SUMMARY: Merrill and Gwyn finally face off. Azriel contemplates and the bat boys sense something is wrong.
Any residual languid warmth froze over her blood like the first frost the moment Gwyn heard her snide voice.
Hands clenching into fists, she swiveled around to face the temple entrance.
Merrill stood before her in all her beautiful cruelty, occupying the aisle, barring her path. No longer in priestess robes but a dirtied silvery shift, glimmering like moonlight against her light brown flesh. A sword fixed in her clutch. And the edges of that damnable cloak she had worn the night the Gwyn spied her with her co-conspirator blowing as if the brisk November breeze streamed in from an open window. But there were none.
Gwyn's fingers twitched, itching to swipe the dagger at her thigh. But she waited. Patience was the core of the shadowsinger's discipline. Observe. Detect. Let your opponent make the initial move whenever you can—the first mistake. Then strike.
Merrill's knuckles gripped the pommel of her sword. A weapon with more reach than Gwyn's shorter blade. Gwyn donned a veil of indifference, schooling her features. Though deep in her mind, she was loosening her mental shield, reaching out for the High Lord of Night. Surely a powerful daemati such as himself could receive…
"You won't be able to call him. She made certain of that, Gwyneth."
Gwyneth.
There were only so many people Gwyn tolerated calling her by her given name, and it was a ruefully short list. Catrin and Azriel. Merrill did it out of sheer spite, expressing it as most would use obscenities as if she were consciously seeking to rile the young Valkyrie. And it was working.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gwyn replied, her tone dry. Scanning the soaring space, Gwyn was grateful they were alone—the younglings had not yet arrived for their choir practice. May the Mother bless them and keep them safe. They'd endured enough.
A crisp wind lifted the end of Merrill's cloak, stirring the loose copper from Gwyn's twisted, sweaty braid.
Only then did she glare at Merrill, eyeing her adversary for weakness. Good gods. Those eyes… There was something wrong with Merrill's eyes. The once brutal ice-blue irises that could freeze you on the spot were clouded like churned silt in stormy waves.
"What, no eye rolls today, behind my back or front? No snotty retort?" Merrill's sinister chuckle evoked a snake in the grass. Careful. Serpents could strike without warning. Be on guard. Think of your mission in her office.
"Where are the books, Merrill?"
She tapped her chin with the tip of her blade. "Books… Books… There have been so very many, Gwyn. Refresh my memory."
"The ones from your office. The Book of Breathings and The Walking Dead."
Strands as pale as fresh snow floated behind the elder priestess on a strange phantom wind. "I see the shadowsinger's whore has reaped from his lessons. Tell me, Gwyneth? How many of his lessons were flat on your back?"
Whore—that nasty word again. One that her friend the High Lord himself had imparted to Gwyn dared to be applied to even him in the past when he'd been Under the Mountain.
Merrill's eyes fogged over, nearly opaque. "How many times did you spread your legs for Az? Lain with the Spymaster of the Night Court, the Angel of Death?" Those eyes changed color, overcast, turning into a bright day. A vibrant azure like a twilight sky once again. The elder priestess swayed from side to side.
Gwyn held everything in, all the inner violence and fury at her words, the implications brimming beneath a crafted visage. Especially after she shared with Azriel last night, and what she felt this dawn. Gwyn was nobody's whore. And Azriel was no Angel of Death.
Focus. Azriel and Cassian trained her for occasions like this. Get this dumb bitch to continue talking, get answers for Rhysand. No matter the cost.
Gwyn pushed harder, tone as sharp as her knife. "Where are the fucking books?"
Merrill took two strides forward, but Gwyn held like Nesta at The Breaking. For Cauldron's sakes, this was Merrill, an over-inflated-ego priestess. And a priestess with vast knowledge of Valkyrie tactics, she gently reminded herself, dread sifting in her gut.
Eyeing the exit in the corner of her vision, Gwyn wondered how quickly she could reach the door. Would she make it before Merrill used the sword?
"It's locked," Merrill said, taking another step, closing in.
Then another.
Do not yield, Azriel's deep, firm voice echoed in her mind. Do not yield, Gwyn. Not an fucking inch.
"And you don't think I can break a door, Merrill?" She really needed to stop with the mocking gibes.
"No one is getting in here. And like I said, you should have fled when you still could. That's all I wanted. Truthfully, I didn't want it to come down to this—I was hopeful, you know, that you would merely leave and spare all of us, including yourself. At least that is what we had hoped but you remained despite all the attempts."
Leave? No one had requested her to leave. But… something had been stalking Gwyn. Chasing her through the gloomy depths of the library. Scaring her. Hurting...
"Oh gods," her teal orbs seared into Merrill. "The attack in the library. That was you."
She could swear the cold-blooded priestess recoiled at the accusation. "For what it's worth, no, the attack was not me. I would have put no one else in danger, nor did I want you hurt."
Gwyn's answering growl rumbled against her bones. "Bullshit." She pointed straight at Merrill's crooked heart. "You are the reason Shelah is dead. Why Thea got hurt."
A muscle ticked in Merrill's elegant, stubborn jaw. "It was an error born out of anger. It wasn't supposed to happen, but it did because of you."
"An error?! Shelah's death classifies as more than a mere error." From deep inside, a sardonic laugh climbed with a dawning understanding. "The Rite. You entered my name into the list for fucking Calanmai to scare me away?"
"That was a last-ditch effort to send you screaming from the court, an idea not born from my mind." There was something mimicking regret in those winter eyes. "She thought you would leave then, that it was ironclad. I prayed to the Mother that was all it would take. For what was foretold can't stand."
Foretold?
Another step advanced, each heavy plod echoing on the vaulted ceiling. "You'll ruin all of us, Gwyn."
Finding the cold metal hilt against Gwyn's thigh was like being reacquainted with a dear friend right when you needed them. One that always had your back. Gwyn withdrew her dagger from its leather sheath, calculating the distance for a precise throw, gauging if Merrill could block with her saber.
"She said you have to go. We offered you choices, but you've left us none. Night will yield to the siren of fire. The Valkyrie, broken by their own hands at her song. Melody and flame, a smothering end to shadows. It sings the end."
A prophecy? It sings the end—the end of what? In all her years of research, for Merrill or otherwise, Gwyn had never happened across this prognostication anywhere.
Merrill's eyes cleared then and her pale eyebrows drew down, eyes focused as she lifted her sword. As if...as if she knew how to wield it.
"Who is this she?" Gwyn asked, her eyes darting to the various sites of entry, praying to the Mother none of the children entered.
"It all has to change—to end. Especially these fucking traitorous courts and I was more than willing to have a role. And I will not have you mark the end of the Valkyries, leading them to pain and ruin, Gwyneth Berdara. Not again. Never again."
As Merrill held her sword aloft on a battle cry and unleashed. The last thing Gwyn saw before she snatched her dagger for the block was a sliced white ribbon bound around the hilt, the untied ends thrashing in the mystical breeze.
The token of an initiated Valkyrie.
'Shadowsinger!' They flicked his ear hard.
He blinked back to awareness, focusing again on Rhys as Cassian was delivering on the utter shitshow of the Illyrian territory. Fuck all of them. If he was the High Lord, he'd move out the females and children, and mist the rest of those useless pricks.
Instead, the Night Court would simply apply the same tired hard diplomacy and a firm hand when required.
"Devlon says the assholes were taken care of."
The harsh expression on Rhysand's face was visible as he tapped his fingers in a thoughtful rhythm. "So what do you think, Cassian? I would ask Azriel but," the High Lord clicked his tongue, his gaze snapped over to the shadowsinger. "We know his choice would be to mist the whole thing."
'Stay out of my head, Rhysand.'
'Then close your damn mind, Azriel.'
Az slammed his mental shield with ample enough force for the High Lord to flinch. And even then, the magnificent bastard winked in enjoyment.
The shadowsinger scrubbed a hand down his face, eyes gritty. Azriel loved feeling his Valkyrie in bed last night, but sleep brought no joy. He'd taken off her before the first light, having to escort Cerridwen and Nuala to the border of Autumn and Spring for reconnaissance.
But before, for a few precious hours, he'd lain awake, relishing in the warmth of Gwyn's body crowded into his side. Her silken, rust-colored hair fanned over his bare chest. Perfect. Gwyn was fucking flawless. And what the couple had shared in his bedchamber was a revelation. And it was unbelievable how comfortable Az was in her room, even lacking a blade under the pillow. Besides, he would tear someone apart with his bare hands for touching his…
He thrust that right down, sealing it up in the depths.
She will regret being with someone as unworthy as you… Your love will be her ruin. End her.
'You promised to try,' his shadows susurrated, citing his commitment in the caves by Sangravah. And fucking gods, he wanted to try. Wanted to be better for her. To deserve her.
'There is no need to be better. She loves you for who are.'
His heart ceased beating at their message.
'She loves you, Shadowsinger.'
'ENOUGH!'
His word was a dominant order of a lord to domestic, reverberating tremors through the dismal mist. A tone his bastard of a father often used on his servants. On Azriel's true mother—and applying it himself, even to his shadows, made him ill. For once, they actually obeyed and the shame of it ate away at his conscience. Deep in his wicked heart, he realized the shadows were merely trying to bolster him in their meddlesome way. They always had. Sometimes they were the only ones.
But what facts did his umbrae have to back up their claim? Yes, the young priestess had declared in the cave she was "falling" for him; true. But Gwyn's young and obsessed with romance novels. How could she know for sure if something was love versus desire? Or hope? Lust? Obsession?
The brooding fool with centuries on her had yet to distinguish between the two. The inky darkness shifted as his shadows snickered. Azriel rolled his eyes.
Even after all he survived, endured, how fucking dare his shadows tease him with false hope?
A hope that he would be hers.
As he imagined Gwyn coming apart on his fingers, his heart drummed rapidly in his chest. Remembering how she had writhed so brazenly in his lap, on his body. Her secret beauty he adored and admired. His hands blessed to caress her parted lips and flawless freckled skin.
His shadows hummed their dismal approval. 'And you didn't think of your hands once, did you?'
Shock jolted him. Because no, he had not. Not once while he touched Gwyn had his mottled hands even crossed his mind. Before last night, Azriel had never forgotten his scars or how his intimate partner thought of them on their skin. But last night? There was not one moment he wasted fretting.
But how could Gwyn love him?
A ghostly smack to the back of his head knocked him out of his circling thoughts. 'That is for her to decide! When you are not so miserable, you are admittedly quite loveable.'
Fuck. He rubbed the spot they struck. Guess the theory they would be obedient went straight out the damn study window.
His pulse sped up, whirring through the shadowsinger in a low hum.
'Your hearts sing the same song, Shadowsinger.'
'You keep repeating that like I'm supposed to fucking understand. What does it mean?'
'You know exactly what it means if you see beyond your insecurities, Azriel.'
Azriel. They never referred to him as Azriel, not since they first arrived in the dark cell beneath his father's keep.
Suddenly too tight in his skin, he closed his eyes, seeking to lessen the growing compression in the center of his chest.
'Shadowsinger, the High Lord is speaking. Pay attention.'
"Azriel? Is everything alright?"
The shadowsinger cleared his throat, adjusting his wings as he straightened in his chair. "Yes. Why?"
Perched on the edge of Rhys's desk, Cassian crossed his arms and lifted a nosy, dark brow. Rhys remained behind the immense wooden desk, his tan forehead etched with concern.
"Yeah, I…" The heel of his palm ground and smoothed over his chest, his heart, fighting the rising tension with slow, purposeful circles. "Why?"
"Why?" Cassian snorted. "You're usually a fucking statue and you haven't remained still for the last ten minutes."
"I have to admit, Azriel," Rhysand said, "You are reminding me of my son in his crib. Constantly fidgeting."
"Sure as shit, Az. I haven't seen you this jittery since I put itching powder between your wings when we were kids." Fucking Cassian. "What the hell is up with you?"
Good question. In truth, Azriel had felt nothing like this in some time, not since—
A squall blew a howling foreboding song across the wide lawn, the willows surrounding the boundary of the Sidra bending in view of the window behind Rhys.
Cassian stood tall, arms dropping to his side as he twisted to the song of the wind. The hairs on his arm rose. "Do you feel that?"
Bumps erupted all over Azriel's skin, scraping against his leathers as a surge of power pulsed through the city. The den suddenly shone in azure and crimson as the siphons adorning the Illyrian's leather bracers flared brilliantly.
Azriel's enormous eyes found Rhysand's simmering glowing violet. "Something is wrong."
Cassian huffed, tying his hair back into a leather strap at the nape of his neck. "No shit."
Ringing filled the spot between her ears as she scrambled to gain her bearings. She saw metal glinting in the candlelight as she reached the growing knot on her head. Gwyn's dagger hand shot up, preventing another direct blow from Merrill's sword.
Never be on your back. Get to your feet.
With a heavy grunt, she launched Merrill back with both her legs, sending the bleeding and injured white-haired female hurtling into what remained of the benches that weren't decimated by the elder priestess's devastating blast of wind. In the same breath as Merrill, Gwyn erupted on her feet.
Her heart pounded against her rib cage as they mirrored each other's movements. Gwyn's gaze fell on the sword in Merrill's hand. To the golden imprint of wings from point to hilt. To the molded gilded wings at the end of the pommel. The once pristine severed white ribbon.
"How do you have a sword of a Valkyrie?" Gwyn asked, scorn dripping in her tone.
Merrill's smile curled in a mixture of disgust and grief. "My mother's sword." She twirled it around, the frayed fringes of the ribbon whirling in a circle in perfect form. Mother, spare her. "My mother was a Valkyrie. Noble and brave."
Gwyn's mouth fell open in shock. Her mother was a Valkyrie—that's what spurred her obsession for research and testimony on their history. Why Merrill had been so fixated on upholding the Valkyrie past and the future.
Keep her talking, Gwyn thought. Buy time. Someone would have to check on the inner sanctum eventually. All she required was one well-placed distraction.
"And you?" Gwyn studied her opponent, thinking about how this was the first time they were evenly matched. Not mentor and apprentice. They shared the same knowledge of technique, but perhaps Gwyn finally had the upper hand. "You do not appear fully trained with the way you hold that sword with a limp wrist right now," Gwyn said, hearing how mocking it sounded.
Merrill bared her teeth, her hand readjusting on the weapon with precision. "I was in training when they fell—betrayed. The ones that survived scattered as if Rabath himself had swept them into unknown lands. Destroyed or sent away. Gone."
Rabath, the Lord of the Wind. The powerful fae Merrill descended from, as she had touted many times over.
"All they wished was dignity and the heirs of Rabath, scions of the first to come to this world, and their kind wanted was their family and land returned. Or to return whence they'd came. They were promised thusly for aiding in the war, but—" Merrill's snicker reminded Gwyn of thrown stones and bones, foretelling something dark and significant. Letting out a lengthy sigh, blowing more like a hiss, "No matter. The seer promises she will restore everything once the prophecy is avoided."
A thump sounded outside the massive door.
"Berdara! Clotho said you came this way. I wanted to know if you needed any help today." Nesta. "Berdara!... Roslin, you said she came in here, right?"
"Yes," she overheard Roslin, her fellow Valkyrie-priestess, answer in confusion. There was a clunk on the handle, metal hit metal. "Ananke, why is this locked? Odd. We never bolt the temple."
"Something doesn't seem right. Roslin and Ananke, are you armed? Lorelai! Deidre! Ileana, go alert Clotho," Nesta commanded her Valkyries. "Berdara!"
"Gwyn!" A persistent cadence of pounding and shouted conversation commenced.
"NES—" Her words cut off as a gust sent backward into her, knocking the air from her lungs.
Merrill growled, hefting her sword high as she stalked Gwyn. Left with no other option, the young Valkyrie aimed and threw her sole weapon—her dagger. It met its target.
As Merrill howled in agony, hands sliding through blood as she tugged at the blade impaled in her trunk and tossing to the ground. Gwyn scrambled to get behind the altar. If she could get beyond the shrine and sacred pool where the priestesses drew the water for the blessing fount, Gwyn would reach the rear entrance leading to the dorms.
A blow came out of nowhere, sending Gwyn careening into the water with a splash. Get out, she thought. Twisting in the shallow depths on her hands and knees, she slithered toward the back door as the distant insistent pounding turned into wood cracking.
"Nesta," Gwyn shouted. "It's Mer—"
A blast of wind flipped her onto her back, propelling her down. Down. Down. Until Gwyn was underwater, gazing up through, wavered glass. The blurred figure of a luminous, white-haired goddess glowered over her.
Gwyn fought against the force pinning her body.
Fight. Her limbs flailed.
Fight. Her palms slipped on the slick tile on the floor, fingernails cracking.
Fight. She grasped at her sides to find she'd indeed used her one weapon.
The more Gwyn protested, the harder she struggled, the more the power pressed against her skin. Her back flattened to the bottom, the corners of tiny tiles piercing into the leather.
She could hear Nesta's voice muffled in the distance as her lungs burned.
Nesta was coming.
Nesta was almost here.
She would find her if Gwyn could only call...
Her mouth opened on a phantom gasp, trying to yell and draw in air at once, only finding water rushing into her lungs.
"It's a shame it has to end this way, Gwyneth," Merrill began as bubbles rose from Gwyn's nose to the surface. "The resurrection of the Valkyrie is welcome. But not under the charge of that audacious Archeron, a crippled Illyrian, and some half-breed."
Half-breed. How many times had that miserable witch referred to her as a... half-breed nymph. The daughter of a half-breed nymph.
The memory sparked something inside her, awakening.
Nymph.
Nymph.
Gwyn was a part nymph.
Control. She had to get this under control; she thought. Still herself, her mind. Closing her eyes, she battled against the rising terror in her body. Her burning lungs.
I am the rock against which the surf crashes.
"We nudged you several times, Gwyn. But you surprised me. If only you hadn't ensnared that damned shadowsinger. This might have worked out differently, siren. At least from my end."
I am the rock against which the surf crashes.
"Just remember, you brought this all upon yourself." From below the shimmering surface, Gwyn could see Merrill's eyes shift once again from bright azure to milky alabaster. Her features evolved from a snarl to quiet resignation. "I'm sorry. You were going to get him killed. And I can't have that—and he's better off."
Merrill's eyes transformed, blending colors, now the odd hue of damp bluestone.
Gwyn's hands flattened on the bottom as she focused her mind, delving deep into herself beyond the hurt in her lungs, and she let go.
Falling through the pain, watching a memory of her mother taking her and Catrin to their lake. The broad smile on her mother's pretty face, gaping up at the beveled sky from the bottom with no fear.
So, like her mother before, Gwyn became part of the water, letting it seep into her bones. No fear.
Until the pool was still. Until Gwyn no longer thrashed but lay as still as a rock in a surf.
Until the liquid in her lungs didn't burn. Until it felt right.
Gwyn smiled inside and bided her time. Perhaps she should show Merrill what a half-breed nymph Valkyrie was truly capable of. Because tossing Gwyn into that pool was a huge fucking mistake.
The moment Merrill backed away, believing she had drowned her rival, and turned to find Nesta closing in from behind, Gwyn burst out of the water.
Well now, Gwyn iand/i Nesta vs. Merrill... 😏
Gwyn feeling connected to her nymph heritage...
Merrill's mother being an OG Valkyrie...
There was a lot to unpack, and there's still more to come.