Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3) Read online

  Elise rolled off the bed and onto the hard wooden floor. The impact felt good, and she wished she could roll over again and land on something harder.

  For a while, she laid still like that, face-down on the floor with her arms at her sides and her tears running free. Eventually, Ermolt tried to scoop her up again, but she shoved him away. He was insistent, and finally Elise turned to him.

  The barbarian wore the strangest look on his face. He seemed stripped of every emotion she’d ever seen.

  He wasn’t angry, like when he was fighting.

  He wasn’t calm and confident like whenever he wasn’t fighting.

  He didn’t even have that look of grim determination that he had at Merylle’s funeral.

  He just looked... empty.

  A part of Elise hated him for it. She was jealous, bitter, that he could feel empty when so much of her hurt. Elise’s heart was made of lead, and her head stuffed with cotton and beetles. All she felt was pain, all in a thousand different flavors.

  What she would have given to feel empty.

  Elise sat up, and her head swam. Ermolt pressed a healing potion into her hands, likely from her own pack, and Elise drank it immediately. It chased away the edges of her throbbing headache and reduced the itching along her scalp. While it wasn’t a cure, it was enough to let her focus.

  She was in her room at the Lucky Turnip. Ermolt had brought them here, and had collected their things. “We need to go,” he said without emotion.

  Elise struggled to her feet and took her bag from the barbarian.

  Without another word, they left. Back out into the empty streets.

  It felt wrong for everything to be so quiet.

  There was so much noise in her head, and Elise wished for anything to drown it out.

  A conversation to eavesdrop on.

  A drunken song to sway along with.

  The clop of hooves.

  The roar of waves.

  The whistle of the wind.

  Anything.

  But it was quiet.

  And it hurt.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  As they neared the gates, Elise was struck by how odd it was that they were empty. Unmanned. There seemed to be no Guards standing watch, for them or for anyone. The gates themselves hung open and they creaked unnervingly in the smallest breeze.

  A bell ago—two at most—they had fled through a city full of Guards. Guards who had hunted for them. What had changed?

  Elise was sure Ibeyar couldn’t have gotten the news out of his victory. While she was sure they would have some sort of celebration, it was too soon.

  Celebration.

  Elise’s stomach turned.

  Ibeyar would be celebrating whatever his victory was while she and Ermolt mourned a woman they couldn’t even bury.

  Elise shook the thought out of her head before the impending sadness could wash over her again. She could feel it, collecting at the edges of her thoughts and threatening to drown her in tears once more. But it was dangerous to submit to it before they were safe.

  Without realizing it, Elise began picking at her cuticles as she mulled over her own thoughts.

  Even if Ibeyar had called the Guards back, Elise still had suspected there would be a few left on duty to block them from escaping. It would have been the perfect end to such a failure of an evening. For them to die trying to slink out of the city.

  They couldn’t protect her, so it just seemed right that they would fail to die alongside her, only to be executed a bell later as part of Ibeyar’s victory feast.

  But here they were, free to go, sneaking through the gates with no resistance. Out into the night. To nowhere.

  She had no plan. No idea what to do.

  Elise couldn’t even muster enough worry to ask Ermolt if he had a plan. As far as she was concerned, she’d walk the length of Neuges until her feet fell off if she felt it would bring Athala back. And she knew he felt the same. So they would walk, and figure it out later.

  As they walked away from the city, Elise wondered if she were looking at things wrong. Perhaps something else had happened while they escaped. Maybe Meodryt had killed Ibeyar. Maybe the dragon was wreaking havoc on the town.

  Parts of the city could be ablaze, with people dying in their sleep.

  Elise didn’t care.

  As much as her anger was directed at Meodryt—and by extension, Ibeyar—she mused that she might actually be able to feel happiness again if the entire city of Jirda vanished off the face of Neuges.

  To her, it would forever be the city where Athala died.

  Where hope died.

  Elise plodded alongside Ermolt, picking at her nails.

  The worst part of it all was that there was a tiny, selfish part of her that was more disappointed in her failure than in Athala’s death. A little voice that cried out that Elise deserved this.

  Athala was one of the most powerful young wizards of her generation. She was a genius, with all the tools and talent to blaze a new trail into the future of magical theory.

  The tragedy wasn’t that Elise had lost the person she let get closest to her in her entire life. It was that the world had lost all the good Athala would have ever done. The limitless potential of a long and fruitful life was forever gone.

  But that pain in her chest pressed.

  It was Elise’s fault.

  She had brought them on this whole mission in the first place. For what? The orders of a dragon that killed her friend? A promise that, in her heart of hearts, she knew was false?

  It was all Elise’s fault. And, for some reason, she desperately needed Athala to tell her so. Ermolt blaming her would only rouse her anger. But Athala could say it and it would be the balm to the stabbing weight on her heart.

  Elise looked up from her feet. She didn’t know how long ago they had left Jirda. Looking back, she could only see forest. She couldn’t even remember what gate they had left through. Was it the way they had come? Was it the west gate towards Gloder?

  More importantly, did it matter?

  “What are we doing?” Elise finally said, breaking the silence that hung between her and her companion. The barbarian looked up, his face still void of emotion.

  Empty.

  Helpless.

  “Why are we bothering to go on?”

  “It’s what she wanted,” Ermolt replied, his voice hitching with a sob halfway through. His eyes were dry. “The last thing she asked of us was to live.” He sounded hollow, like his voice was coming from down a long hallway before leaving his mouth. “It’s all we can do for her now.”

  A wave of grief washed over Elise.

  She stopped walking.

  Ermolt was right. This was all they could do. There was no closure. Without Athala, they could never hope to fight Meodryt, or Ibeyar, or anyone. They couldn’t avenge her.

  Elise shut her eyes and tried to conjure a happy memory of Athala. Anything at all.

  But the only image that played against her eyelids was of blood dribbling down a dragon’s chin. A stained red tongue sliding out to collect it.

  The weight in Elise’s heart turned cold.

  A numbness started to fill her, and she couldn’t decide if that was worse or better than the pain.

  Ahead she could hear Ermolt’s footsteps stop. She opened her eyes and looked to him. The barbarian had started to cry again. Fresh tears ran tracks down his face, through the dirt and the grime of the day.

  What must he be feeling? Did he blame her, as she blamed herself? Or did he too point fingers inward? Did he thirst for vengeance?

  Did he think they deserved to live?

  Or was his escape through the city penance?

  Elise wanted to lie down somewhere uncomfortable and wait for her own death. Did he want that, or did Ermolt want to force himself to live with this pain and loss? Was that what he thought he deserved?

  She could find no answers on his face. No answers in her heart.

  Elise’s legs buckled under her, and
she collapsed to her knees. Without thinking about it, her hands were clasped before her chest.

  She felt a wave of revulsion as she reached out to Ydia—another flash of blood dripping down ivory scales—but she pressed through it.

  This wasn’t like praying.

  She didn’t think or say the traditional words. She didn’t beseech or beg or grovel.

  She simply marshaled her will and focused, gathering up the storm of emotions that raged beneath the cold numbness and pushed it at her God with a single word. A single thought. A single question.

  Why?

  Elise expected to sit on this dirt road forever. She expected Ydia to laugh on high from Grunith, ignoring her call as She orchestrated whatever new rube She was going to con into helping Her fulfill Her desires.

  But this time was different.

  Unlike every other prayer—every heartfelt plea, every desperate life-or-death gamble—there was an answer. A feeling of warmth and love and attention, radiating from her chest.

  But it felt distant, like an external sensation.

  Like sun on her skin.

  It didn’t reach the pain in her heart. Didn’t soothe away the numbness. Instead it only sharpened the contrast—the awareness, of the icy cold inside her chest.

  There was light against her eyelids, and Elise opened them.

  A shimmering white-gold figure—too tall to be either human or barbarian—stood in the road. The figure was obviously female, with a waist too narrow to support her ample bosom, just like the statues in Khule. She was faceless, but Elise could tell she was trying to imbue Her subject with a calming, welcoming feeling.

  Elise ignored it. Squashed it down. Buried it under the avalanche of her anger.

  She leapt to her feet. Her anger was cold, righteous, clear.

  “Give her back!” Elise screamed. Ydia raised a hand to calm her, but Elise ignored it, yelling louder. “Don’t try to silence me. You’re capable of miracles of life! Your dragon did this. You did this! You can undo it! So give her back! Now!”

  “I can’t,” a voice answered, a voice that came not from the face or throat of the divine being before her, but from the air itself. It was like the pure ringing of bells turned to human words, but even the beauty of the voice couldn’t calm the rage brought on by the words it said. “Meodryt warned her not to use the spell. It could do to Meodryt what your enemy did to Undyt. And, by extension, do to Me what was done to Numara. Even if it is within My power to bring her back, I fear to do so, lest she supplant My power and bring about My doom.”

  “I don’t care!” Elise snapped. “I need her!” She looked past the divine creature to where Ermolt stood, watching, his face a tempest of anger and fear, but also confusion. “W-we need her.”

  “The risk is too great, Child.” Ydia spoke with a calm voice that was supposed to be soothing, but it only infuriated Elise more. “One mortal life—no matter how promising—is not worth the life of a God and all the things They represent.”

  “It is to me,” Elise said, stepping up close to the shimmering image, her fists clenched at her sides. “Bring her back, or You are no God of mine.”

  Ydia said nothing, so Elise pressed on. “I am willing to forgive every time You’ve left my prayers unanswered. But only if You bring her back to me. If You can’t do that, then You don’t deserve to be worshiped.”

  The glow of Ydia’s form cast more of that warm feeling over Elise’s skin, attempting to sooth her with every pulse. But the tears in her eyes were hotter. More urgent.

  “In your heart of hearts,” the God said finally, Her tone still the same infuriating calm, “you have already made that decision.”

  “Then win me back!” Elise shouted. Her anger was starting to ebb, and the grief welled up all over again. “Just give me this one thing! I promise I won’t let her threaten you! I’ll talk to her. She’ll listen to me!”

  “I can’t.” Ydia shook her head. “I hope you understand, Child.”

  Elise shouted, wordlessly. It started as a snarl, but grew in volume and intensity as her frustration culminated in a crescendo of emotion. When she was all out of breath she gathered her saliva and spat at Ydia.

  The shimmering image faded away before the spittle could strike, passing through empty air where the featureless face had once been.

  Elise collapsed back down to her knees with a helpless sob.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ermolt felt powerless.

  And more than that, he felt empty.

  Elise was crying in the road, her forehead down in the dirt. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, to figure out what the harmonious jingling noises had been.

  But he couldn’t.

  It was like he was trapped, rooted to the spot by invisible ropes that tethered him to the spot.

  No amount of struggling moved him.

  No power could overcome the empty force of his grief.

  From the one-sided conversation he was able to piece together, Ydia had finally blessed them with Her presence. And like most things with the Gods, it seemed like what She had to offer was not only what they wanted or needed, but was little more than lip service paid to the problem.

  He had hoped, somewhere deep and distant, that they would be able to plead with the God of Life and get their friend back. But now that the chance was gone, the yawning chasm of her loss opened up once again and drained away any emotion Ermolt could have.

  Even in legends and stories, there was no way back to the land of the living from the Nether, unless one had the power of a sympathetic God. And even then, it was rare.

  Time passed. Ermolt wasn’t sure how long, but Elise was no longer crying in the road. Instead she just laid there, staring at the dirt.

  Ermolt was jealous of her tears. His own had refused to heed the siren song of his sorrow. They had never been shy before, either in grief or frustration, but the loss of Athala was somehow too much for tears.

  This loss was somehow harder than the destruction of his people. Of his sister and mother. Of his childhood.

  Moments passed and eventually Ermolt overcame the emotional bindings that rooted him to the spot. He crossed to Elise with a painful slowness, as if his grief was a tangible thing that could slow his gait to an impassive plodding.

  Ermolt knelt down next to the only friend he had left in the southern lands, now. She stiffened at first, startled, but she relaxed against his chest when he put his arms around her.

  They clung to one another, staying like that for a long moment. Like a reopened injury, her tears returned, drowning them both.

  Eventually Elise’s sobs slowed down, and even stopped. She took a deep, shaky breath before pushing away from him. They both gathered themselves to their feet in silence.

  Ermolt planned to keep moving. But Elise seemed to have another idea.

  She tore the bag from her back and threw it to the ground. With anger shaking her hands she grabbed the shoulders of her tabard. Her muscular arms tensed and she tore the garment off with a growl of effort. The seams parted at her shoulders and down the left side, freeing her from its cage. She bundled the tabard up and threw the torn thing off the side of the road.

  With a wordless snarl she took up her bag again and began to rifle through it. She tossed other things out to join the tabard. A prayer wheel. A handful of candles. A silver pendant shaped like the brilliant sun of Ydia’s symbol. But there was one thing she hesitated on.

  Elise stared at the leather-wrapped book. It was cracked with age, and the pages were yellowed and folded over. The book looked at least three times as old as Elise was. And while she held it with some measure of reverence, she still narrowed her eyes at the symbol of Ydia on the cover. Her hand was reluctant to release the book, but she still threw it on the pile of things just the same.

  With significant effort on her part, she kicked dirt over the discarded items. When she was sure her task was complete, she took a deep breath and settled her bag on her shoulder. Her hand dipped to re
flexively correct her tabard on her hip, but her fingers closed around nothing.

  They shared a moment’s glance before she set her jaw and turned to continue walking down the road away from Jirda. Away from Athala’s death. Away from her servitude to Ydia.

  Ermolt stepped up beside her and walked with her, matching her pace. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, to reassure her, but he couldn’t. He recognized her determination. She was leaving behind a major source of her strength, and she needed to find that within herself.

  They didn’t get very far before they heard footsteps on the road behind them.

  Ermolt reached over his shoulder and pulled his hammer from its sling across his back. But Elise didn’t turn, so he followed her lead, carrying the weapon at his side. It was about another twenty steps or so before the voice of their pursuer came to them.

  “Elise! Ermolt!”

  Together they stopped and turned to regard Sieghard. He was panting and puffing hard, obviously having run after them for quite some time. When he finally caught up to them, he put his hands on his knees, bending over to help breathe better.

  “I’m—I’m glad you both made it out of the city alright.” He paused to take another deep breath. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but after what happened at the Temple I’m not sure that anything as strange as empty streets could be good news.”

  “Do you have it?” Ermolt found himself asking in an empty voice.

  “Have what?” Elise chimed in, confusion on her face but anger lurking in her voice.

  Sieghard visibly flinched at her tone.

  Of course Elise wouldn’t remember the conversation he had with Sieghard before they got to the tavern. She had been... preoccupied.

  Ermolt allowed Sieghard to talk. It was better to have noise filling the air and distracting him from his thoughts anyway.

  “I, er, yes.” With a flourish he provided them with Athala’s bag. Elise winced at the sight of it, but Ermolt took it and slung it over his shoulder. It was an unfamiliar weight, but one he would bear burden to for the rest of his days.