Hours after the arrival of the Haymarks Andrew sat inside the Royal study while awaiting dinner. It was one of the few wings of the castle with a fireplace, which is what had drawn him to it that afternoon. Their walk outside had been chilly and damp. Autumn and Winter had always been his least favorite seasons.
Andrew sat behind the vast wooden desk that his father had commissioned from wood of the western provinces; the entire thing had been carved from a single tree, older than the kingdom itself. The chair in which he sat had been carved from a sister tree, but Andrew had of course had it cushioned and upholstered to ease his bony hips. His mother had suggested it.
A woman distracted herself across the room from him, shifting through the rows of books that lined each wall, every one of them too detailed and old to peak her interests. Andrew intentionally looked away from the woman.
She worked her way about the room, being sure to bend over at just the right angles, swat her hips a bit more dramatically, stretch her arms up to reach a taller shelf for no reason other than to push her breasts up higher in the corset. It became harder with every motion to keep his eyes away. Eventually the girl appeared to grow bored of the show she put on. She sighed loudly and circled the room again.
"... So exactly how is life as king, Andrew?"
He looked up from his lap. There stood Marybelle, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Haymark. Her shoulders had relaxed since walking among the others. Now that no one else watching, she had no shame in removing her fur wraps and loosening the front ties of her dress, though she thought Andrew wouldn't notice, to expose even more of her cleavage.
"As was to be expected."
"Is that so?"
Her accent perked his interest. He hadn't remembered how pointed and quaint it could be. It was more appealing than the longer, more drawling sound of the Constentinians. A high voice seemed relieving for once; more musical to his ears.
"Must you always be so serious?" Marybelle quipped, giving him half a pout.
"Serious?" he questioned. "I am not."
"You are. You aren't speaking. You're scowling."
He said nothing; only stared forward. He was king. What attention did she think should be spared?
Marybelle crossed her arms, and her brow. She looked down at him. "We used to speak without end, and run, and play. You pulled my braids and teased me. You took pride in your schooling – you'd drawl on for hours on subjects no one cared for. You loved your country. Now what?"
He suddenly didn't like her tone, musical as it was.
"You're so quiet...." She neared. "It worries me, Andrew."
Again, Andrew said nothing. She didn't like his silence, but he did not have anything to say. A hand stretched out; brushed the shoulder of his cloak as she circled him, like a cat trying to play. Her voice sank.
"It is your wife, isn't it? She disappoints you." When he said nothing, Marybelle continued. "She's changed you."
Andrew did not answer. He continued to stare into his hands. It was harder to think those days. He had gotten used to others speaking for him. Thoughts felt fuzzy in his head, like wading through his own answers took so much effort it was just easier to pass the responsibility. He was king, he had to remind himself. His voice mattered.
Amelia? Amelia hadn't changed him. But the thought of her did cause his gut to simmer in anger.
"This isn't what you need, Andrew. You let others come before yourself so often it's like you've forgotten what you deserve. She isn't suited for you. But I'm here for you."
He scoffed in response. "And what for?"
"To listen!"
The assertive hiss pulled up his look.
"To be your friend. It could be like it used to be, when we were young. You are surrounded by so many people... with no one to listen. Least of all a wife who hardly seems to care for you, much less herself."
Her hand on his shoulder slipped down his arm. He chose not to move.
There was a pause in which the hand slid back up again. Heat began to rise up Andrew's neck as Marybelle paused to blink.
"... We could have been something, Andrew, you and I. There was no better match for you. I hold title."
"Not more than the princess of another country," stated Andrew, turning back to look at the office door, but not bothering to remove her hand.
The girl shot up. "What country? The land is dead. She has no title." Straw-colored hair dropped before him as Marybelle swept in. "I know it, and you know it."
She had invaded his space. Still, he did not move.
"It does not matter."
"It should." Her look ducked as if to find his and pull it up again. "You should be a priority.... Your wife should make you her priority. You need a good wife, Andrew. Not some girl with a dead connection and an empty title."
"The Queen."
"She is no more queen than your mother is." A second passed in which Marybelle visibly reined in her disgust. It was replaced with a sweetly concerned mask. "Come now, Andrew."
When his attention failed to be stolen by her eyes, she took his hand and lifted it to her heart. "Isn't this what you want, Andrew? Something relevant, for once? Something like we had before. I could have been here for you, Andrew. You could have had someone all this time. To stand by you...." The further down his waist her hand slipped, the lower her voice became. "To listen...."
Andrew jerked and readjusted himself, still not completely avoiding the girl. She finally stood at his motion. "Have they stolen your tongue as well as your voice?"
"You are daring, Marybelle, as ever."
"I have learned from the best."
"Have you?"
"Your words are idle when uttered! You speak only to stall! They are empty! Hollow! Why is it this way? I thought we could finally discuss the events of the past decade. Unless the past is irrelevant now."
"It is."
"And our relations?"
"As Duchess, or suitor?"
"As friend!" Marybelle gasped in a short huff. She stepped toward him.
"Speak to me as countryman. As kin, if not friend. As Firican...." Her advances were forward again. Her hands flattened upon his chest; there was no escaping those hazel rings. The position made Andrew's fists close upon the arm rest.
"... As human," she whispered.
Andrew looked away.
"Leave the creature, Andrew. There is no more power behind her name.... Settle for nobility. For someone who could make you happy. Who could give you children and heirs, and warm your bed properly. Settle for someone... Human." Her hand boldly lowered as she spoke.
The appeal was not easily ignored.
"If not for that... for this."
Her action caused him to jerk forward, against her, in a mix of shock and anger. His nose twitched to bark back. Her hand slid under his belt.
"You know that's why your mother called me here. It's time, Andrew. It's time to have a queen for Firica. To continue Firica. To continue your family's blood. You let her send the invitation knowing exactly what would come." Her breath was so dangerously close to his ear his heart thrummed. His eyes closed as again she spoke. "It would only take one second to make her disappear forever. Her presence would never darken these halls again. Take me, Andrew. I could stay here. Live again in these walls as I used to. Just say the words and I could be yours."
Again her hand sank low enough to draw his choked growls. When he managed to eye her again, he had to move up to maintain his sanity. He stood over her somewhat-crouched figure. His hands grabbed her waist and pushed her back until her hips were firmly set against the desk. "What words would those be?"
That must have been the first agreeable set of syllables from his mouth – for Marybelle smiled her accomplished smile, and suddenly her lips were set against his mouth.
That was all he needed to break.
Andrew pushed back more forcefully. Her hips were dragged against his. He parted her lips with his own, and made sure to hang over just enough to control her. What a wonder it was to have another body fight back against him. His smile felt more like a snarl.
There was a knock at the door. Marybelle darted her face away, but he would not allow the rest of her to leave. A solid hand held her still against his waist, pinned between the solid desk and his own hard length. She wriggled but could not move when he called, "Enter."
A guard opened the door for the commander. Carlton looked directly to the king, not sparing a glance at the girl. "Highness. The Elf has been dealt with and returned to Haymark's quarters."
"And the Constentinians?"
"They seem to have fled, as we suggested."
"Very good."
Carlton looked, then, to the girl. "And the Queen, Your Highness?"
Andrew narrowed his eyes. He looked in his arms to the girl before him. He smiled slightly. "Lock her in her chambers until Erris returns. I will not be disturbed again."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
The door was shut behind them.
***
It was hard for Amelia to wake.
She felt alertness there, in the back of her mind... but with it came dull, throbbing pains from every corner. Slowly her thoughts became clearer... to realize how cold it was.
The attempt to move caused her to groan groggily. Her eyes didn't want to open. It was too light beyond them.
Her lashes fluttered finally, and then her vision was blurry, her eyes too tired to focus.
She saw her hand first, flat on the grey stone floor. Her back ached and complained. She tried lifting her cheek from the cold ground, with another pained groan. She didn't remember how she ended up there. She remembered screaming, though.... Banging on the door until the bones of her hand had to have turned to powder. And then the guard came in... and....
Something colder than the floor brushed against her fingers. Amelia's eyes drew over.
It was a dark-tinted creature standing there, sniffing at the back of her hand. Green, ghostly eyes met hers, and it nudged again. It was Grey. But the spirit was... faded. Was that her eyes playing with her?
Amelia, with great effort, lifted off her hands to sit up. Her head spun; her hands acted as anchors. There was acute pain on the side of her head where she must have fallen.
The spirit dog nudged at her again, more anxiously. He pushed at her shoulder.
"Stop that, beast. I am trying."
He sat, and would have whined had he the throat to do so. Amelia looked to the spirit again. The wisps of magic swirling in his fur were dim, and seemed to flicker in and out of color. The spirit was weak. Its caster was then either far away, or weakened as well.
They'd locked her in that room. Dragged her from the dining hall before she'd even been able to enter. She was supposed to be present for all welcome meals of the guests. The Duke and Duchess especially, or so she'd assumed. Guards she didn't recognize were the ones who'd grabbed her, their fingers clenched bruisingly tight around her arms to prevent escape. She hadn't fought, either, until one guard's hand slipped too far below the small of her back, and the other laughed as he gripped her ass. She must have been fortunate, then, that all they'd done was toss her into her room as they might a sack of grain in the kitchens.
... Why?
She gasped. Feren.
How late was it?
The misty spirit beside her brought its eyes together in worry, moving again to nudge her. Her head hurt too much to comfort it; though she did feel her own spirits turning in response and sudden eagerness to be released.
On her hands and knees she crawled slowly to the door, head pounding with the slightest movements. Grey walked alongside her until the door was met, and then the spirit turned, as if to whine. His front paws set up on the wood of the portal.
The knob was locked firm when tried, as it had been before. When she tried to think about the time, she couldn't have been out for more than an hour. Was it yet midnight? The time at which the others had spoken of leaving? Was it far past?
Grey jumped down and moved to the other door; the connection to the King's chambers. It was locked as well.
Suddenly another form jumped through the first door – a smaller, sleeker form than that of Grey. A sort of cat. The color was much more vivid. It paused once through to door and looked around until spying Amelia. Then it ran in her direction. Grey stiffened and snarled at the advance but Amelia quickly hushed the weak spirit. The cat immediately rubbed up against her leg, opening its mouth in an inaudible call.
Whose was it? "You're stronger than this one. From where do you come?" Amelia whispered to it.
Her answer may have come from the rattling on the door. There was a frustrated push before silence. She approached.
"Dar unst inutsvin."
The voice sounded like one of her own. She said, in her language, "Do not break the lock, familiar. Where is Feren?"
The second of the two Voerr returned in the more familiar language of the sister countries, "Pricked with verdonal and removed to some other wing of the castle. We must remove you at once."
Amelia turned back. Grey had disappeared.
She suddenly felt more pressed to escape. "What is the hour?"
"Closer to dawn than mid-night."
"Go to Feren, before you are seen. Keep to the shadows; they think you are gone, and an order has been placed to kill you on sight." There was hesitant affirmation to her order. She called, last, "Varkner." She waited for his energy to pause before saying, in only their language, "You have to leave me. I will be better knowing you are not caught in escape."
"We can not."
"You will. Leave Firica; I order you; if you see me not before dawn."
"And if before that time?"
"It will be decided then."
There was definite pause. His spirit still standing on her side of the door hugged her leg.
"As you wish, Kiari."
"Do not return to this door."
After he had gone, Amelia looked again around the room. The others were in danger. If she stayed behind? Nothing would happen. Nothing she could imagine, anyway. Andrew wouldn't try to hurt her in any physical way unless his anger had been provoked. What would vex him to having her beaten and locked away?
She stood still for a moment. Could he be with the girl? The guest?
A scream beyond was dulled by the wood of the door. Her blood chilled as the sound met her ears. Another attack?
The sound was followed by the rushing footsteps; the clattering of arms. Then a crash against the door. Amelia whipped her eyes around to see Grey had appeared for only a moment, and disappeared again. Energy surrounded her; lifted the fine hair across her arms; made her markings burn with ice at the realization that she did not recognize the dark cloud of energy seeping through the cracks around the door. She did, however, remember the feeling.
Amelia carefully approached the solid oak wood once again, trying to get closer to the feeling....
A sudden knocked jolted Amelia away. Then a voice rang through the wood.
"Amelia, darling, are you alright?"
She rushed back to the door. "Lucia? What is this? What's wrong?"
"You must be silent, darling." There was a jingle of metal keys, and the rattle as one fit inside the lock. "Do be silent. Yes, be silent."
The door swung in to reveal the frazzled woman. Her dark, silver-streaked hair stood rather unruly out of the looped braid she had; the nightgown seemed rustled and unkempt. Her eyes were the most alarming.
"Come with me. Yes, come with me. And do be silent, dear. Yes, do be silent. That is just as important."
One thin, bony hand grabbed for the girl. Amelia was pulled, in a crouch, forward along the wall. The air was thick with the feeling of dark magic. Panic rose in Amelia's throat. She'd felt this energy before. It even seemed to dull the flame light of the hallway torches. It was strangely dim out here.
Lucia lost grip of Amelia's arm and dragged her sleeve instead down the western wing, past their rooms. The lights were even more muted the more central they moved. Around the next corner, Amelia jerked away. "What is the meaning of this? Why do you –"
"Silence, dear, silence!" the woman reminded in a raspy whisper. Amelia was pulled forward once more. "We must get to the –"
"There!"
The women threw their heads back to see the tall, darkly-robed knight commander not of this court – not one of Andrew's men, his finger pointing directly between her eyes. "Get them!"
"Come, come!" Lucia hissed. She started into an awkward running gait, as if sore. Pants and breaths of stress escaped the elder woman. "They'll take you too, darling. They'll take you too. He just doesn't know it yet. But that's what the council does, haven't you seen it? That's what the council does. And the girl — that girl!" She darted into a crevice Amelia had never noticed, and, once out of sight of the guards, pulled a frame of a picture to one side, revealing, with a click, a passage way within the crevice.
"Go, my dear. You must wait for them to leave. For the council's guards to leave. They'll take you too, darling. They'll be rid of us. It's the girl — that girl! Hurry — You may be able to find the kitchens from here — if the tunnel has been closed—" She interrupted herself, looking back, "You must leave." The sounds of the guards neared. "Now, darling! Be gone!"
Amelia's head was pushed down into the opening, and her back-end was shoved forward, leaving the wall to closed behind her.
Suddenly there was only darkness, with space enough to stand, knees bent, head down. She reached forward only to have her hands stopped by a rod of cold metal. Her hand moved to the side and met a similar piece. The dark space of the inner cage surrounded her; she could see none of it.
The muffled sound of the searchers could be heard passing the hiding spot, their boots thudding so close she could feel their footfalls through the ground. There was no hesitation in their movements as they passed, but she did hear, in the most dulled cry, "Into the rooms! Watch the halls!"
The metal of their chainmail clinked with every step.
Amelia looked down, hoping and praying that this would work. "Menivera."
Something in her chest sputtered to life. Amelia scowled and tried again with a harsher whisper: "Menivera!"
The mouse spirit offered enough light for her to see the small space she was in. Slatted panels covered the wall opposite from where she'd entered. Had it really been a tunnel before? And what did the council have to do with this?
A gentle knock on the wood revealed that the backside was hollow, but the sound of her own breath in rhythm with further shouts reminded her that sound should be avoided, and she could not begin to afford being lost in servants' secret passageways.
Menivera climbed up her arm to offer more light. The noises were far enough then that there had to be an opportune window in which to escape and find the others. For a moment, extended to near panic, she could not discover how to open the hidden entryway. It was impossible that she'd gotten turned around. She pushed, and tried to finger the edges for a possible button or mechanism, but to no avail -- until the spirit darted out of the wall, and moved up the opposite side. The wall pushed in half a finger's width and she was then able to slide it up into a hidden crevice along the original wall, without disturbing the painting outside.
She darted out of the nook and hurried as quickly as she could in the direction away from Lucia and the guards. This was the first time she could remember ever being grateful for the silk slips they made her wear on her feet — they were so much quieter than the guards' boots. She glanced up toward the end of the hall. About a third of the light fixtures on the walls had been extinguished, maybe with the wind of the chase. There was a corner ahead beyond which it appeared none of the flames were lit. Amelia ducked into the dark shadow around the corner and slammed her back against the wall. Sounds escaped from down the hall she'd come from.
She turned to stay in the darkness in the opposite direction. The kitchens were far on the other side of the grand hall — avoiding eyesight would require a large loop around the walkways and surely there were guards between her position and her goal. Her fingers twitched with the free energy of nameless spirits, wishing one of the others were close by. Where were they? What was the risk of being caught? Had someone ordered these men to kill her?
A sudden shriek rose gooseflesh on her arms; a chill ran up her spine to settle at the base of her skull. It was her name, screamed at the top of one's lungs — Lucia's lungs.
She ran immediately — down the hall into the light of another. She had rideable spirits — it would not cost much to call one and —
A body appeared around the corner, walking toward her, head turned to look back. She jumped away, before seeing a spirit turning just behind the man. She released a heavy gasp.
"Oh thank the gods! Where were you? Where is Feren?"
"That is what I was set to discover. His spirit ran this way before losing form — dissipating."
There was a quick order barked from behind them. "Go! Into the dining hall!"
The two Voerr darted away at the sound not directed at them. "What's in the dining hall?" she gasped.
"The witch," was his breathless reply.
"The what?"
No answer came as they dashed around a corner, into a hidden room along the wall. "He can not be far. We checked the prison, the dungeons, the servants' wing; he is not there."
"And his quarters?"
"Not to be found. His blades were recovered there, however."
Feren without his blades? Surely he never left without at least one.
"I'll go this way," a voice said in front of them.
They skid to a stop. "Veesh," Teeknan cursed, whipping his head behind them. There were at least six guards coming that way from behind them. They couldn't turn around.
Amelia watched as the shadow of the man neared the corner ahead of them.
"We can't go back," she said, in a voice so soft she doubted he could even hear her.
"Don't. Move."
She desperately looked back at Teeknan as he scooted closer to the wall, hugging the edge of it. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his blade. With every second the group behind them grew closer. With every heartbeat, Teeknan shuffled closer to the shadow that approached them.
The man ahead of them turned the corner. Immediately, his eyes fell upon Amelia's. She opened her mouth in a wordless cry — she wasn't sure if it was meant to warn him or to support Teeknan. But just as the guard lifted his finger to point at her and alert the others, Teeknan pounced. The butt of his dagger thunked against the man's temple and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Amelia threw her hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp as she saw his eyes roll back in his skull.
Teeknan fitted his arms under the guard's armpits and scuttled to the corner, daring to glance around the edge of the wall to see if his companion was still there. Once he deemed it clear, he motioned to Amelia and drug the man's lifeless body down the hall and into a nearby door. Amelia ducked in behind them and shut the door as softly as possible before turning around.
She looked first to the body that Teeknan was attempting to quietly lay down. She glared at him until she saw his chest rise in a shallow breath, even though she knew he wasn't dead, seeing as no life's breath had escaped him for the voerr to drink in.
Teeknan rose from his place after lifting another blade from the guard's belt. Amelia tried and failed to even her breaths.
"We must leave, Kiari. It is not safe here — this is what he would want."
"Nonsense. I will not leave Feren behind."
"They could have killed him, Kiari —"
"No." She refused to allow the thought any ground. A brief, hopeful thought in the back of her head reminded her that she would have known if he were dead, so she was able to say with more certainty, "No. I will find him. You may leave."
"I am bound to protect you."
There were more shouts — faded, as was the flickering of fire light across a far wall when they cracked the door to look. "Fine. You must go gather his things. His blades, the dog. Whatever you may find. I will meet you on the southern road; I will leave a spirit to show you."
Reluctantly, with poorly-stifled objection, the Voerr watched her.
"You must hurry — now, while the way is clear. I will meet you; I swear it."
The Voerr left, hugging the far corners to venture toward the guest quarters. He looked back with mixed emotion in his eyes.
Once out of sight, Amelia turned for any room she could think to find Feren. He was in trouble. He needed help.
Amelia turned for a servants' passage she'd noticed before, not entirely sure where it would lead. Anything had to be better than the halls.
With a quiet voice, she called a spirit. A seeker. Her form of Grey, lighter in color, and with purple eyes it looked sadly around. Its nose pointed in a single direction. He knew where the sibling energy lie. Her own senses could not have been strong enough in that moment to find him without the help of a partnered summon, and the ever-growing frustration of not being able to utilize her own bonded spirits set a fire inside her. She had to do more.
The spirit stepped forward, delicately at first, and then with more decisiveness. It glided across the floor, Amelia following silently behind.
They slipped past the main halls and into the lesser-known areas curving around the offices and dressing rooms of the King. Where was the King? Had he taken Feren? Or was that the councilmen?
The noises stopped the further they snuck through. Grey was approaching the guest wing, though the Voerr had said Feren was not in his quarters.
She was not taken to his room... but instead, to the quarters of the noble guests, where Lucia had readied rooms for the Duke and Duchess. Grey walked right up to it. The door was locked. Grey disappeared through the wood, attempted to unlock it with a rattle of the lock from the inside, and when the attempt failed, the spirit came out again to lead Amelia back down the hall and around the corner into a small servants' passage. She snuck into it, the area barely wide enough to fit her shoulders without turning sideways. The spirit ran straight into the Haymarks' room.
The ominous feeling that she'd held coiled in her chest grew the closer she got. That magic... that sense that she'd been experiencing... it turned over again deep in her gut. Her remaining spirits twisted inside her, simultaneously begging her to get away and pushing her toward her mated partner. It wasn't safe in there and they knew it.
The room was dark. She'd entered by a curtain-covered passage, and paused to wonder if they were in the right location. A soft glow from her spirit was enough to light the difference between the floor and the walls — if Amelia had not felt the pull of her chest directly forward, she would have believed the room was empty.
She paused. It smelled of blood and... verdonal.
The sudden sound of a door slamming made her jump before realizing the sound was nowhere near them. Her form of Grey inched forward. Shadows were cast around the soft sloping arches of a body. Amelia focused light energy into her hands until they exposed what hid in the dark, and there knelt Feren.
His head hung over a pool of blood that soaked the tight leggings covering him below the waist. His shoulders were twisted back; tied at the wrists by ropes reaching taut from above, binding him. His body was limp forward, held up in the kneeling position only by his wrists. His silver locks were wild, matted with dark blood, covering his features though he was bare everywhere else.
He dripped red. She heard it, then. The drip, drip, drip of blood drops splashing into the puddle on the ground. Across the knotted muscles of his arms splayed lashes and methodical cuts only deep enough to prevent healing without pressure or bandage. They crossed everywhere. The blood slid, accumulating, in thin streams down his shoulders, dripping off the curve of his chest like water. Trails of dried blood were overtaken by new trails. His lower back was dark where bruised; his mark, Greytask, was gnarled; the skin was raised and blistered with burns as if he'd been branded. Amelia had never seen any sight so horrific. It stole the air right out of her lungs.
Feren's body did not move.... Even with breath. He was pale. Unmoving. Cold.
Amelia ripped her eyes away from his body. She glanced back up. How would she release him? She had no weapons. A healing spirit was beyond her — she needed to conserve her energy for their escape. But — yes, he had to be alive, if still blood trailed in streams across his white skin.
The spirit jumped before his chest as Amelia reached up. In a second, a blade of sharp energy formed in her hand and released his wrists, one before the other, from the bindings. The wrists were pinched and blue from the crude ropes. Feren fell forward and into her, knocking her over under his dead weight. Instantly she felt the blood soak through her clothes. She pushed herself out from under him but managed to hold his head before it slammed into the stone ground.
She was too weak to move him far, and the wounds on his back prevented her from rolling his body over. Amelia knelt in the watery blood; it mattered not that her skirt would soak in the cruel liquid. The wetness reached her legs, her back, her arms.
Her hands flew over the body of Feren. She could not see his face. There was no response from the creature. His markings had no vibrancy. His muscles lie completely flaccid. Amelia could not breathe. His skin was so grey he looked like a corpse
What could she do?
She rolled Feren to his side and a rasping breath was released from his crooked, bloodied nose, as if he'd been trying to breathe underwater. Not dead, she told herself. Not dead. Her body strained from the weight of moving him, reminding her again that she would never be able to carry him out. Her mind raced.
Her hands and knees were a brilliant red. She was reminded of that when her hand lifted to brush the hair from her face, and her cheek was left wet.
Sounds of siege continued outside in the halls, coming nearer with every slamming door and stomp and order. Amelia's hands desperately attempted to cover his wounds and pour what little energy she could into him, knowing his heart would stop otherwise. She saw no other way to help him. How would they escape? How would he—
A door flew open, kicked in, carrying with it the rush of flame light. Amelia jumped before her spirit could; she crouched to cover Feren from their view — she snarled, animalistically, holding her weight on her arms. They had to leave. They had to leave them alone!
"Grey," she snarled, lifting her lip ever higher upon eye contact with the guards in the doorway. Her spirit jumped for the door, slamming it in their faces. Grey jumped on the hinges of the metal locks to secure it again.
The locked frame was met with pounding and beating, and a cry of, "In here!"
She whipped back to the body beneath her. She didn't know how she was to take him, but leaving was not an option otherwise. She would rather die. She collapsed on top of him, as if she could protect him some way. She took his heavy, limp head into her hands, desperately trying to shove light and warmth directly from her spirits and into him. Her heart broke.
"If you go," she whispered, clenching away from the ravaging of the guards on the door. "If you go, I go with you."
The sound of screeching wood raked her ears as Grey pushed against the door. Blood ramming through her ears, she grabbed Feren's arm and lugged it across her shoulders. Amelia's knees gave out upon feeling the strength it cost to take his weight, his torso unevenly slung over the top of her. His feet dragged streaks of red behind them. She lunged for her entryway; her dress was soaked and cold, and she knew he should not be moved — he needed a physician. He needed an antidote. His blood started sloping trails down her arm in seconds. She felt more rushed for exit.
When she noticed the guards had abandoned the door she called Grey away to relieve Feren's weight from her back. The voices could be heard around the corner though her passageway had led through another hidden, thinner hall, lit only by her spirit, as her energy could no longer support the light of her hands.
Refusing to look back at the figure on her spirit, she rushed forward. What could be the nearest exit?
Suddenly flame light was hitting her features as she broke past the servants' hall. A green spirit jumped into her view, quickly approaching. She'd gasped at the movement; it ran past and bit her skirt, dragging until it ran out of contact, then looked at her to follow its quick motion. She could only look after it half a second before its summoner barreled around the corner, sprinting forward at highest possible speed. He saw her and lurched further forward, crying, "Run!"
"Archers!" cried a voice from behind. Amelia barely caught glimpse of the guards — Varkner sprinted past, shooting a spirit from his finger tips to throw Amelia's spirit out from under the body behind her; Varkner's hand caught Amelia's back in the same instant and forced her to run beside him. The whistles of arrow shafts quickly followed — Varkner shot one hand back to destroy an arrow aimed for him, while the other three missed — one reaching and flying through the new horse spirit Feren's body lie upon. Varkner's strength through the forearm around Amelia allowed her feet to hit ground flying much faster than she could have possibly carried herself otherwise, and still she ached and cried at the effort she could not keep up with.
Varkner cried, in her language, "To the gardens!"
"Kill them!" shot the Firican voice behind them.
Varkner's seeking spirit, which had remained steadily in front, burst through the opening to the gardens, and the path was immediately blocked. A dozen guards stood the way, pikes angled toward them. Amelia gasped, seeing them, and feeling the archers behind. They were trapped.
Varkner continued flying without hesitation.
"We can't," she gasped in the foreign language.
Varkner said nothing, continuing to push her tired body forward.
"This is it, Varkner. There's nothing else."
"Continue, Kiari."
She looked again between the spikes of the unfamiliar dark-armored guards, the limp body dangling atop the unnatural ghost of a horse, and the man running beside her, determination a hard scowl across his face.
"Varkner —"
"Continue." She saw, even at that point, the dead expression of his features. His spirit did nothing to phase the guards. Behind them, the arrows had stopped flying, but their pursuit had not.
Another line of men suddenly appeared behind the first row in the gardens. Then Varkner did slide to a stop. As did the spirit carrying Feren.
"Teeknan," he gasped, chest heaving from the exertion of running. Hope seemed lost briefly from his eyes — his look flashed between the groups of assailants. There was not time for a pause. Needles would pierce them from any direction; the Firicans were closing in, arrows and spear tips raised. Again Varkner said his partner's name. Where could Teeknan be that would be of any help?
Amelia knew the only option left. She was breathing hard. They couldn't be trapped. Her people. Not there. Not as she had been.
Amelia turned her body. Her fists clenched tight.
"Go," she whispered.
"Kiari —"
"Go. Now. Run." When Varkner didn't move, she turned to him with pleading eyes. She pointed to the lifeless body next to them. "Save him. He deserves it more than I."
Varkner said nothing as she turned back around.
She straightened her chest. Her chin lifted.
It was decided. It had already been building inside her.
They could take Feren; Teeknan and Varkner. They could heal him. They could return to their home, find him a better life, show him what it really felt like to live. All they had to do was leave.... They still had the chance to get out. Walk away. Return... home. It would be worth it knowing Feren was alive. Anything to ensure he survived. He would know what to do. He could continue for her.
Varkner was slow in those few seconds of motion, but his spirit, and Feren's lifeless body with it, did inch forward. They could not be so close to her when she did what she planned to do. With one last look, she urged them forward. Then she bared her neck to those running toward them, swords raised, fire in their eyes.... How fruitless the council's efforts would be when they later found Amelia dead, not by their hands.
She closed her eyes. It was decided. And there was peace in her decision. She would give her life to save her people, as she had promised herself long ago. She would rejoin her family. Their smiles were already drifting behind her eyes.
She sighed, and with all her heart, with every last breath that filled her soul, calling to every fraction of hope and memory of love within her, she whispered, "Draco."
"Kiari, no!"
Everything, at least for Amelia, went black.