Eoin dropped the goblet. It fell to the floor, rolled toward the Fount, clinked lightly against the side. Water streamed down his chin; he wiped it away, eyes strangely bright. “Something different tonight, friends,” he said, turning to Gabe. Malcolm. “Instead of just showing us your power, I want you to walk us through it. Tell us exactly how it works, as if you were explaining the steps for use.”
Gabe narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Precisely what I said.” Eoin wiped his mouth again. “Channel fire. Talk me through it, in detail, as if you were going to pass on the power to someone who needed to know the mechanics.”
That was rather unsettling, especially with Eoin’s eyes so bright, so eager. Especially with the door welded shut behind him, hiding the Fount piece.
But if Eoin had designs on Hestraon’s power, he was destined to be disappointed. The only way it could pass through death was for a god to do the killing.
He didn’t really need to close his eyes to call fire, but Gabe did, evening out his breathing, letting his body fall into channeling-space. He remembered doing this to channel Mortem, what felt like ages ago.
Calling fire felt different than calling death ever had. Death had never belonged to him.
“Block out all other distractions.” This was bullshit, and Gabe had never been very good at bullshitting. Trying to explain how to channel to someone who couldn’t was like trying to tell a rock how to make rain. “Concentrate on the atmosphere until it begins to break down into parts.”
He’d opened his eyes, at some point, the world veiled in black and white. It made everything hard to see, indistinct shapes. Before, when he’d channeled fire, it had always been on instinct. Hells, his earliest experiences had been by accident, back when he didn’t fully understand what was happening, when he would have done anything to stop it. He’d never taken the time to sink in, to feel the full weight of what he could do.
The world was dark and blurred, nothing clear except the strands of red-orange streaking through the air. Unfelt, unseen, but capable of cleansing destruction.
“You see what you want,” Gabe said, not thinking through his words anymore. “The thread of the element, how it weaves into everything else. And you tease it out.”
His finger twitched. One of those red filaments, a seed of fire, wound itself around his hand. Breached his skin and ran all through him.
“You let it into yourself,” he said, “and you tell it what you want. And then you let it go.”
He let the thread of fire burn itself to nothing, hovering in front of him, a spark and flame in the air that lasted only a handful of heartbeats.
“Excellent,” Eoin said, his voice too close. “Doesn’t sound too difficult at all.”
Things happened fast then.
Gabe shook himself from channeling-space just in time to see the Prime Minister lunge for him, a dagger in his hand. Ornate, golden, old. Gabe feinted left, the point of the blade catching his shoulder rather than his throat.
The dagger was Mount-mined; he remembered the conversation he’d overheard, put the pieces together. Apparently, Eoin thought such a thing would allow him to steal god-power. But it was just a blade that stung like any other.
Gabe snarled, catching flame, turning it toward Eoin’s cloak.
Or trying to—it was wet, soaking, and so was Eoin’s skin, his hair. Wet footprints marked the ground between where they stood and the false Fount, filled only with common water. But water was enough; he’d bathed himself in it while Gabe was lost in channeling-space, made himself something that couldn’t burn.
At least not for a moment, and a moment was all he needed. A Mount-mined blade wouldn’t take his power, but it could take his life quite easily.
“You don’t deserve it.” Eoin sounded nonchalant as he lunged at Gabe again, the blade swiping for his throat and missing. He was barely trying; he knew there was nowhere for Gabe to go. “All this power that you worked against bringing back into the world. And what have you done with it? Nothing.”
The other members of the Brotherhood stood at his back, blocking the stairs, holding plain steel daggers of their own. None of them advanced, letting their leader strike the killing blow. Three of them had Malcolm, two holding his arms, one with a blade to his neck.
Another halfhearted swipe of Eoin’s dagger. He had Gabe cornered; he was in no hurry. He had never not gotten something he wanted.
They had to get that Fount piece. And then they’d have to kill their way out of here.
Even as the thought came, Gabe was already looking for another solution, already hoping he could reason Eoin away from this. He didn’t want all those deaths on his conscience.
At least, he didn’twantto want them.
“Why kill me?” Gabe stood, knees bent, hands held in loosefists. Brawling came naturally to him; doing so with a man who held a knife wasn’t smart, but Eoin’s cloak would dry eventually. He kept testing the air, sparking dust motes into shooting stars that made the atmosphere glimmer, but Eoin’s robe was still too wet to catch. No magical protection, just simple physics, and if that was what managed to get him stabbed, Gabe was going to scream all the way to his own personal hell. “It won’t give you my power. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Doesn’t it?” Eoin cocked his head. “I suppose we’ll find out, once you’re dead.”
Another swipe of his dagger. It drew blood this time, a thin line across Gabe’s chest.
