Aurora's End (The Aurora Cycle #3)(77)

She lifts her hands and draws up her hood, and like that, the spell’s broken.

“What was that?” I murmur, still dazed.

Her musical voice sounds amused. “By that, do you mean the way you are drawn to me, or the battle we have just escaped?”

“The first one,” I decide. “And then where’s Kal, and then the second one.”

“It is the way of the Ulemna,” she says simply. “We … hold the attention of others. As for your Syldrathi bodyguard, he is just there.”

She nods to the other side of the room, and when I carefully twist away from her, trying not to jostle my aching head, I find Kal asleep in a chair, his gentle expression marred only by a small line between his brows—and the giant Syldrathi swords he’s got propped against his chair.

“And the Starslayer?”

“He would not leave the Eshvaren ship,” she replies. “But the Waywalkers sense his presence. He recovers, as you do.”

“Tyler and his crew?”

“The Vindicator was not among the casualties,” she says quietly, her three-part minor-key voice growing softer, sadder. I can picture the ships we lost bursting into flame, silent in the vacuum of space.

People who died because the Ra’haam followed me here.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Are we somewhere safe?”

“For now. You won the battle. Brought us to safety.”

I sink back against the pillow, closing my eyes.

I enjoyed it.

I know I was ripping myself apart to give them that power, but son of a biscuit, the thrill of it.

I want to do it again.

She’s still talking. “The council has voted on what our next steps might be. The decision was not unanimous, but …”

My eyes snap back open. “You’ll help?”

I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice. Their help will be the end of them—they’ll die defending me while I try to throw myself back in time, so I can try to die defending them. At least—how did Caersan put it?

At least I’ll feel like a god while I do it.

“We have seen the price you are willing to pay to right a wrong. To protect us,” she replies. “And there are many among us who, tragic as it may seem, agree with the Starslayer.” She shakes her head. “This is no kind of life. We see no other choice but to help you.”

“Now that I’ve brought this down upon you, weakened you further.”

“No, Terrachild.” Her tone is gentle now. “You have only shined a light on a truth that was always here. Our downfall is inevitable. It is only a matter of time, and not much more of it at that. We have long talked of our last stand. How bright the last fire may flare before it is snuffed out entirely. Now there is a small chance that our end will be our salvation. That somewhere else, somewhen, it will do some good. But even if you fail, ours will be a last stand worthy of the great histories of all our races.”

“There are so many more than I ever knew,” I murmur. “I’ve barely had a chance to see anything. I’d never even heard of the Ulemna.”

“We were few in the time you came from.” Her eyes peer into mine, old and sad and tired. “And now I am the very last. Of the whole of my people, I am all that remains to remember our songs, our stories. When I am gone …”

I’m silent. What can you say to something like that?

“I will leave you to rest. You must recover as best you can while we prepare Sempiternity.”

She rises slowly, looks to the walls around us, and sighs.

“For her final trip.”

? ? ? ? ?

It’s some time later when Kal wakes. I’ve been lying quietly, studying his face. He’s so impossibly beautiful. I’m sure if I was asleep in a chair, I’d be drooling or my head would have dropped down and given me a double chin, but I’ve never seen him look out of place, and he doesn’t now.

My warrior with the gentlest of souls.

I wish we’d had more time together. It seems so unfair.

I feel his mind stir first. He mentally flexes and stretches, instinctively checking for me, then settles as he finds me. And then his lashes lift, and he looks at me gravely.

We have no secrets now—he can sense my resolve.

“You mean to do this thing,” he says quietly.

“I have no choice,” I reply, lifting one hand to beckon him closer. I still feel like I’ve been run over by a grav-lifter.

He walks over to settle on the edge of my bed, fingers lacing through mine. “Perhaps there is another way,” he says, violet eyes meeting mine.

“But there isn’t.”

“Would you search for it, if you thought it was there for the finding?”

I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His fingers squeeze mine. “We are linked, be’shmai. We are a part of one another. You take a warrior’s joy in the kill; I can feel it as if it were my own. You enjoy the dance of blood. And you wish to dance again.”

“Would it be better if I felt bad about it?” I ask, my hackles rising. “If I sat here and whined like a kid? It doesn’t change what I have to do.”

“Is it what you have to do?” he presses. The rest of the sentence hangs between us—he couldn’t hide it from me even if he wanted, and he lifts his chin as the words echo in my mind.