Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

Tamír strode over to him, blade poised for the final stroke.

Korin stared up at her. His rage was gone, replaced by an expression of terrible sorrow. Still clutching his sword, he mouthed a single silent word: Cousin .

Tamír’s own sword slipped unnoticed from her fingers as she watched the life fade from those dark eyes. A last, strangled breath and he was gone, hand still locked around the hilt of the great sword.

Brother had deserted her, and the horror of the battle rolled over her. “Oh hell. Oh, Korin!” In death, he looked again like the boy she’d played and sparred and gotten drunk with, lying there broken and bloody in the mud.

The sounds of battle were still raging beyond the gully, and she could hear her friends frantically calling for her and Ki.

Ki!

“Here!” she tried to tell them, but it came out a choked whisper. Weeping, she stumbled back to where Ki lay and fell to her knees beside him. His tabard was soaked with blood and his broken arm was twisted awkwardly under his body. She found the buckle of his dented helm and pulled it free, then felt vainly for signs of a heartbeat. His soft brown hair was sodden with blood on the side Korin had struck.

She gently lifted his limp body into her arms, clasping his good hand and cradling his head against her chest. “Oh no. No, please, not him too!”

His blood soaked through her tabard and gummed her fingers to his. So much blood.

“Is this what you wanted?” she cried out to Illior. “Is this what it takes to give Skala a queen?”

Something struck her shoulder and splashed into the water beside her. Looking down, she let out a strangled cry.

It was Korin’s head.

Brother loomed over her, looking stronger and more solid than he ever had. He held the bloody Sword of Ghërilain in his right hand, and as she watched, he raised his left and licked the blood that covered his fingers like it was honey.

He tossed the sword down beside her, then with a chilling smile, stroked her cheeks, painting them with more of Korin’s blood. Thank you, Sister .

She shrank from his icy touch, clutching Ki closer. “It’s over. You’ve had your vengeance. I don’t ever want to see you again! Never!”

Brother was still smiling as he reached toward Ki.

“Don’t you touch him!” she cried, shielding him from the demon with her own body.

Save your tears, Sister. He still lives .

“What?” She pressed a finger to the side of Ki’s neck, searching frantically for a pulse again. She found the faintest flutter just under his jaw.

“Tamír, where are you?” That was Lynx, sounding frantic.

“Here!” she shouted back, finding her voice.

“Tamír!” Arkoniel appeared at the top of the bank. He took in the scene at a glance and plunged down to join her.

“He’s alive,” Tamír cried. “Find a healer!”

Arkoniel touched Ki’s forehead and frowned. “I will, but you must go and end this battle.”

It was like tearing out her own heart to relinquish Ki into Arkoniel’s arms but somehow she did it.

Staggering to her feet, she picked up Ghërilain’s sword. The hilt was sticky with gore, but it fit her hand as if it had been made for her.

She’d held it once before, the night of her first feast with her uncle. The worn gold dragons set in raised relief on the sides of the curved quillons were crusted in blood now, and so were the gold-wrapped ivory hilt and the carved ruby seal on the pommel. The Royal Seal. Her seal now—a dragon bearing Sakor’s Flame in a crescent moon on its back. Sakor and Illior united.

You are Skala .

She bent and grasped Korin’s head by the hair and picked it up, too, feeling the lingering warmth of his scalp against the backs of her fingers.

“Care for Ki, Arkoniel. Don’t let him die.”

Bearing her grisly trophies, she gave Ki one last anguished look, then climbed up the bank to carry out the Lightbearer’s will.

Daylight was nearly gone and the rain was pelting down in earnest when Tamír emerged from the gully. The fighting was nearly over here. Porion lay dead in the trampled ferns. A little way off Moriel sprawled in a pool of blood, with Lutha’s poniard in his neck.

She found Cal by his hair. He was lying facedown where he’d fallen and Nikides was sitting beside him, clutching a shoulder wound and weeping. Una was holding Hylia, whose arm appeared to be broken.

Companion against Companion. Skalan against Skalan .

Lynx, as usual, was still on his feet, and Tyrien, too. They were the first to see her and what she carried.

“Korin is dead!” Lynx shouted.

Everything seemed to stop completely for a moment. The last of Korin’s men fell back and stared at her, then ran away into the trees, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

Nikides staggered up to meet her. His eyes went wide as he saw what she carried.

“I killed him. The blood is on my hands.” Her voice sounded distant in her ears, like someone else speaking. She felt numb all over, too exhausted to grieve or feel victory. She set off in the direction of the battlefield, dimly aware of others falling in behind them.

“Are you wounded?” Nikides asked, concerned.

“No, but Ki’s—” No, don’t think of that now . “Arkoniel’s with him. How are the rest?”

“Lorin’s dead.” Nikides swallowed hard, collecting himself. “Hylia has a broken arm. The rest of us have only minor wounds.”

“And the others? Caliel?”

“He’s alive. I—I turned my blade at the last moment. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t—”

“It’s all right, Nik. You did well. Make sure he and any others are brought to the camp.”

But still he stayed by her side, looking at her very oddly. “Are you certain you’re not hurt?”

“Do as I say!” It took all her concentration to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Nikides fell back, presumably to follow her order; but Lynx, Tyrien, and Una closed around her as she reached the edge of the trees.

The battlefield was a scene of carnage. Dead warriors and horses lay everywhere, the bodies piled on top of one another three deep in places. So many had fallen at the stream that the water was pooling red behind them, dammed with corpses.

There were still scattered groups fighting on. Some of Korin’s forces had withdrawn up the hill. Others were wandering among the dead.

Tamír looked around in dismay, still clutching the head.

Malkanus was suddenly at her side, though she hadn’t noticed the wizard’s approach. “Allow me, Majesty.” He walked a little way apart from the others and raised his wand. A terrific roar like thunder rolled across the field with such force that men fell to their knees and covered their heads.

In a voice that seemed as loud as the thunder, Malkanus cried, “Attend Queen Tamír!”

It worked. Suddenly hundreds of faces turned her way. Tamír strode farther out from the trees and held up the Sword and Korin’s head. “Prince Korin is dead!” she shouted, her voice thin by comparison. “Let the fighting cease!”

The cry was passed across the field. The last of Korin’s warriors made a disorderly retreat to the base of the hill beyond the stream. The only banner still visible among their disordered ranks was Wethring’s.

“Lynx, take some men and bring out Korin’s body,” she ordered. “I want it treated with respect. Make a litter and cover the body, then bring it back to our camp. Tell the drysians I need it prepared for burning. Nik, you see to Lorin’s remains. We must take him back to his father. And someone find me a herald!”

“Here, Majesty.”

She held out Korin’s head. “Show this to Lord Wethring and declare that the day is ours, then bring it back to my camp. I require all nobles to present themselves to me at once or be declared traitors.”