Bloodleaf (Bloodleaf #1)(96)

“And what,” I asked, “did you have to gain?”

“Eternity,” he said.

“This is what you wanted? To wear another man’s face? To live another man’s life? Forever?”

“Toris was a means to an end. Don’t feel too bad for him, Princess; he knew what I was when he woke me. Luckily, he didn’t live long enough to regret it.”

“The Assembly,” I said, remembering. “Lisette said he changed after he went to visit the Assembly. He went there as a historian. He came back as . . . you. You took his place. After you killed him.”

“I’ve killed a great many people, my dear. Toris, Lisette. Your father. Her mother. All the fools who tried to keep me locked away at the Assembly. Soon enough it will be his turn.” He motioned to Zan. “And then I’ll get to you.”

I eyed Victor de Achlev’s blood. Toris—?Cael—?still didn’t know it wasn’t his.

“Five hundred years,” I said. “It took five hundred years for you to get back here, to finish the job you botched. Because your brother saw what you did to Aren and tried to save her. He was a feral mage. He worked with nature, not with blood. So he used yours and left you with only this.” I dangled the blood vial again. “How unfortunate for you.”

“Achlev”—?he spat out the name—?“wasted my blood to make this monstrosity.” He indicated the thatch of bloodleaf, crushing a shoot beneath his heel. “But while I do require blood to work magic, like you, and my own blood was singularly potent, it doesn’t have to be my blood I use. I quickly found an excellent alternative source through the Tribunal.” He grinned. “Of course, it was much more effective when the guillotine was our primary method of executing witches. Beheadings went out of vogue during my involuntary confinement at the Assembly. I’ve been pushing for the practice to make a comeback; I have to interrogate subjects for days to obtain a fraction of the blood I can get removing a head.”

I closed my eyes. “All the countless people who have suffered and died to serve your vendetta against magic . . .”

“I have no vendetta against magic, only against those who might have more of it than I do. Achlev took mine, so I merely found a way to compensate for the loss. The Tribunal was my best idea. My greatest legacy,” he said proudly.

“Destroying it will be mine.”

“You’re not going to make it from this tower, little girl. I need you to die so that I can finally open the rift and set my mistress free.” He tilted his head. “Can’t you hear the whispers? She’s calling for you.”

Come to me. Find me. Free me. The voice was soothing, comforting, cajoling, demanding . . . Let me out. I looked up at Cael, startled. He had his ear cocked to the wind, a smile playing on his lips, letting the silky whispers lull him into obedience.

“Everyone worships the Empyrea so blindly,” he said, “never wondering about the other powers. There were always three of them, you know. One to rule the sky, the other the earth . . . But the last sister . . . she was given the refuse to rule over. The dead and the damned and the souls deemed too corrupt to be given life. They call her the crone, but they are wrong. She is perfect. She is beautiful. My mistress. The mistress of all blood mages, really. And she chose me that day, to do her work: Take a life. Open the portal. Set her free.”

I was inching closer to him as he spoke. “Your mistress made you ageless, undying, just in time for Achlev to take all of your blood and stop your sacrifice. So you failed her, and then you fled, and he built this monument and the entire city and the wall to keep you from fulfilling your bargain with her for five centuries.” I shrugged. “I can’t imagine she is well pleased with your work.”

He kicked Zan to his side and dove toward me but skidded to a halt as I hovered the vial over the abyss.

“Name your mistress,” I said. “Name that dark force to whom you sold your soul.”

“Malefica.” He spat out the name. He was so close, I could see the serpentine red vessels in his glassy eyes.

I said, “May you find joy in your reunion.” And I threw the vial down. It fell with a clink, trailing an arc of blood behind it, rolling to a stop at the statue Aren’s feet.

Cael let out an animal snarl and leaped after it, scraping his fingers across the splattered blood as if trying to gather it back into the vial. I flew past him and scrabbled to Zan, who was still lying on his side. As I worked my knife through the ropes binding him, the wind rose from a whistle to a scream and the tower swayed as a dozen funnel clouds spooled down from the sky to the ground. The air was hot and electric as the earth gave a deep, primal groan, and the three marble men at King’s Gate splintered into pieces that tumbled into the roiling ruby water of the fjord.

It seemed that my gamble had paid off. Victor de Achlev’s last remaining blood had worked in place of Zan’s for the sacrifice. King’s Gate was falling, and it was the last anchor; its loss catalyzed the wall’s final decimation. All around the city the ancient, indestructible stones of Achlev’s Wall began to shake and crumble. Below us the blue-white lines of magic seared across the black expanse, snapping back to their original course, one after another after another. I clutched Zan close as they intersected in the earth deep below us, a throbbing tangle of energy and light.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured into Zan’s shoulder. “We’re going to make it out of this. We’re . . .”