Page 117 of Blood of Ancients

I let out an anxious yelp and slammed my hand down on the cut, mixing the blood in my palm with his grim wound. Smearing my hand on him, I made a disgusted face from how slippery and sticky it was.

Kelvar seethed, gritting his teeth, baring them, slamming his eyes shut again as he twitched.

Nothing happened. When I removed my palm, the bleeding resumed.

I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry . . .”

“Just wait,” Magnus eked out. He bent lower, examining, and pointed. “Look.”

Squinting, trying to see past the muddled view of Kelvar’s bleeding gash, I noticed the black veins close to the injury were starting to recede. They were growing fainter.

“Holy shit,” Sven said above my shoulder. “It’s working.”

My jaw dropped, unable to comprehend what this meant.

As more seconds passed, the puncture looked less grisly. It wasn’t healing his flesh, but it was certainly doing something to the magical infection I assumed was coursing through his bloodstream.

Kelvar’s rattling wheeze softened. His breathing came easier, his body stopped trembling.

Then a voice, ancient and whispering and feminine, croaked from outside the huddle in an awed tone of reverence.

“Lightbearer . . .”

Lady Elayina had awoken. She was upright, hunched over like a crone, showing her age in the slow way she shuffled around the elfstones.

Kelvar the Whisperer was propped up against one of the stones, choking down water from a stone bowl Corym had found when he wandered off, returning minutes later after finding a nearby river.

I was kneeled across from Arne, holding his hands, commiserating with him in silence. The iceshaper had his head bowed. His tears had dried. He was giving a prayer to the gods—to Odin to bring Frida to Valhalla since she had died in battle; to Hel, if Odin wouldn’t listen, wishing Frida a peaceful slumber in the underworld; and to Freyja, the Vanir goddess who chose half the warriors who died in battle to go to her sacred meadows of Folkvang.

I did not know where Frida would end up.At least she has more options in death than it appears she had in life.

Frida Gorndeen had faced a depraved, violent end for her reckless, idealistic notions. We’d all seen it. I knew that even if we could return to Midgard and find her, whatever powers my blood held would do nothing for her.

In my soul, I knew I could not resurrect someone from the dead. I was no necromancer, no draug-raiser. I hardly understood myself at this point, and was more baffled than anything.

I was not supposed to be special. Gods above, I couldn’t even wield magic or runeshape less than a year ago!

And now this? Kelvar was going to live from a “surefire death” wound as Corym had put it, because I had gotten some crazy idea to mingle my blood with his?

What does it mean? What inHelam I?!

Elayina had called me “Lightbearer.” Her eyes had opened while she rested in Corym’s arms, mere moments after I had performed my miracle on Kelvar.

I did not know what that meant, other than a pretty title from the convoluted tales, legends, and prophecies she had once told me about.

I needed a refresher on those prophecies, because so much had happened since then.The serpent’s shadow? The Lightbearer? The one who walked, the one who flew, the Winged One?There was too much to parse, and my mind was going in a million different directions.

The seer was in no condition to speak or tell me more at the moment. Even if the power of the trees in Kiir’luri had awoken her out of her coma, she still looked weak, frail, and sickly.

I wasn’t sure how we were possibly going to escort her anywhere.Unless we carry her. I mean, we’ve already done it once.

We recovered in the circle of elfstones, biding our time while night ended and a sapphire-emerald dawn bit at the horizon, signaling a new day.

Most everyone had fallen asleep abruptly; chins drooped on their chests, heads on the spongy grass and soft leaves. Our exhaustion took hold.

I dozed off with Arne’s hands entwined in mine, both of us lying back against tree trunks. I hadn’t apologized to him or said I was sorry about Frida’s death. Not this time. I knew it wasn’t what he wanted or needed. How could it help?How canI possibly console someone over the loss of a sibling they once held so dear?

We held watch, Sven taking the first shift, and then I lost track of who followed him because I was out. The warmth of Alfheim nestled deep in my muscles and worked out the aches, helping me to drift off.

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