Blood & Shadows

Thirteen

Our steps are slow as we move forward; Vrythien unclips the quiver from the paladin's back without him seeming to notice. He holds an arrow at the ready as Geraent walks with his sword out. The only one of us without a weapon is Faeriel, and she shelters behind Geraent as though she hears that scraping in the dark. I barely hear it, which means she doesn't. Then again, humans can't see like elf-kind can, either. Even being half, I have that advantage. The doorway beyond isn't total darkness. I can make out the stones and half the colors of the fresco on the wall. There's no light for the tiles to reflect, so they're dim, their colors muted. I can just make out what might be a woman in a blue dress and maybe a halo or a crown.

It's strange not to have my magic. Never mind how hard it is to breathe and that ache still in my legs from Razeth's visit. I don't like any of this, but I'm not supposed to. This is a funeral march for Geraent. And for all I know, the rest of us.

We're getting a book. A book that's with the King's most prized treasure. Maybe it will be in the treasure room, and we won't have to go any further.

"The brazier's broken," I murmur as I take a few steps forward. It dangles from the ceiling by one chain, its contents spilled across the floor. That scraping is louder, and aside from the brazier, I cannot see much of anything. Rock clatters against rock, and Vrythien holds his hand out, blocking me from stepping further in. His gaze is fixed forward on something. A large shape moves in the dark; it crawls along the walls, skittering like a spider. I get a whiff of foul, fetid flesh and know what that skittering shape is. It's a Drownling. One of the Ladies' minions. Where there's one, there are many, but the only problem is that drownlings are only supposed to spawn in swamps- this is most certainly not a swamp.

Faeriel drops to her knees and mutters a prayer under her breath, and to my surprise, a halo of light surrounds us. Apparently, there's no stopping Cerys's actual blessings. I feel next to useless as Faeriel is able to conjure a ball of light that looks like it's made of lace; the radiant holy energy is blinding. She's borrowing the goddess's power directly.

And I'm... simply here. All I can do is watch as we are rushed by those fetid creatures.

Vrythien fires countless arrows as Geraent hacks and slashes his way through them as more and more pour from the hall beyond. Cerys's energy sings through the air as it sizzles, connecting with the unholy creatures. I stand back with my dagger in hand as I watch the only three people I know quickly grow overwhelmed. Foul blood, dark with rot, spatters across Faeriel's face as Geraent swings his sword, cleaving the creatures in two.

I try to reach for my power, try to focus through that choking sensation but there's nothing. Something grabs me from behind, and I yelp; it's only luck that lets me drive the dagger into the creature's belly before its blade can come down. Hot, rancid blood rushes over my hand as I twist the blade and yank it free.

A larger shape emerges from the hall, and in its hand is a long bow. My gut twists as though fate has already been written, and I'd read the book ages ago. I'm so distracted by it that I don't catch whatever is happening behind me.

"Catriona!" Geraent turns and shoves me out of the way and runs one of the rotting men through. He reaches out to help me up, and... then there's an arrowhead sticking out of his eye. As he collapses, my powers return, as a hot pit burns in my stomach, and with a wail, I burn all the creatures in a torrent of sickly green-black-and-purple flames. Sconces on the walls come to life, revealing a room full of gore.

Faeriel turns and shrieks.

Tears stream down my cheeks as she throws herself at Geraent's corpse. Her golden hair spatters with blood and gore as she wails so long and loud that her cries echo off into nothing. She's trembling; her whole body quivers with her grief as she clings to that lifeless armor-clad form.