Page 113 of Prisoner of Darkness and Dreams
Hands touch my shoulder, and a familiar voice is saying my name in an urgent, rushed tone.
“Morgana, are you alright?”
I look up to see Harman standing over me, his face twisted in concern.
“Yes,” I say, though nothing could be further from the truth. “He’s alive. But barely. I don’t think he has a lot of time.” The words come out of my mouth of their own accord.
“He’s alive!” Harman calls over his shoulder before turning back to me, speaking quickly. “Caledon’s taken the carriage with the children. The Hand are going after them to see if we can catch them up. But you shouldtake the injured with Mal and the fae. You have to get them out of Qimorna.”
I nod numbly, remembering those children’s terrified faces. It’s obvious to me there’s no way the Hand can save them now. Within moments, that carriage will be surrounded by hundreds of clerics. Yet I know that these facts won’t matter to Harman. He has to try. That’s why he’s the rebels’ leader.
More familiar faces gather around me, moving fast. Hyllus scoops me up as the other fae lift Leon’s body. Alastor has tears in his eyes, and Damia’s expression is so fierce I think she could kill a man just by looking at him.
Somehow in the chaos, they’ve found a wagon and are using that and our own carriage to load up injured rebels and those without horses. Hyllus places me inside the wagon beside Leon. I have the strange sensation of being underwater as I look around and see the devastation from the fight.
Bodies litter the street, one side of which is still missing thanks to Leon’s magic. The buildings are scorched and smoking from my sun beams. For now, the clerics are all gone, fled with the carriage or dead.
But I have no doubt fresh forces will be here soon.
I have enough awareness to search for Harman, seeing him swing himself up onto his horse.
“Be careful, brother,” I say.
“I will be,” he says. Then his eyes move from me to Alastor, and the pair exchange a long look. “But my job is to look after the Hand while yours is to see to the prince.”
I understand he’s not talking to me; my heart shatters as Alastor runs up to Harman’s horse. I turn my face away from their goodbye, unable to bear it. I spot Lafia across the wagon from me, looking at Leon.
“He’s not dead,” I say, the words hollow in my ears.
“I know,” she replies, a strange note in her voice.
I don’t pay attention to our journey out of the city. I know we go fast—it’s necessary given the horde of clerics that might soon be nipping at our heels—but every time I try to focus on the scenery around us, it’s like mysenses are dulled to it. I know that eventually the white marble buildings are behind us, and we disappear into the Trovian countryside.
“We’ll take him to Lavail,” Alastor says, riding beside the wagon to speak to me. “To the Sanctuary of Viscalis. It kept Fairon alive until you could heal him; it’ll work for the captain too.”
I look down at Leon. Could he possibly hold on that long? Mal and Lafia are both bent over him now, muttering to each other in low tones. They’ve been that way for an hour at least, since Mal examined Leon after he’d seen to the other urgent injuries.
“I don’t understand,” I say, sick of the thoughts that keep swirling around my head and looking for a break from them. “We’re connected, linked by a spell. I can still feel himphysicallyhere, so how is it that he’s alsonothere at the same time?”
When I focus, his heartbeat thuds in my ears, yet when I reach across the mooring, nothing answers.
Mal looks at Lafia. “Go on, tell her. Share what you just told me.”
Lafia’s big brown eyes are even wider than usual, and her complexion is slightly gray.
“It’s the scythe they used, and the way it left no injuries. I think?—”
“It’s Ethira’s,” I complete. She hadn’t been part of the discussions about Caledon’s search for the gods’ tokens, but I’m in no mood to explain any of that to her now.
She nods. “The legends say that he used it in the ritual that made him a god. In order to take on an immortal form, he had to separate himself from his human body, shedding his mortality. He made a scythe with metal given by Lusteris, the ever-changing moon, and Ralus, the god who gives the spark of life.”
“But what does it do?” I demand, frustrated by her bedtime story. “What did they do to Leon?”
Lafia swallows, looking like she’d rather say anything but what she’s about to tell me.
“They cut away his soul.”
Chapter 38
