Page 147 of While the Dark Remains
“Lords keep you, Brynja.”
It takes everything in me to set my face toward the mountain. To leave him.
To sprint across the snow alone.
Dawn draws perilously near. Already there is a hint of light to the east, and the stars are rapidly fading. The daylight will last a little longer than yesterday—two hours, maybe three. I hope I live long enough to see every hour of it; I hope we all do.
I reach out once more for Saga, Gulla, and Rute, but I still can’t sense them. I tell myself fiercely that they’re all right. They have to be.
I slow my pace as I near the western edge of the Sea of Bones, where a half dozen Iljaria light globes illuminate the small company of people waiting there.
Closer still, and the knot of people resolve themselves into individual shapes: There’s Brandr, dressed in gold, with the Yellow Lord beside him, collared and chained, and his scribe and steward, Gróa and Drengur, at his back.
Theron and Alcaeus, Kallias’s twin sons, kneel in the snow, wrists bound, as do Nicanor and Eirenaios, the king’s steward and general. Vil and Saga are there, too, huddled together, hands tied, with Gulla beside them.
My heart wrenches. I’m not exactly fussed about Nicanor and Eirenaios, but everyone else was supposed to be tucked safely into the tunnels with the Skaandan army. Can everything have gone so wrong?
My mind tells me what my eyes don’t see—or rather,who. Leifur and Pala are absent, as are Rute, Finnur, and the rest of the children from the Collection. Kallias’s other children are missing, too.
There are only two possible answers for why these seven people alone have been dragged out here: Either everyone else is already dead, or Saga and the others gave themselves up willingly to distract Brandr’s attention away from the arrival of the Skaandan army, and Finnur’s efforts to free the Daerosian one.
I tell myself firmly it’s the latter option, that I’m not marching to my death, that there is still hope. I don’t dare try to speak into their minds now—Brandr can’t know that I have my magic back. Not yet.
I watch my brother catch sight of me, observe my progress over the snow as the eastern sky turns from rose to silver. The others see me, too. Drengur frowns and Gróa looks wary. Saga jerks her chin up, eyes fierce, while Vil straightens his spine and gives me a nearly imperceptible nod. Nicanor blanches paler than the snow—he doesn’t look for mercy from me. Eirenaios, though, glances sideways at Vil and seems to catch on to his sudden hope. Theron and Alcaeus are grim as they look past me, waiting for Ballast, the brother they always so despised, to come and save them.
I stop several yards away from Brandr and the rest, staring him down, willing myself not to shake.
My brother crosses his arms and smiles. “So my errant little sister has come back. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“But not for our queen, I see.”
I try not to look at the Yellow Lord, but I can’t help it. A chain trails from his collar, which Brandr holds carelessly in one hand. The First One meets my gaze and shows his teeth, snapping his fingers and watching sparks fly up like embers.
“Where have you been?” Brandr demands.
A sudden wind blows my coat about my knees, spits ice into my eyes. I remind myself to be calm, and the wind dies down again.
Brandr doesn’t notice. “Well?”
I lick my lips. “I killed the king. I was ashamed, so I ran away. But there was nothing for me, out there.”
Brandr laughs. “We dumped his worthless corpse into the Sea of Bones, in case you were wondering. But you needn’t have bothered. He would be here, groveling for his life in the snow, if not for you.”
My stomach twists. “I am surprised you waited for me.”
“You have grown confused,” he says, a softness in his voice I’m not at all used to hearing. “But you are still my sister. You still share my blood. You don’t deserve to die like all the rest of them.” He holds his hand out to me. “Come, Brynja. Take your place beside me as I remake the world.”
Despite myself, my heart jerks. He truly believes what he’s saying. And I can’t deny I’m tempted by his offer: belonging. Acceptance. Maybe even love. I had that, for a while, with Saga and Vil, but never from my parents, my siblings.
Behind him, Drengur’s frown deepens and Gróa’s face pinches tight with anger. They have no use for me. The sky lightens, and I remember what’s at stake. I shake my head. “Where is the queen, Brandr? Was she ever going to come?”
“The queen has given me authority here,” says Brandr coldly, “to act and to speak on her behalf.”
Gróa darts a look at him, and her thought is so strong I accidentally snag hold of it:That is not the message that came with the blue kestrel. The queen commanded you to bring the Yellow Lord with you to Iljaria, that she might wield his power from there.
I jerk my awareness out of Gróa’s head before she can notice, and refocus on my brother. “I can’t let you destroy the world, Brandr. This isn’t peace. This isn’t life. Please reconsider.”
Darkness folds into his face, and he drops his hand. He turns to the Yellow Lord, looses the collar and chain, lets them fall clanking into the snow. “Kill the prisoners,” he snaps.
