A Court of Innocents

44: Genesis

By some impossible miracle, Azriel was still breathing. His fingers still twitched, aching to pull that poisoned sword out of his back. And Rhysand, with the hellfire bonds capping his power, had not been able to heal him. Rhysand could do nothing but watch his brother die a slow, agonizing death at his feet.

Because that's what this was—Azriel's death. This was his last great fight, in a court that wasn't his, fighting to protect people that weren't his family.

My fire was steadily consuming me. Tamlin—he had given me a fraction of his power, the only reason I was still standing, but even that could only last so long. After winnowing us to and from the Spring Court, Shifting into his beast form, fighting off the remaining Chimeras, and sacrificing a portion of his power for me... He was barely standing on his own two feet.

We were losing this fight. Badly.

But if I could just heal Azriel—if I could give the High Lords time to get to safety—

Rhysand shook his head. The movement was nothing more than a twitch of his jaw, but I saw it all the same. He knew what I was thinking, what I was planning, and that look in his eyes urged me not to do it.

It was a mighty effort to turn away from Azriel, to face my uncle and ask, "What do you want? Why are you here?"

"What I want is simple, and very singular." His grin turned wolfish. "I want you, Mala. I want you to return home, where you belong, and I want you to stand by my side."

That part—that, I had known. Eris had warned me just hours ago about the things Beron was after, about the reason he had masterminded the Dewdrop Plague in the first place. He was convinced I had access to power that he craved, and he would stop at nothing to get it.

In the two hours that Eris and I had spoken, we had agreed to do whatever it took—even sacrifice ourselves—to ensure that Beron didn't get what he wanted.

Movement flickered from above, dancing in the starlight. The gate that shielded the courtyard was lined with gargoyles. Gargoyles that were alive, and moving, and armed with bows. They weren't gargoyles at all.

The Chimera warriors had two notable aspects about them: the ink along their brow, and their numbers. They always moved in packs of twenty-four. There had been twenty men on the ground tonight. Twenty men killed at the quick, capable hands of Azriel and Tamlin.

Which left four still alive.

Four with bows that were loaded and drawn tight, waiting to unleash those arrows as soon as Beron gave the signal. And I was willing to bet that those arrows dripped with posion. Ash or faebane, I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out.

Those arrows would fly quicker than we could run for cover.

We would all be dead in seconds.

I had to think—quick. Before Beron realized that I was formulating a plan. Before he could see right through me.

That was when Tamlin crumpled to the ground. He had been swaying on his feet, dizzy from blood loss, and now he was drained. He had fought tooth and nail to kill those trained warriors. He had given me a fraction of his strength, and I had taken it gladly, never stopping to consider that he might have given too much. That the protector I so loved would do everything it took to protect me, even at the cost of his own safety.

The strength he had sent down the bond minutes ago was warm and bright and glowing. I sent it back to him now, letting it flow through him and fill his lungs with air, even as he resisted. I needed it to be enough.

None of us would survive the night if I didn't act. I had to give Beron what he wanted.

Sunshine... Tamlin's voice, just at the edge of my mind. I know what you're thinking.