Page 268 of The Cradle of Ice
She dug deep with her blade and tore through tissue. Hot blood washed over her hands. Bashaliia cried and mewled, wings battered weakly, wanting to escape but still not wanting to leave her side. She clung all the harder. His whimpers begged for forgiveness, not understanding.
She could not comfort him with song, to blur her edges with him. For this to work, he must be isolated, to remain his pure self.
She sobbed and rocked but drove her knife deeper. She sought the coldness of bronze that could snap a neck, the stoniness of a warrior that could slay the innocent.
Finally, soaked in his blood, shaking all over, she felt his fighting stop. His wings sank down. His keening for forgiveness faded to a plaintive whisper—then went silent.
She reached a palm over his heart, as pure as it had ever been.
Then it stopped.
She leaned back and screamed her song at the world. She wound a bright net and cast it over Bashaliia’s body. It covered every sweet bit of him. She drew it tighter as she sang her pain, collecting all that was Bashaliia within those golden strands.
She kept tightening and tightening it, gathering all of him: his love, his innocence, his irritability, his hunger, his fears, his habits, his dreams, every mote of his vital essence.
As she did, the spark of Bashaliia grew into the golden blaze of a summer sun. Still, she closed her net tighter, straining with song and fire to hold him close. The sun became a hard star, ageless and perfect. She wanted to gaze upon it forever—but inside, she handed it to another.
An act every bit as hard as the slaughter.
To let him go, to trust in another.
The horde-mind drew that star into its black ancientness, covering him completely, eclipsing his beauty. Being raash’ke, it could not merge its consciousness with Bashaliia. It was why Nyx had to pull Bashaliia out, pure and unadulterated, separate from herself, untouched even by the bridle-song they shared.
But while that ancientness couldn’t absorb Bashaliia, it could hold him.
She whispered to that eternal spirit, knowing what she was asking of it.
It did not deny her.
Take me.
* * *
DAAL STRUGGLED TO help, but Jace pushed him back behind his shoulders.
Ahead, the huge bat shoved into the tunnel, screaming in defiant madness. Emerald fire danced and spat through bright copper imbedded in steel and skull. Fangs slashed the air, flinging saliva and poison. It hissed and slavered. Its eyes were pools of fire.
The sight of that emerald fire sickened Daal’s stomach. It was corruption and rot and pestilence. It was depravity and enslavement, too. It was everything vile in the world turned to fire.
Impossibly, Graylin stood against it, perhaps only seeing the beast and not the perversion that fueled it. The knight raised his sword, its length etched in vines that ran with blood. He stabbed and slashed, fighting hard. His blade rang off the beast’s steel helm.
The monster snapped and spat and screamed.
Graylin retreated, but exhaustion tripped his feet. He landed hard, hit his elbow. His hilt knocked from his grip, skittering and bouncing between the wingtips of the monster.
The bat lunged at its stubborn prey.
Then stopped—so close that its huffed breath blew back Graylin’s hair.
The monster looked over its shoulder toward the dome, as if hearing the whistle of its master. The bat turned and screamed out into it.
Under the cover of that cry, Graylin scooted on his bottom, sliding between those wings. He snatched up his blade. The monster’s chest loomed high. Grayling grabbed the hilt with both hands and braced a leg under him, ready to thrust for the bat’s heart.
“Finally,” Jace gasped.
Daal wanted satisfaction, too, picturing the raash’ke plummeting through the air. While he knew the bat was enslaved, it was better to end its misery. Daal glared at the corrupting fire—only to have the helm’s fiery crown flicker, going golden for a breath.
Still, for that moment, he heard a distant chime of song.
