Rise (17 page)

He’d woken this morning covered in sweat. The result of another night where dreams held him captive, tormenting him. No matter what had taken place in his waking hours, when Alistair gave himself over to sleep, he became a player, acting out an impossible scene.

It was the night that he’d visited Ember’s room and found her gone. But in this dream, Ember hadn’t fled with Barrow. When Alistair entered her cell, she sat on her pallet, waiting for him. Her plain sleep shirt had been traded for a sheer chemise.

As he watched, she rose, and the delicate garment slipped from her body. Ember stepped out of the chemise and lay on the bed. Her arms reached out to him, her face full of yearning.

Alistair approached slowly, savoring the moment for which he’d waited so long and suffered so much. Her skin was so pale in the shadows, but held an inner gleam, a promise subtle and alluring as moonlight.

His skin was hot with anticipation as he knelt over her. Though he had fleeting thoughts that he should treat her gently, be patient, he couldn’t wait any longer.

But as he reached for her skin, his fingers found no flesh to caress. His hand passed through Ember’s body, meeting with the rough fibers of the blanket beneath. He could still see her. She lay before Alistair, waiting, wanting him. Her lips parted, breaths short and shallow.

Grasping for her shoulders, Alistair collapsed against the bed. Ember was there, but she was not. He couldn’t hold her. Couldn’t touch her. Longing wrenched his limbs as though he were being stretched on a torturer’s rack.

He flung the length of his body on top of hers, but he pressed into an empty pallet. Alistair writhed and sobbed, unable to quell the desperation of his heart or the terrible hunger of his body.

It wasn’t the sort of nightmare from which he woke suddenly, sitting up on his pallet in a moment that cleanly severed the dream world from the real. This dream lingered, clinging to his skin like a foul odor. Ember’s face, the cream of her skin, the fullness of her lips—every detail followed him long after he’d left his bed. Each time reigniting the slow burn of unquenched desire in his body.

He moved through his days with methodic precision. All his tasks were accomplished without flaw. But each night the dream returned, and the next day he felt more like the husk of a soul than a man of muscle and bone.

On this morning, Alistair made his way to the great hall. Eira had summoned him to gauge the fealty of craftsmen, who would be next to take their oaths. It had gone well with the clerics. Of the forty men and women who devoted their lives to studying esoteric tomes, devising spells, or improving their practice of healing arts, most had been allured by Eira’s promises for the future. A few had declined, but Thomas had carefully noted their names, and appropriate steps had been taken.

If anyone had noticed the disappearance of three or four of their companions, none found courage enough to speak of it. As power shifted, Alistair observed, the residents of Tearmunn proved more likely to let the new current carry them rather than fight against it.

When the guard posted at the doors to the hall let Alistair pass, he wasn’t surprised to find Lord Mar waiting within. Lady Eira’s absence, however, was a surprise.

“Good day, Lord Hart.” Bosque stood beside the sacred tree. Though Alistair had assumed the dead tree would begin to rot, the huge trunk, along with its sprawling branches and roots, hadn’t deteriorated at all. Instead the sacred tree had ossified in its new form, as though a life-size ivory sculpture of a cedar of Lebanon had been commissioned to occupy this room.

Alistair nodded a greeting to Bosque, but looked over his shoulder, expecting Eira to appear in the doorway at any time.

“Lady Eira contends with an unforeseen dilemma,” Bosque said. “She’ll be delayed.”

Alistair abandoned his watch of the door, walking toward the tall man. “What’s wrong?”

“The way you travel”—Bosque stroked the bone-white trunk of the tree like it was a favorite pet—“has been disrupted.”

Frowning as he tried to discern Bosque’s meaning, Alistair said, “I haven’t heard of any trouble at the stables.”

With a quiet laugh, Bosque told him, “The problem is not your horses. It’s your clerics.”

“Do you mean the portal weavers?” Alistair’s eyes widened. “What’s happened to them?”

“They can no longer, as you put it, weave.” Bosque showed little concern over what Alistair considered grave news.

“Your scholars and magicians are distraught,” Bosque continued. “But as I assured Eira, they will soon know much greater power than the simple act of opening a door.”

“Those doors take us all over the world—” Alistair began to argue, but taking in Bosque’s placid smile, he instead asked, “Did you know this would happen?”

Bosque left the tree to stand face-to-face with the knight. “I knew there would be consequences. The power I give is drawn from the nether, not the earth, whence Conatus called forth magic. Where there is one, the other cannot be, as oil remains separate from water.”

“None of the old magics will work?” Alistair asked. His eyes found the black abyss that maimed the sacred tree. “Because the rift is open?”

“You have new power.” Bosque shrugged. “Greater power that doesn’t require concessions to this world.”

Alistair didn’t fully understand. As a knight, he had limited experience with the arcane practices of the clerics and would never claim to understand the intricacies of their spellcraft. Yet the loss of portals and, with them, the ability to travel great distances in an instant troubled Alistair.

Sensing Alistair’s agitation, Bosque folded his arms across his broad chest. Alistair was uncomfortably aware of how tall and imposing Bosque was. He took a step back.

“What do you want, Lord Hart?” Bosque asked, his silver eyes intent.

Alistair tried to answer, but stumbled over his words. What did he want? Ember’s body flashed across his mind, leaving bitterness in its wake.
Only what’s been denied
me.

“I believe your talents haven’t been put to as much use as they could be,” Bosque said. “I’d like that to change, but I would prefer that you choose the task that fully demonstrates your worth.”

“My lord?” Alistair shook off the frustration that built from thoughts of Ember.

Bosque walked in a slow circle around Alistair. “You are often distracted, Alistair. And something clearly pains you.”

Alistair nodded and heat crept into his neck. Lord Mar displayed no weakness, no vulnerability. Shame at how easily he could be provoked by unrequited love churned beneath Alistair’s ribs.

“Passion is a great force,” Bosque told him. “Harness yours, set it to good purpose, and I believe the results would be astonishing.”

Grinding his teeth out of impatience with himself, Alistair asked sullenly, “How can I do that when my passion is wasted on—” He stopped himself, choking on the rage he felt toward Ember.

“It is only a waste if you let it be,” Bosque said. “As for the woman—I can’t help you until she reappears.”

“If she’s alive,” Alistair muttered, his anger spiraling into a hollow sadness. It was always like this when he thought of Ember: he loved, hated, and mourned her within the space of a heartbeat. It was agony.

Bosque ignored Alistair’s comment. “There have been moments of triumph. Your triumph. That is what you must build your legacy upon.”

Alistair stared at him. “A legacy?”

“You will have a great legacy, Alistair,” Bosque said quietly. “But it must begin with a demonstration of your cunning.”

As Alistair mulled over Bosque’s words, Bosque continued. “Can you tell me when you felt strongest since you joined Eira? The most powerful?”

“When I rode the shadow horse and ran with the Lyulf,” Alistair answered without pause. The memory of rushing through time on a river of darkness, of seeing the fire wolves put Ember and Barrow at his mercy, made Alistair’s pulse spike.

Bosque nodded. “Consider this: I’ve told you that the Lyulf are beyond human mastery.”

The feverish light in Alistair’s blue eyes diminished. “I remember.”

“But there are many beasts in my dominion that are not,” Bosque said.

Meeting Bosque’s searching gaze with a furrowed brow, Alistair said, “You would have me command other creatures of the nether?”

“I have given you pieces to a puzzle, Lord Hart,” Bosque answered. “That is all. Even I don’t know what picture will emerge when you put them together.”

Bosque returned to the tree. He dipped his hand into the rift and drew forth shadow that ran from his cupped palm like water.

“What I have is yours for the taking,” Bosque said without turning away from the tree. “Tell me what you will do with this gift.”

A rush of images filled Alistair’s mind. Shadow and fire. The howl of wolves. A village in chaos. A forest of bone.

And Bosque. Summoned by blood. Yet with his own blood, drawing Cian’s broken body back from the edge of death.

What I have is yours for the taking.

I’ve been acting the child,
Alistair thought.
When one as powerful as Bosque sees the man I should
be.

Then he smiled, knowing his dreams would be different that night.

The man I shall
be.

ONCE THE CITY WAS
behind them, Lukasz set their pace at a swift gallop. Ember was surprised at how glad she was to be free of La Rochelle. The walled city and its fortified harbor were impressive and beautiful, but what she’d learned there had left a chill in her bones.

The horses appeared delighted to be out of the cavelike stable in which they’d spent the night. Whether it was the appearance of the sun or the warm winds full of lush green scents, their hooves pounded the road east tirelessly. Despite the fast pace at which the commander led them, Caber remained restless. Grabbing for the bit, so that Ember had to take extra care in handling him, he made it obvious that he wanted to run faster yet.

“Would you settle down!” Ember chided the stallion, who insisted on tossing his head, pulling hard on the reins. Intermittent low whinnies rumbled from his chest.

Barrow eyed Caber’s arched neck. “He’s showing off. When this filly comes into season, we’ll have a problem.”

The silver horse Jérôme had given to Barrow moved as though she were floating above the ground. Her strides were effortless, though they’d set out at a fierce gallop.

“Perhaps we should let him burn off some of that aggression,” Barrow said to Ember.

“What do you have in mind?” Ember asked. Tempête sensed a change in her rider and snorted in anticipation.

Barrow grinned. “If I signal you, just try to catch me.”

Easing the reins, Barrow let Tempête’s stride lengthen until she was abreast of Lukasz’s mare. Ember could see the two knights speaking, but their words were drowned by the horses’ hoofbeats.

The commander laughed, and Barrow turned in his saddle. Catching Ember’s eye, Barrow pointed to the road ahead. Tempête bolted before Barrow had fully turned to face the road. Caber went wild beneath Ember, and she swore under her breath.

“All right, lad,” she said through clenched teeth as Caber bucked, his back legs kicking at the sky. “Let’s chase them.”

She loosened the reins, and Caber stopped thrashing between strides, startled to find he no longer fought Ember for control.

“Go on!” she called to him, leaning forward. “Look how far ahead she is!”

Caber bellowed and his hooves shredded the ground as he took off in pursuit of Barrow and Tempête.

Kael and Lukasz gave shouts of encouragement as Caber tore past their mounts. On the road ahead, Tempête flashed like lightning. Her speed was as impressive as the grace with which she ran. Though deadly quick, her limbs moved fluidly, her body flowing like a river. Ember didn’t know if Caber would catch the filly.

But where Tempête was built for speed, Caber was driven by pride and determination. Ember could scarcely believe it, but stride by stride, he gained ground. Like Ember, Barrow seemed to have assumed it would be some time before the pursuers caught them. When Caber gave a trumpeting call as he closed on Tempête’s flank, Barrow’s head whipped around in surprise.