I try to stand, fail.
He ducks, avoiding the swing of a sword. Remaining low, he takes out his opponent at the ankles.
“If she’s killed today,” he says to Deacon, who is fending off a Myriadian soldier, “I’ll blame you, aye. I’ll retaliate by killing everyone you love.” He is cold, merciless. And he’s not done. He all but spits daggers at me after he clears the crowd around me and helps me stand. “Say yes to Deacon. From this moment on, every death I deliver is on your hands, not mine.”
Contact is just as painful as before, but what’s worse? My sense of disappointment. In his words. In my failure. In what this means for our future.
“Don’t let me go.” My knees are like jelly, yes, but I think the other part of me, the girl who hopes for the best, expects him to whisk me away. No more fighting, no need to choose between a home and a boy a second time.
I couldn’t be more wrong. He holds me up with one arm and uses the other to quickly and brutally stop the next Troikan who challenges him.
My fault.
A contingent of MLs rushes over. Killian defends me from his own people, adding to his list of crimes.
My heart shrivels into a tiny ball of self-recrimination. By staying, I’m doing far more harm than good, aren’t I?
“Yes,” I shout at Deacon. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The TL finishes off his newest attacker, closes the distance and drops his weapon to pull me from Killian’s side and cradle me against his chest.
Killian holds on to my hand as long as possible. I cling to his.
Is this goodbye?
This can’t be goodbye.
Deacon runs. He’s injured, Lifeblood gushing from a wound in his shoulder and soaking his shirt. My shriveled heart aches. I’m not the one who wielded the sword, but I’m the one who placed him in its path.
Never slowing, he says something in a language I don’t know but have heard him use with Archer. A special Troikan language the Myriadians can’t understand.
My gaze locks on Killian. He pauses, the battle forgotten. He’s so beautiful and strong, but he’s haunted. A fallen angel with a thousand and one regrets.
He reaches for me. I extend my hand to him.
A beam of Light slams into me. I blink, and I’m standing atop the parapet of one of the guard towers with Deacon. TLs border us on every side, at the ready. Killian is gone. I swallow a whimper.
No future with Killian. No present with Archer.
“Stop thinking about everything you’ve lost,” Deacon commands, “and start thinking about everything you’ve gained.”
He’s right. This isn’t the time or place to break down. “Is that why you’re so calm about Archer’s death?”
“That, and I know there’s a chance I’ll see him again.”
What? Surely I heard him incorrectly. Archer entered into the Rest. The end.
Questioning him isn’t an option. Myriadians materialize, circling us, shadow-tipped arrows notched...and soon arching through the sky. Troikans use fiery swords to block, and the arrows burn to ash.
As the opposing forces leap together in a vicious tangle of limbs and weapons, Deacon drops me. I crash-land, still too weak to stand on my own. Scowling, he yanks a small vial hanging from his neck and throws it at me.
“Every drop,” he insists.
I uncork the top, already knowing what swirls inside. Liquefied manna, everything a spirit needs to heal and thrive. The sweet scent teases me. I drain the contents.
Deacon stabs an ML, turns, and stabs another.
I begin to strengthen.
Two MLs rush at Deacon in unison. He throws himself at the taller one. I roll to my back and kick out my legs, knocking the shorter guy’s ankles together. Deacon is there to finish him off before hefting me to my feet.
“Time to go.”
No way! “I’m racer-ready. Let’s stay and help.”
“You’re that eager to die again?”
Hey! “I’ve got skills.” Both Killian and Archer worked with me before—
My shoulders hunch as a sense of dejection pierces me.
“You have zero skills,” Deacon says, merciless. “Right now you’re like an infant. All you can do is cry and crap your pants. So...” He turns, stabs an incoming ML. “If Her Majesty is ready to continue her travels...”
How can he stand to help me? Archer was his best friend, and I put him in the line of fire by requesting a Troikan army be sent to save Killian, who still defends Myriad despite being beaten by his bosses, and Sloan, who secretly had already made covenant with the enemy.
Archer wasn’t just a Laborer, sent to the Land of the Harvest to protect his human charges. He wasn’t just a negotiator of covenant terms or a guide for those who had signed with Troika. He was a man of great integrity, honor and kindness. A rarity. A hero in a time when villains are the norm.
Archer loved me when I was unlovable. Time and time again he could have disrespected me with a lie. It would have been easier for us both. Instead he told the truth, no matter how painful. He abandoned a centuries-old feud with his greatest enemy to help me. In the end, he died taking a blow meant for me.
The hunch in my shoulders deepens. “Yes,” I say softly. “Let’s go.”
Deacon slings an arm around my waist. We dematerialize in a blaze of Light and reappear—
I inhale sharply. We’re standing in the center of a crystal bridge. Before us is a crimson-colored waterfall framed by a wall of glistening ruby geodes. The layered sediment resembles feathers; those feathers stretch out on both sides, creating the illusion of wings. Framing those wings are stones of topaz, jasper and beryl.
