisfied.

Someone behind her cried out in surprise—maybe Miren, maybe Evyline—and Rielle turned to see that every angel and beast on the terrace had disappeared. A faint glow lingered in the air where they had once stood. Ripples in the empirium, echoes of life suddenly and utterly erased.

Rielle knew what this meant, looked dully at her new reality as if reading scripted instructions. Corien had boasted countless times: I am infinite. At any given moment, his mind had been connected with thousands of others—adatrox, elemental children astride their monsters. Angelic captains, eager soldiers. Angels in Avitas; angels in the Deep. And then Ludivine, fighting him, had tangled her mind with his, their power locking together like warring blades, and now they were gone, they were gone—Rielle had killed them both at once, efficient, like an arrow through two hearts—and so every mind they had been inside at the moment of their deaths had also been destroyed. Not just dead—smashed into nothing, reduced to ashes so small they could not be seen or touched or tasted. Thousands of them, obliterated at the moment Corien was, leaving the angelic armies in ruins.

The thing rising inside Rielle erupted. An animal howl tore free of her throat. She was beyond weeping. This was a feeling for which there were no words. Her grief left her shaking, and her hands were claws on the stone, nails ragged against it. The air was sour with the things she had done.

Arms lifted her. Audric helped her sit against him, gently caught her hands, and held them against his throat. She felt the beat of his heart against her fingers, the soft vulnerable curves of his neck.

“I’m here,” he said, his wet cheek touching hers. “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here.” Tears shook in his voice, for he had loved Ludivine too. He had been there in the gardens, at the dinner table, in the warm bed at dawn.

Rielle clung to him, keening against his collar, and then a terrible thought occurred to her. She looked frantically past Audric at the terrace beyond. The bodiless angels who had fought for Eliana drifted above in eerie whispered conference. Alive, but uncertain. What would come next? What now?

But Rielle didn’t care about them, nor did she care about Miren, stumbling to her feet, or Sloane, turned away with her hand over her mouth, or Evyline, limping toward them.

“My queen?” Evyline managed, unsteadily, to kneel. Hope erased years from her face. “Are you with us? Is it you?”

Rielle did not answer her. She was looking past Evyline at Kamayin, who was sinking slowly to the ground. Eyes wide, she stared at two faint shapes moving toward each other—a boy and a girl, flickering like shadows thrown from candles.

A word lodged in Rielle’s throat. Eliana?

She reached for her, wondering where she would go, or if she would go nowhere. If the woman named Eliana would cease to be, now that she had done this thing she had traveled so far to do.

Rielle held her trembling breath.

Blew it out.

They were gone.

47

   Audric

“On this day, Audric Courverie, the king of Celdaria, proclaims, in agreement with the Church, an alliance with the nation of wraiths, who are absolved of all responsibility for the actions of their kindred and with whom the people of Celdaria hope to forge a friendship of peace and communion.”

—A royal decree issued by Audric Courverie, king of Celdaria, dated May 21, Year 1000 of the Second Age

At dawn, Audric quietly opened his eyes, and before he was fully awake, he turned to find Rielle beside him.

She slept in a thin nightgown of white linen, curled on her side to allow her belly room. Turned away from him, her face was hidden. A fear gripped him, as it always did in these terrifying moments upon waking, that something had come for her in the night, some vengeful angel who had gotten past the wraiths’ defenses.

He held his breath until he saw her chest rise and fall. Relief surged through him, and he blinked until his vision cleared. For a moment, he traced the tangled lines of the dark hair spilling across her pillow. Then he moved toward her slowly, wrapped his arms around her. If she turned toward him, he would see the tired lines framing her mouth and carved into her brow.

He found her hands, clenched in hard fists at her chest. She was feverishly hot, but Garver Randell had pronounced her to be perfectly healthy. Audric wrapped his hands gently around hers as if cupping water he was desperate not to spill.

In her sleep, she shivered, and then he felt her soften, the tension she held even while dreaming beginning to fade. Soon, she was pliable in his embrace, warm and trembling. She brought his fingers to her lips, drew his arms tighter around her. Tears dropped onto his hands, and he buried his face in her hair, his throat aching as she cried. Even with the linens changed and the rugs replaced, their bedroom smelled of the smoke from Rielle’s fire, as did the rest of Baingarde, as did the ravaged city beyond it.

“Would you like breakfast?” he whispered at last. He hardly dared move. Mornings were such a fragile time. Another day meant more funerals, more patrols sent to the Flats to scour the wreckage for bodies not yet recovered, more whispered prayers and muttered curses. No one dared hurt Rielle or even come near enough to touch her. When they walked the ruined streets to visit healers’ rooms and pay tribute at the temples, crowds trailed them, watching. Some wary, some awestruck. Some even smiled and knelt in thanks as he passed, Rielle silent and pale on his arm. They reached for her with pious hands. They glared from the shadows and dreamed of her death.