Rise of the Seven (The Frey Saga, #3)(38)

And he had taken pleasure in it.

I would make him suffer. He would blister and burn in agony. Dark hair whipped my face as I drew air into the room to feed the flame. He would boil. He would suffer. He threw another blast of power toward me, but I couldn’t even feel it now, the collision was nothing. He was nothing.

“Frey!” Chevelle’s voice cut through the anger, and I was startled by the inferno. We were surrounded by flame. Had he been yelling?

I glanced at him, beside me, unburned but clearly in pain, and shook myself. The fire extinguished while I let out a long breath, as if blowing out a flickering candle, as I released the magic. My eyes connected with Chevelle and we stood for a moment, understanding passing between us. He was right. We had to get to Anvil.

I looked for one last time at the man who had killed my mother. He was badly burned, but seemed relieved. As if he were saved now. I shook my head in disbelief and then severed the large vessels of his heart. He wouldn’t die slow enough, but he would die.





Chapter Nineteen


Myst





We found Anvil among a large pile of rubble that used to be the east wall. He was winded and between that and the chaos of stone, I knew the two here had been no mere trackers either.

“What happened?” I asked, glancing at the destruction surrounding us.

He shook his head. “Not trackers. They were waiting for whoever was inside to return.” He took a deep breath. “They were going to ruin what they could of the castle and grounds.”

I eyed the remaining section of wall. They hadn’t done a bad job of it, even now.

A few sentries were running toward us, finally aware of the attack. I couldn’t fault them, it had all happened rather quickly. Chevelle gave them a brief explanation and instructed them where to search for the fallen and what to repair first. I took the opportunity to find my hawk.

When I opened my eyes again, Anvil was recovered. “Where is he?”

“Bunkered down on the northeast crag. No doubt he heard this,” I gestured toward the wall, “so he must have known better than to run.”

“Or he has some agenda,” Chevelle said.

I shrugged. “We can find them here or at the temple. It will end the same.”

From the east tower, we heard a sentry call out when he’d found a fallen comrade. The three of us looked toward the sound.

Chevelle’s voice cut through the silence that followed. “Then let us end it.”

We moved swiftly across the yard and down the jagged black rock to where I’d seen the council member.

As we neared the target, Anvil shouted, “Show yourself.”

There was no response, so we stepped carefully closer, the three of us spread out along the mountainside. I could barely see the colors of his robe where he’d concealed himself, and a surge of apprehension prickled my skin. This felt like a trap.

“Hold,” Chevelle said from across the rock.

I glanced at him, and then heard the chanting. That wasn’t fear prickling my skin, it was the edge of a spell. I stepped back involuntarily.

“You cannot protect yourself,” Anvil called to the mass of rock. “Will you go out like a coward?”

The chanting grew louder and I had to fight not to move back again.

Anvil’s gaze fell on Chevelle, silently questioning whether he recognized the words. Chevelle grimaced, the gesture conveying we’d not be able to cross the bounds of the protection spell. He glanced at me, and I immediately shook my head. There was no way I was going to let him battle a council member with castings.

I sat on the rock behind me, careful to secure my foothold among the looser pieces below my feet, and closed my eyes. It took longer than I would have liked, but I tried to focus solely on bringing the animal in with as much speed as possible instead of the attack on Camber or that I should be with my guard, not here in the broken shards of the crag with one council member.

The cat had been hunting at the base of the cliffs, so it came from below us, agile form moving swiftly up the treacherous granite to the saw-toothed rock where we waited.

From that vantage point, I could see the him; it was Clay of Rothegarr. He had not bothered protecting the back side of his enclosure.

His face changed when he saw the golden fur of the mountain lion rushing toward him. It was some mixture of wonder and dread. He hurried to defend himself, drawing a thorn bush toward him and heaving as much energy as he could into expanding its size. The cat struck, clamping its strong jaw around the council member’s leg, and I could feel the muscles of his thigh tearing under the biting grip as he struggled against it. The cat hadn’t been able to reach his neck in time, but this was instinct. It would wait for him to die, never easing its grip until it was over.

I felt my own body jerk as the thorns pierced the cat’s hide. Through its eyes, I hadn’t seen the vines growing, only the blood as it poured from the councilman’s wound and bubbled up beneath our muzzle. We bit harder, twisting, tearing, and lost our footing as the vines pushed us from the ground. A thorn ran through the pad of our paw, breaking through the top, and we yowled before striking again, but we missed, our jaw snapping shut against air as the vines caught our neck and held us in place. We struggled, furious and desperate, but the tree only tightened around us.

A hand on my shoulder, a word in my ear brought me back to my own body, gasping for air. Right. It was the cat. Not me.