P.C. Cast - Burned

Stark’s words seemed to trigger something in the Other, and he retaliated with a speed almost beyond belief, attacking Stark with a skill and vengeance that was overwhelming. Oh, Goddess, no. Don’t let my mouth have messed this up. As Stark barely defended himself against the onslaught, he realized he was reacting too rationally, too predictably. The only possible way to defeat himself was to do what the Other wouldn’t be expecting,

I have to give him an opening to kill me.

As the Other rained the blows in to break him, Stark knew this was it. He feigned dropping his guard on his left. With unstoppable momentum the Other went for the gap, lunging forward and making himself—for an instant—even more vulnerable than Stark. Stark saw the strike line, the geometry of the true opening, and with ferocity he didn’t know himself capable of, smashed the sword hilt down on the skull of the Other.

Stark’s mirror image fell to his knees. Gasping for breath, he was barely able to hold the broadsword up any longer.

“So now you kill me, get into the Otherworld, and get the girl.”

“No. Now I accept you because no matter how wise I am or how good I manage to become, you’ll always be there inside me.”

Red eyes met brown eyes once more. The Other dropped his sword, and with one swift motion hurled himself forward, driving Stark’s broadsword to its hilt in his chest. In the raw intimacy of the moment the Other exhaled, so close to him that Stark breathed in the last of the Other’s sweet breath.

Stark’s gut clenched. Himself! He’d killed himself! Shaking his head in terrible realization, he cried, “No! I—” Even as he shouted the denial, the red-eyed Stark smiled knowingly, and through bloodstained lips whispered, “I’ll see you again, Warrior, sooner than you think.”

Stark lowered the Other to his knees, simultaneously drawing the great sword from his chest.

Time suspended as the divine light of Nyx’s realm focused on the sword, glinting along its bloody but beautiful length and blinding Stark, exactly like Seoras’s last cut had seared his vision, and miraculously, momentarily, it was as if the ancient Guardian was there beside him and the Other as the three Warriors gazed at the sword.

Seoras spoke without taking his eyes off the hilt. “Aye, it will be the Guardian’s claymore for yie boy, a sword forged in hot wet blood, used only in the defense of honor, wielded by a man who has chosen tae guard an Ace, a bann ri, a queen. Its blade is honed tae a bonnie sharpness that cuts withoot pain, and the Guardian who bears this blade will strike withoot mercy, fear, or favor, against those who would defile our grand lineage.”

Mesmerized, Stark turned the claymore, allowing the jeweled hilt to catch the light as Sgiach’s Guardian continued, “The five crystals, set in as four corners, and the fifth centered with the heart stone, create a constant pulse in tune with the beating heart of its Guardian, if he is a chosen Warrior who guards honor afore life.” Seoras paused, finally looking away from the claymore. “Are yie that Warrior, ma boy? Is it a true Guardian yie will be?”

“I want to be,” Stark said, trying to will the sword to beat in time with his heart.

“Then yie must always act with honor and send the one you’ve defeated on to a better place. If yie can do this as a Guardian and no as a boy . . . if yie are aff the true blood soul and spirit, son, yie will find yer last horror will be the ease by which yie accept and execute this eternal duty.

“But know there is no going back, for this is the law and lot o’ the Guardian pure, nae grudge, malice, prejudice, or vengeance, only yer unflinching faith in honor can be yer reward, nae guarantee of love, happiness, or gain. For after us there is nothing.” In Seoras’s eyes, Stark saw timeless resignation. “Yie will carry this for eternity, for who will guard a Guardian? Now yie know the truth of it. Decide, son.”

Seoras’s image disappeared, and time began again. The Other was on his knees in front of him, staring up at him with eyes that held fear and acceptance.

Death with honor. As Stark thought the words, the claymore’s hilt warmed in his hands with a beat that mirrored the pounding of his heart. He closed his other hand on the hilt, reveling in the feeling.

Then the weight of the blade became a life force of its own, filling Stark with a terrible, wonderful strength and knowledge. Without thought, without emotion, he used the arc of a crescent moon to deal the killing blow, crashing the blade sickeningly into the Other, slicing him cleanly from skull to crotch. There was a great sighing, and the body disappeared.

The full extent of Stark’s brutality slammed into him. He dropped the claymore and fell to his knees.

“Goddess! How could I do that and be honorable?”

Mind reeling, Stark knelt on the ground, breathing hard. He stared down at his body, expecting to find gaping wounds in his flesh and blood—lots and lots of his blood.

But he was wrong. He was completely free of any physical wound. The only blood he saw was packed into the earth beneath him. The only wound that remained was the memory of what he’d just done.

Almost with a will of its own, his hand found the hilt of the great sword. Seeing in his memory the killing blow he’d just delivered, Stark’s hand trembled, but he gripped the hilt tightly, finding warmth and the echo of the beating of his heart.

“I am a Guardian,” he whispered. And with the words came true acceptance of himself and, finally, understanding. It wasn’t about killing the bad within him; it was never about that. It was about controlling it. That was what a true Guardian did. He didn’t deny brutality; he wielded it with honor.

Stark bowed his head so that it rested on the Guardian claymore.

“Zoey, my Ace, my bann ri shi’, my queen—I choose to accept it all and to follow the way of honor. That’s the only way I can be the Warrior you need me to be. This I swear.”

With Stark’s oath still hovering in the air around him, the archway that was boundary of Nyx’s Otherworld disappeared, along with the Guardian claymore, leaving Stark alone, weaponless, and on his knees in front of the goddess’s grove and the ethereal beauty of the hanging tree.

Stark struggled to his feet, automatically walking toward the grove. His one thought was that had to find her—his queen, his Zoey.

But as he got nearer to the grove, Stark slowed and finally stopped.

No. He was starting out wrong. Again.

It wasn’t Zoey he had to find, it was Heath. As big a pain in the ass as Aphrodite could be, he knew her visions were for real. What the hell was it Aphrodite had said? Something about Heath having to move on for Zoey to come back. Stark thought about it. As much as it hurt him to admit, he could understand why what Aphrodite had seen was the truth. Zoey had been with Heath since they were kids. She’d watched him die, which had hurt her so badly her soul had shattered. If she could be whole, and be with Heath here . . .

Stark looked around, and as when he’d connected with the claymore, he was really seeing .

Nyx’s realm was incredible. The grove was directly in front of him though he could sense the vastness of the place, and knew Nyx’s realm was way bigger than this one place. But, in all honesty, the grove itself was enough—green and welcoming, it was like a shelter for his spirit. Even after what he’d been through to get there, knowing his responsibilities as Zoey’s Guardian, and understanding his quest was far from finished, Stark wanted to enter the grove, breathe deeply, and let the peace of it fill him. Add Zoey’s presence to all of that, and he’d be more than content to stay here for at least a slice of eternity.