Page 110 of While the Dark Remains
I grab Kallias by the arm and haul him away from the wall, my knife still digging into his neck.
But I don’t take the king to Vil.
I step past Vil, bring Kallias to the Prism Master. In one swift moment, I unlock the collar from Brandr’s neck and release Kallias into his arms.
The Prism Master smiles at me.
“What are you doing?”
Saga’s question echoes in the air as the Daerosian guards pull back their hoods, their magically assumed forms melting away to reveal their true selves: Iljaria, white hair bright against their dark or light skin.
“Correction,” says Brandr, putting his own knife to Kallias’s throat. “TheIljariareclaim the mountain that is rightfully theirs. Skaanda will stand down.”
“Skaanda willnot!” Vil cries. He lunges toward Brandr, sword outstretched, but the cool steel of my blade, pricking sharp beneath his jaw, draws him up short.
One of the Iljaria catches Saga as she bellows an outraged curse and charges at us. Another pair of Iljaria subdue Pala and Leifur. Kallias’s general, engineer, and steward are seized in short order, leaving only Ballast and Aelia standing free.
“Brynja,” says Vil slowly, careful around the point of my knife, “what are you doing?”
My eyes flick once toward Brandr. “My brother already told you. The Iljaria are reclaiming our mountain.”
Two Years Ago
Year4199, Month of the Yellow God
Skaanda—Staltoria City—the royal palace
The palace suffocates me. It shouldn’t. It is the opposite of Kallias’s mountain: airy and light, filled with plants and color and music. It’s built of white sandstone and decorated with carved marble columns. There are huge domed ceilings, laughing fountains, interior courtyards bursting with orange trees. It is life, where Kallias’s mountain was death.
Saga has given me the room that adjoins hers, and I have everything I could ever wish for, even the use of her handmaiden, Indridi, who helps wrangle my disastrous, half-grown-back hair into a vaguely presentable state.
Saga’s family is impossibly kind to me, especially her brother, Vil. I find myself looking for him wherever we go and have not quite grown used to the quickening pulse of my heart when his eyes meet mine. Saga is thrilled to be home, but my restlessness doesn’t escape her.
“We have to find your family, Brynja,” she says, when we’ve been in the palace for a week. “Where are they? Do they live in the city? What is the address?”
So I take her there, dread knotting in my belly, Indridi and a pair of guards accompanying us. We walk the cobbled streets of Staltoria City, the sun warm on our faces. Birds sing in our ears and bees whir through the air, but my heart is heavy, cold.
The house is half falling down, the roof sagging, the paint on the wooden pillars and shutters sun-bleached and peeling.
Saga glances at me, anxious, as we step up to the door and knock.
There is no answer, and I don’t expect one. We step inside to find only dust and cobwebs and abandoned, broken furniture.
Saga expects me to cry, maybe, but I feel nothing. I feel less than nothing.
“I’m sorry, Bryn,” says Saga softly. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
I shake my head. “They must have moved years ago.”
She chews on her lip, her eyes filling, though mine stay dry.
“It’s all right,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t seen them in years. A little longer will make no difference.” I glance at Indridi.
“I’ll make inquiries, Your Highness,” she tells Saga. “It might take some time, but I’ll find them.”
Saga takes a wobbly breath. “Thank you, Ridi.”
The walk back to the palace is solemn, though the birds sing no less sweetly.
