An Artificial Night
Page 91
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Blind Michael lunged, going for the sword. He was closer than I was, and so I didn’t even try to beat him; I jumped back instead, grabbing my knife from Acacia’s lap. “Come on, Michael. It’s not even a fair fight. You’re older and stronger than I am. Now take me down!”
He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.
It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.
My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.
He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said.
“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”
“I—”
“How long?” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord . . .
And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.
Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”
I looked up. “Acacia—”
She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.
Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.
I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.
My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?
No. It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.
Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.
He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.
And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.
No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.
I was done.
The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.
I was done.
THIRTY-ONE
THE TASTE OF BLOOD WOKE ME. I opened my eyes and rolled over, spitting at the ground. It didn’t help. The air around me was light—too light—with a strange, even brightness. It was a little jarring. I sat up and looked around, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I was lying on a bed of moss at the edge of Acacia’s forest, shrouded by the sheltering trees. The branches above me were putting out new leaves, pale green and trembling in the air. They were growing. Everything was growing. The sky between the branches was dark, but three pale moons shone against the blackness, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The strange new light was moonlight. The stars didn’t form constellations I knew, but it was comforting to see them; they were a sign that the long night of this land was changing, if not coming to an end.
He clutched Sylvester’s sword, expression telegraphing his unease. When was the last time anything truly frightened him? The Riders were whispering in the darkness, but none of them were stepping forward to help him. He was fighting me alone. “You’re beneath me,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“Doesn’t sound like you believe that,” I said. Baiting him was fun, but I didn’t have time for fun. I relaxed enough to let his borrowed eyes tell him my guard was down, and then lunged.
It’s hard to fight what you can’t see, and Blind Michael couldn’t really see me. He had a hundred borrowed perspectives to use, but he was missing the most important one of all: his own. He swung wildly as I approached, and I didn’t even try to block. The sword hit my upper arm, opening a long, shallow cut between my shoulder and elbow. It was a glancing blow—it hurt, but not badly, and it wasn’t going to be crippling. Good. My own attack depended on him thinking he could win, if only for a moment. He thought he had the upper hand; I could see it in the way he let his blade dip, not bothering to brace for a parry.
My shoulder hit him in the chest, bowling him over. He hadn’t been expecting that. Idiot. I had nothing but a knife, while he was wearing armor and had a sword—where, exactly, was the benefit in attacking him directly? Disarming him was a much better approach.
He hit the ground hard, Sylvester’s sword skidding out of his hand. I landed on his chest, bracing my knees against his upper arms and pressing the edge of my knife against his throat. “What does it take to kill a god?” I asked, coldly.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said.
“Too bad you don’t believe that.” I bore down, pressing the blade harder against his skin. My blood was falling over everything, making it impossible to tell whether I was really hurting him. “How long since you did your own fighting, Michael? How long since you started hiding behind children?”
“I—”
“How long?” I shouted. He stopped struggling, eyes closing, and I looked up to see the Ride staring at me in unified terror. They finally believed that I’d do it. That I was going to kill their lord . . .
And I couldn’t. Nothing I did would hurt him enough; nothing. He needed to suffer forever. I shuddered, letting my head droop as I tried to calm myself enough to slit his throat.
Then Acacia’s hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was landing in the dust beside me. “Kill him or let him go, Amandine’s daughter, but don’t torture him,” she said. “Make your choice. You haven’t got much time.”
I looked up. “Acacia—”
She looked down at me, the short tendrils of her hair curling around her face. When I distracted Blind Michael, that must have broken his hold on her, allowing her to rip herself free. “No. You let others make your choices too often. Kill him or let him live, but do it now. No more games.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You always know. You just don’t listen to yourself.” She shook her head, turning, and started to walk away. The Riders parted to let her pass, still silent, still staring at me.
Choices. Oh, Oberon’s blood, choices.
I put the candle between my teeth, keeping my knife pressed tight against Blind Michael’s throat. The flame licked at my cheek, filling the air with the hot smell of singed blood as I reached out and picked up Acacia’s knife. I almost dropped it when the metal hit my hand. Iron—it was made of iron. It would have to be; did I really think I could kill one of the Firstborn with silver alone? That was never an option. Not really.
My father was human; I can stand the touch of iron, if only barely. I forced my hand to close around the hilt, looking at Blind Michael through the thin haze of blood clouding my eyes. I was looking for my hatred, but I couldn’t find it. I found pity and anger, but no hate. He was insane. He hurt people because he didn’t know any better; he hadn’t known better for a long time. Did that absolve him of what he’d done? No. Did that make it right for me to torture him?
No. It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t forgive you.” I lifted my hand, bringing the two knives together, and slammed them together down into his throat.
Iron slices through faerie flesh like it’s nothing but dry leaves and air. That’s what iron exists to do: it kills us. Silver can do almost as well, if you use it properly. Acacia’s knife was iron, Dare’s was silver, and I held them together as I thrust downward.
He screamed when the blades broke his skin; it was a high, childish sound, the last gasp of someone who thought he was invincible. My vision fragmented for an instant, shared between a hundred sets of eyes before the Ride fell as well, clutching their chests, eyes closing. For that moment, I was Blind Michael; I was broken; I was bleeding; I was dying.
And then there was nothing but blood. The tolls had been paid—I just didn’t know who’d paid them or whether it was done in time. Him or me? The age-old question. I slumped forward onto Blind Michael’s corpse, eyes closing. It didn’t really matter; he was dead, I had won, and I couldn’t fight anymore.
No more children would suffer because of him. In the end, I’d proved myself as a child of Oberon’s line, no matter how much I tried to deny it; I was a hero, and I was dying like one, and that was all right, because it was how things had to be. I let out a long, slow breath, relaxing at last, while blood ran down my cheeks like heavy crimson tears.
I was done.
The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.
I was done.
THIRTY-ONE
THE TASTE OF BLOOD WOKE ME. I opened my eyes and rolled over, spitting at the ground. It didn’t help. The air around me was light—too light—with a strange, even brightness. It was a little jarring. I sat up and looked around, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I was lying on a bed of moss at the edge of Acacia’s forest, shrouded by the sheltering trees. The branches above me were putting out new leaves, pale green and trembling in the air. They were growing. Everything was growing. The sky between the branches was dark, but three pale moons shone against the blackness, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The strange new light was moonlight. The stars didn’t form constellations I knew, but it was comforting to see them; they were a sign that the long night of this land was changing, if not coming to an end.
