Page 8 of Kept

Laurent’s smile climbed all the way up to his eyes. “General Lord Varick of Lar Keiren, was that a jest you just made? Right here next to the blacksmith’s workshop?”

I grunted. Then sobered. “The Rift awaits.”

He stepped back, duty settling over him. He was still Laurent, but he was more now. King and priest, an aura of dark power huddling around him. The favored of the gods. Vessel of the sacred blood. His inability to control the Deepnight wore on him. The strain was evident in the lines around his eyes and his long silences during Council meetings.

“There’s something else, Your Grace,” I said quietly.

Laurent’s gaze sharpened as he recognized the shift between us—a door closing quietly as we stepped into the loud, bright world once more.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My knights returned from patrol just before you entered the courtyard. More gaps in the canopy opened overnight.”

His mouth tightened—a reaction too subtle for anyone to notice. But I wasn’t anyone. I was his, and he was mine, and I knew he believed every missing piece of the Deepnight lay crumpled at his feet.

He nodded. “Your knights have thick cloaks, General?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then we depart. And may the gods go with us.”

* * *

An hour later, sweat stung my eyes as I watched the first of my knights cross the Bleak Pass.

The patrol hadn’t exaggerated. Not only had the Deepnight drifted several more feet into Sithistra, but the canopy along the edge of the Nor Doruvian side was also entirely burned away. The naked sun seared the ground, baking the dirt and filling the air with a damp, wavy haze.

In the distance, the Thicket soared into the sky. Clouds stirred at the tops of the trees. The barrier was farther away than it looked. It was still too fucking close for my liking.

I looked away, my gaze settling on Laurent. He sat atop his black horse at the mouth of the Pass, his gloved hands resting on his pommel as the sun beat down upon his cloaked head. Petru and the other priests clustered behind him, their lips moving as they chanted a protection rite. I caught words here and there, but I’d never mastered the ritual language of the Sanctum. It was wholly different from the common tongue of Ter Isir, the ancient words pronounced almost entirely with fangs bared and a hiss on the roof of the mouth.

Jordan of Twyl had dismounted and stood patting his horse’s nose as he observed the priests.

Beside me, Given gripped her reins in tight fingers. She gnawed her lower lip, her gaze on the small, richly dressed figures assembled around the base of the funeral pyre on the Sithistran side of the Rift.

On my other side, one of my knight captains, Radu, spoke under his breath. “The humans outdid themselves. They must have felled every tree in the South to build that thing.”

Given spoke without turning her head. “The Lord of the Mir demands it, Captain Radu. The pyre has to be tall enough for the smoke to reach the godsrealm.”

In that case, the humans had succeeded. Rolund’s pyre stabbed at the sky like a giant, wooden tooth. The base was stacked with straw and bundles of sticks. Green Guards stood at all four corners, their torches at the ready.

As Queen Elissa promised, the Guards and the rest of the Sithistran knights had thrust their swords into the ground along the edge of the Rift. They’d left their shields, too, the wood painted the green and gold colors of the South.

But I still didn’t like it. I didn’t like this meeting or the humans or the fucking sun. I didn’t like my knights crossing the Pass on foot, their horses stuck pulling up wilted grass in Nor Doru.

And I didn’t like the fear that twisted through me as I waited to hear Midian’s voice lifting from the Rift. It made me a coward. I was honest enough with myself to admit that. I didn’t lack for courage on the battlefield. But I was accustomed to enemies I could see. Give me an opponent who bled when you cut him, and I could fight without fear. Midian’s weapons came from within my mind. The demon king wielded my own demons against me.

Given’s horse shied and tossed its head. As she struggled with the animal, I reached over and took her reins. My own horse was a battle-hardened charger, and it stood steady as I brought the smaller horse under control.

“Thank you,” Given murmured, accepting the reins.

I put my gloved hand over hers and kept my gaze on the column of knights. “Are you all right?” I asked in her head.

In my peripheral vision, she gave a shallow nod.

“Have you heard him?” I didn’t clarify which “him” I referred to. It seemed wise to avoid speaking Midian’s name, even in her mind.

A subtle shake of her head.

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