They were going to lose the city.

  They'd failed.

  Suddenly, two pairs of boots crashed into the ground, landing in a crouch not far from Alverax and Laurel. A regal man that seemed to glow in the sky, and a woman with a flowing dress that drifted in the wind. Their eyes, like perfect prisms, radiated the full spectrum of colors. There was something about them, a confidence, a power.

  The man looked to Alverax and smiled. "Do not worry, child. The Heralds have returned."

  Chapter 41

  The two beings who called themselves Heralds leapt into action toward the stampeding monstrosities. In moments, they were hovering above the corespawn army, speaking to the beasts. Their words caused the creatures to howl and thrash about as they backed away. The woman flew forward and struck at the closest of the massive beast. To Laurel, it looked like a bird crashing into a feytree, but, in reality, as soon as the monstrosity was struck, it was launched backward, tumbling over dozens of the smaller corespawn prowling in the field.

  The rest of the monstrosities roared in unison, then fled toward their tunnel. One by one they dropped into the gaping hole and disappeared. Thousands of smaller corespawn scuttled in after them. However impossible it seemed, the streets and wall were soon free of the enemy, populated only by the wounded Felians and Zeda who'd stood their ground and fought.

  Laurel stared at the Heralds who hovered in the air overhead.

  Danger, Asher growled in her mind.

  "Alverax," she said. "Who are they?"

  The young Watchlord was frozen in place, eyes plastered to the godlike beings who'd saved them. "Osinan was wrong."

  "What?"

  "The Heralds did come back," he said. "The bloody HERALDS!" A smile broke out across his face. He rubbed his dirty hands through his hair, his feet dancing back and forth. "Do you know what this means!?"

  Laurel looked back up to find the Heralds slowly descending back to the earth, hands outstretched to the congregating soldiers and civilians. They were everything she would expect of a god, graceful and benevolent, saviors to a fallen people. But something tickled at the back of her mind.

  "People of Felia!" the male Herald announced. His voice carried far in the silent aftermath of the battle. "Your Heralds have returned. Come to us and be healed."

  Men and women flocked to the gods. Laurel followed Alverax as they joined the amassing throng. Asher kept his distance.

  As they grew closer, Alverax led them through the crowd. When the people saw his robes, they parted. Soon, they came into view of the Heralds once again, and Laurel watched in awe as a dying man was placed in front of the gods. A bite had opened the dying man's stomach, blood pooling across his naval and down his sides. The male Herald poured a few drops of water into the open wound, then pressed his hand down gently atop the bleeding, whispering words of power. The dying man inhaled until his lungs were filled to bursting. Then, his head fell to the earth.

  The crowd gasped, and the Herald lifted a hand to calm them. As he raised his other hand, he revealed the gaping wound from the man's stomach. It had been completely healed. "This man will live but must now rest."

  "Come all that are wounded, and we will care for you," the female Herald said.

  They continued their healings until General Thallin appeared. Laurel saw Alverax take a step forward but hesitated as his friend approached the gods. They finished healing a woman who'd had a series of scratches across her face but left without blemish. Part of Laurel wanted to offer herself to them, to have them heal her bruises, but she knew others had greater need...like her grandfather.

  As soon as the thought entered her mind, she moved to go fetch him, but paused when Thallin spoke.

  "Divine Heralds!" he said. "I am Thallin Haichess, swordmaster and general to the Sun Queen, Empress Jisenna Vayse. We have long awaited your return to this world."

  The male Herald stepped forward. "As have we, Thallin Haichess. Tell me, where is the empress now?"

  "She is in the palace, my god."

  "Go. Tell her to prepare for our arrival."

  Thallin nodded. "It will be done."

  As the general departed, hundreds of Felians crowded the field. Laurel pushed herself through the growing crowd until she finally escaped its clutches. She ran, and Asher joined beside her. Together, they headed to the Zeda encampment. People gawked as she ran opposite the crowds, some in fear and some in awe at her enormous chromawolf companion. But she ignored them all. This was the miracle she needed to save her grandfather.

  If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, watching them hover in the air and banish the corespawn with nothing more than words, she'd think the grounders had lost their minds. But she had seen it. She'd watched the monsters fleeing through their dark tunnel like frightened insects, and she'd seen the gods descending from the skies, taking wounded and healing them.

  If the Heralds were real, and they had returned, what did that mean of her own beliefs? The elders taught of the Father of All, a singular entity who created the world and all of the beauty upon it. And then, when the world was rich with life, he offered drops of his own soul to inhabit the world. People. Divinely born children of a heavenly being. And when a person died, the Father's essence would ride the winds back to the greater whole to continue in a cycle of rebirth. The elders claimed their beliefs predated the beliefs of the pagan grounders, but the age of a belief doesn't make it any more true.

  If the Heralds were real, and they had returned, was none of it real? Was there no Father of All? Was the divinity of man a lie? What of the Gale? If there was no rebirth, and no essence to return to the Father of All, why would they sacrifice the elderly to make room for the young?

  Anger swelled within her, but she pushed it away. It didn't matter, not right now at least. What mattered was that there was a way for her to help her grandfather.

  She reached the Zeda encampment and was surprised to find it as empty as the rest of the city. Her people, who didn't believe in the Heralds, had gone to witness the pagan gods in person. She wandered the tents, trying to remember which one was her grandfather's. So far from the battlefield, silence seemed to linger in the air like a thick fog. She kept her bond with Asher, illuminating the threadlight around her. If there were any corespawn still around, she wanted to know. She lifted her nose to the wind and followed the putrid trail of illness.

  When she found the tent, she pushed the flap back and stepped inside. Her grandfather slept on his bed and she hoped with all her heart that the Heralds could heal him. He was a good man, and good men deserve good things. But the world had a tendency to step over good men and leave them with nothing but muddy prints to lie in.

  She approached Corian and took his hand in her own. "Grandfather, I found someone who is going to heal you."

  She rubbed the back of his hand with her other.

  "You wouldn't believe it, but I saw them heal a grounder missing half of his stomach."

  She moved her hand to his shoulder and pressed.

  "I'm sure your cough will be nothing."

  Her grandfather continued to sleep. He was so calm, a firm root in the soil, basking in the lamplight. She imagined herself after bonding with Asher, quietly sleeping for days while she recovered, her chest rising and falling as her mind sailed through the storm.

  But her grandfather's chest did not rise, nor did it fall.

  His body rested in the perfect measure of stillness. It was a painting, so vivid she could see the wrinkles in his cheeks and smell the odor of his skin. So lifelike that she could feel the coarseness of his fingertips. It had to be a painting—it couldn't be real—because, if it was, that would mean...

  Her grandfather was dead.

  No.

  Please, no.

  Not him.

  Not now.

  Father of All, I just need one more hour.

  Please.

  She reached up to feel for his pulse but stopped. She couldn't. She wouldn't. In her heart, she already knew, but she could not let herself truly know. She could feel it in the stiffness of his palm. She could see it in the tint of his lips. But she refused to accept the truth. He wasn't gone. Not him. His essence was a bird migrating for the winter, and, at any moment, it would return, and he would resume his life once again.

  Tears swelled within her, a cracked dam in a raging river, but it was her brother's voice that broke her. "Laurel."

  That single word slammed an axe through the wood, and she broke in two. She could no longer hold back the pain. She could no longer lie to herself. Asher nuzzled her, whimpering as he tried to comfort her.

  She turned as Bay limped toward her. He ignored Asher—he ignored their grandfather—and he wrapped her up in his long arms more fiercely than a mother clutching her sickly child.

  They held each other as they embraced the cold darkness swirling in the tent. Laurel felt a strange sense of deja vu as she remembered mourning the death of their parents. But, where once her grandfather had lived to comfort them, now they were alone to comfort themselves. It wasn't fair. After all they had gone through. Laurel felt a stirring inside her, a harsh pressure squeezing against her mind, burning away the pain and leaving nothing but the charred remains of anger. It wasn't fair.

  She pulled away from Bay, an idea beginning to bud. "They can still heal him."

  Lifting herself to her feet, she looked at the cot her grandfather was on.

  Bay's eyes were like two red sunsets set against a pale sky. "Laurel, what are you—"

  "Asher," Laurel said, stroking the chromawolf's face. "I know you don't like doing it, but I need you to carry my grandfather for me."

  Asher nodded, and his gravelly voice resonated in her mind. Carry. Good.

  "Bay, help me lift him onto Asher," Laurel said. "It's not over yet."

  "Laurel!" her brother shouted. "What are you talking about!?"

  "The grounder gods are here. They're at the battlefield healing the wounded. They can save grandfather."

  He furrowed his brows. "Laurel, I want him back as much as you do, but he's gone."

  "No, he's not."

  "Laurel..."

  "He's not gone yet!" she shouted. "Help me get him on Asher. I can still save him."

  Bay hesitated but complied. Together, they lifted Corian face-down onto Asher's thick green fur, draped over like an old rug.

  It was going to work.

  It had to.

  Otherwise, she didn't know what she'd do.

  Chapter 42

  Alverax stared in awe as the event for which he was sworn to prepare came to pass. He wanted to believe—hell, they'd saved the city and healed nearly a hundred people—but, even with such astounding evidence, he found himself doubting. If only Osinan could have seen it, he could have died knowing that the words he'd preached for so many years weren't just hollow hope; they were true.

  The Heralds has literally saved them!

  His grandfather had told him that the Heralds watched men from their divine realm, only transcending to ours in the world's hour of greatest need. Which, in a way, meant that the Felian resistance had failed. The corespawn would have destroyed them all. But, in a more important way, it meant that they were safe now.

  "Watchlord!" a voice called out. A young woman with hair pulled back in tight braids against her scalp pointed at Alverax in the midst of the crowd.

  He hesitated as the people around him suddenly became aware of his presence. They backed away, eyeing his robes.

  Both Heralds turned to him.

  His heart raced in his chest, threadlight beckoning him for release. Their prismatic eyes bore into his soul, weighing him, judging his worth and questioning his loyalty. He wanted to run, and keep running, until he was back in Cynosure where he could hide in the shed out back behind his grandfather's home. Somewhere far away from responsibility and expectation.

  "Who is this?" the female Herald asked, approaching him as she finished healing a minor scrape.

  The male Herald eyed the sword still dangling from Alverax's limp wrist. "It cannot be." He approached Alverax and stretched out his hand. "May I?"

  "Of course," Alverax said, handing the Midnight Watcher to the Herald.

  A pale hand caressed the length of the blade as the Herald smiled at the sword. In that moment, Alverax realized that both of the Heralds looked more Alchean than Felian. He'd always imagined them with darker skin, similar to his own.

  "Where did you get this?" the male Herald asked.

  Alverax tried—and failed—to keep the gaze of the Herald, but the prismatic eyes were too much. Instead, he alternated his gaze between the ground and the Herald's eyes. "It was given to me when I became Watchlord. They told me that it's been handed down from generation to generation. A gift from you to the first Watchlord."

  "Mmmm," the Herald said. "Tell me, what is a Watchlord? I do not..." He trailed off and smiled. "You are a Destroyer."

  "I—what?" Alverax said, his heart quickening.

  "Ah, yes. You would call them Obsidian threadweavers. I can see it in your eyes. You have the power to destroy, do you not?"

  Alverax nodded.

  "And what of the Amber threadweavers? Are there any here?"

  The question caught him off guard and, at first, it angered him. He thought of Alabella. He imagined her becoming the right hand of the Heralds, and the idea boiled his blood. But then he thought of Aydin, the little Valerian child, he was an Amber threadweaver too. Maybe, he—

  "All Amber threadweavers," the Herald announced, opening himself to the rest of the crowd, "are to be brought to us at once. We will need them for the days to come. Anyone with information about the whereabouts of such people will be rewarded."

  "I know where to find one!" a familiar voice called out. The crowd parted in chaotic fashion as Laurel and her chromawolf stepped through the throng. A man was draped over the back of the massive chromawolf. As she approached, her voice grew quieter. "If you heal my grandfather, I can bring one of the Amber threadweavers to you."

  "You…" the male Herald said, pausing to contemplate the request. "You are bold to make such a demand. But I am feeling generous. Bring him to me."

  Asher growled, and Laurel reprimanded him. Alverax thought he saw her whisper something to the chromawolf as if it could understand her. The animal strode forward and rolled its shoulder so that the Herald could lift the man off its back. Alverax was close enough to see that it was the same old man that had been lying on a cot in the Zeda tent. His skin was pale and stiff.

  The Herald turned his head to Laurel. "This man is dead."

  "You're a god," Laurel said flatly. "Bring him back."

  "Death can be prevented, but it cannot be undone."

  Laurel stood tall, staring into the Herald's prismatic eyes, a slight quiver in her lip.

  "Mmmm," the male Herald said, tilting his head slightly. "You say you know the location of one of the Amber threadweavers? Bring them to me, and I will help this man."

  "You can bring him back?"

  "Yes," the Herald said. "If you bring the Amber threadweaver to me."

  A deep growl emanated from the massive chromawolf beside Laurel. She snapped her head to him and furrowed her brows. She shook her head, then whispered something.

  "I'll be back," Laurel said. She turned to Alverax and her eyes released their tension. "Can you help me lift him?"

  He nodded, and they lifted her grandfather, setting him atop the chromawolf.

  Surprisingly, Laurel leaned in for an embrace. Alverax softly returned the gesture as Laurel whispered so only he could hear. "Don’t trust them. Meet me at the clocktower in two hours. Alabella is here."

  Laurel let go of the embrace and led Asher back the way they'd come.

  Chapter 43

  Chrys gestured for Willow and Roshaw to follow as he crouched behind a large rock formation. Not far beyond, the army of corespawn had amassed, but, instead of battering against the massive Felian wall, they'd dug a hole. A gaping hole wide as a large house, that extended deep into the earth. The massive corespawn monstrosities slid their hands through the ground like dough, kneading and discarding it in colossal chunks.

  "If we head further south, we can sneak around them," Chrys said to the others. "We need to find a way in."

  "Are you being serious, Chrys?" Roshaw asked. "There are corespawn around the entire city. We're not going to sneak around them."

  Chrys clenched his jaw. "So, what? We go through the tunnel? You want to fight your way through thousands of corespawn in the dark?"

  Roshaw raised his brows. "Chrys, I love you, but you’re an idiot."

  Chrys scowled.

  "We're basically the most powerful people in the world now." Roshaw raised his hands, showing off his multi-colored veins. "We don't have to go through...or under. We can just go over."

  "Stones," Chrys said. He'd spent his entire life becoming the pinnacle of a Sapphire threadweaver, but he was so much more now. "Let's stick together, make sure we don't drift apart, and try to stay low. We should still wrap around to the south where there are less gathered, ideally where there are none of the big ones. I don't want anyone getting swiped out of the sky, or any boulders flying our way."

  "Sounds good to me." Roshaw nodded. "But first, I want to know how Willow stopped that thing's foot from coming down."

  Willow, lifting her chin with a bit of pride, gave him the smallest smirk. "Sapphires can surge their threadlight, pushing out with an unfocused burst, but it does little good. There's not enough energy to stop the incoming force of any projectiles. Unless you surge both Sapphire and Obsidian at the same time. The Obsidian breaks the projectile's acceleration, and the Sapphire pushes it away. "

  "Heralds, but that's clever."

  "I always knew my overwhelming wit would one day save lives," she said with a grin.

  Chrys looked out over the field. "We should go. It's only a matter of time before—"

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28