The Dark Knife

By A. F. E. Smith

Alyssia Gale has defeated the bad guy and returned to her old life – that’s how stories are meant to end. Now she’s faced with a far harder task: finding a way to be normal, despite her continued visions of a world she knows is real. She may be separated forever from her friends in Endarion, but at least she kept them safe.
Or maybe not.
Because fate isn’t finished with any of them yet. An age-old pattern is at work, drawing them back together to finish what they started. And though Alyssia longs to return, if she does, not just the world but the lives of everyone she cares about will be at stake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IronWright Books
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781838223731

A. F. E. Smith

A.F.E. Smith is an editor of academic texts by day and a fantasy writer by night. So far, she hasn't mixed up the two. She lives with her husband and their two young children in a house that someone built to be as creaky as possible. Her successful series The Darkhaven Novels, including the novels Goldenfire (2016) and Darkhaven (2015), will continue in 2017 with Windsinger.

Book preview

Your family’s never in your past. You carry it around with you everywhere.

M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans

Part I: Gone

One

There’s an ambush ahead. Fabithe knows that, but he’s going to walk into it all the same.

It’s not as if he has much choice. He’s heard and seen enough signs behind him to know that turning back would have exactly the same result. Better to keep pressing forward, even though that’s what the pursuing soldiers want. Even though they’re driving him in this direction. Because to do otherwise would be to admit –

Failure, the darkness inside him whispers. You failed once, and you’ll fail again.

Suppressing a shiver, he rubs his arms. His clothes are still wet from the river. The boat he took from beneath the Castle Retreat yesterday afternoon might have been the best way to escape in a hurry, but it was only a temporary solution. He had to steer it in to shore before darkness fell; it was that or be carried on through the night to the river’s abrupt end in a waterfall over the cliffs. And, in fact, the boat did meet that fate. It struck a clump of submerged detritus, spinning out of control, and he was forced to bail.

Him, and the three other people he is now responsible for.

He can hear them talking in low voices, behind him. Luthan, the girl who can use the power in her blood to perform magic. Toralé, the boy who survived torture that would have broken most people. And Oriana.

Oriana.

The girl who heals with a touch. The girl who saved his life.

Fabithe doesn’t have anything like their miraculous talents, but he does know violence. How to deal it, and how it’s dealt. And in a situation like this, with soldiers behind them and soldiers in front, that makes him responsible whether he wants it or not. The only trouble is …

You’re broken. A blade without an edge.

… he doesn’t believe he can do it. Not any more.

There was the boat. He got that wrong. Didn’t notice the obstacle in his path, left it too late to change course for the riverbank. Luthan had to spend blood lifting their belongings to safety, while he and Oriana guided Toralé through the water. By then it was evening. And everyone knows you don’t travel the Duskmire at night: one carelessly placed foot in the dark and you’d be drowning in a swamp before you could call for help. So he made them camp for the night. No fire, though: the ground was too wet for a firepit, and an open fire would have been as good as a beacon to any northern searchers. But maybe that was the wrong decision. Maybe they’d have been better off getting dry, even if it made them visible, than weakening themselves by shivering through the night in wet clothes. Or maybe they should have kept walking, dangerous terrain or no, to put as much distance between themselves and the Retreat as possible …

Two days ago, all this would have been second nature to him. He’d have made his choices and that would be that. But now, nothing is clear. All he knows is that since they set out this morning, at first light, there have been men on their tail. And he’s no longer equipped to deal with it.

A twig cracks behind him and he spins round, one hand reaching for a knife. But it’s just Oriana. At the sight of her swollen lip, a combination of rage and guilt surges so fiercely in him that he has to look away. Memories tumble through his head. The desperate gasping for breath. The inability to move so much as a single muscle. The helplessness as Ifor’s hand connected with her face –

You let her down. And you’re about to do it again.

He shakes it off. But the darkness lingers, a shadow underlying every step, every heartbeat. It’s a darkness he thought he banished years ago. It pulls him back in time, back to the night he lost everything. Perhaps he never escaped it. Perhaps he has always been there, in that cell. Seeing himself taken apart, piece by piece. No matter how he tries to tell himself that Ifor is gone for good, he can’t truly believe it. Not when the shadow remains inside him, deep in his bones.

Is something wrong? Oriana asks softly. You have pushed us hard all day, and I know there must be a reason for it.

Fabithe can’t answer straight away. Fear is surging in his blood; he doesn’t want her to hear it in his voice or read it from his eyes. And still the darkness keeps whispering. What hope do you have of beating them? Five years waiting for your chance, and he crushed you like an insect.

Northerners, he manages finally. Still he doesn’t look at her. Ahead and behind. We’re walking into a trap.

How do you know?

Behind … I heard them coming. Saw the smoke from their fires. They’re not trying to be subtle about it. They want us to know they’re here. Because ahead …

Ahead what?

Ahead is the Arc. It’s a bridge, of a kind. The sole crossing point between north and south Duskmire. They’re driving us towards it, and that can only mean one thing.

They got there first?

Right. It’s what I’d do, if I were their commanding officer. Half the troop straight to the other side of the Arc. The other half behind us. The jaws of the trap.

But surely, Oriana says. Surely, if Ifor is … dead, then – 

Fabithe shrugs. It’s the last thing he feels like doing, but he does it anyway. They’ll want revenge.

So, Dr Whyte says. You wanted to talk to me.

"I wouldn’t say wanted." Shifting in my creaky leather chair, I glance around the room. It hasn’t changed, even down to the citrus scent in the air. I feel like I’m in one of those stories where some guy spends a day or two in the bliss of Fairyland, then returns to find that centuries have passed and everyone he loves is dead. Only for me it’s the other way round. It was the world that stood still, and me that moved on without it.

They said I had to speak to someone, I add, returning my attention to my therapist. And I’d rather you than a stranger.

Of course, I’ve already spoken to someone. Peter and I talked for nearly four hours after he found me dazed and confused at the bus stop. I told him everything before I finally agreed to call the police and let them know I was safe. But apparently that isn’t good enough.

About what happened? Dr Whyte prompts me. Why you ran. Where you’ve been.

I didn’t run.

But you weren’t here, were you? For nearly three weeks. So where did you go?

I meet his gaze. Endarion.

He’s almost as good as I am at presenting a façade of impassivity. Probably has to be, in his job. All the same, I detect the expected sequence of emotions in his face: confusion, realisation, finishing up with mild alarm. He believes me as much as every other adult – which is to say, not at all – but he can’t come out and say so.

The place from your visions? he asks cautiously.

Right. I fell through my window and woke up there. It was all real. Everything I saw, it was real all along. Only what I didn’t know was that Ifor was actually my brother – 

The man Oriana was about to marry? Patting the file on the small table beside his chair, he adds by way of explanation, I read back through your notes before you came in.

That’s him. I couldn’t stop the marriage, but I got her away from him. And then I saw he was going to execute Toralé, so I went to rescue him too, only that turned out to be a trap …

A lump has formed in my throat, despite all my effort to keep this recitation as light and as glib as possible. Hastily, I conclude, Ifor told me who I was and then tried to send me away. Back here, to my prison. But I pulled him through the glass with me, and he vanished, and so did the key. I can never go back.

And that’s what you told the police?

I tried. But they didn’t believe me.

The exact words of the officer who interviewed me were, Don’t mess around, love. This is serious. A woman from Woodleigh House was there too, Jenny – the closest thing I have to a parent, I guess. The two of them were kind enough, but I could hear everything they weren’t saying. Immature. Irresponsible. Wasting police time.

So then I had a go at lying. But of course, I’ve never been anywhere – in this world – so it didn’t take long before I began to stumble over myself. Which meant they didn’t believe that, either. They started asking me things I didn’t have answers to, details I couldn’t invent with any degree of plausibility. Then they suggested that maybe I should see someone else. A specialist. That’s when I panicked and told them I’d only talk to my own therapist – which is why I’m sitting in his office on a Saturday, attending something that’s helpfully referred to as a crisis appointment.

If I’d possessed even the slightest common sense, I wouldn’t have spent four hours favouring Peter with a blow-by-blow account of every damn thing I experienced over the last three weeks. I’d have got him to help me fabricate a convincing cover story. This whole situation could have been made to vanish with the judicious application of an internet search engine. As it is, it’s the truth or silence. And I’m no longer satisfied with silence.

I’m sure you can understand why they were concerned, Dr Whyte says. You’re a minor.

… irritation? I suggest, but he doesn’t crack a smile at the weak joke.

Please, Alyssia. We simply want to make sure that nothing happened to you.

Of course something happened to me! What did I just say? But none of that really registered with him, because he dismissed it as fantasy before I’d even finished speaking. Everyone thinks they want to know where I’ve been, but what they actually want is a story that fits the assumptions they’ve already made. I don’t know why I thought Dr Whyte would be any different.

I’m disappointed in you, Theo, I say. Keep it flippant. I thought you were capable of speaking without euphemism.

All right. Then did anyone hurt you – physically, sexually or emotionally – while you were gone? Force you to do anything you didn’t want to do? Give you drugs or alcohol?

Yes. Watching the glint of hope in his eyes that I might finally be opening up, I enunciate every word with care. My brother sent men to attack me and my friends, lured us into a trap, and made me return to this shithole.

He makes a note on his pad, before giving me a smile that holds just as much frustration as the one I’m giving him. Thank you for coming, Alyssia. I’ll see you again on Tuesday.

Right. I’m going to be seeing him twice a week, now. Since I’m a flight risk and a danger to myself and all the rest of it. Put another foot wrong and I’ll probably end up living in his office.

Looking forward to it, I say, and resist the temptation to slam the door on the way out.

So there is no way out of the trap? Luthan asks.

Not that I can think of. Fabithe has been over it multiple times, but there’s little room for manoeuvre. The northerners behind them are, as best he can tell, spread out in a half-circle. Not that he can place them that precisely by campfire smoke and indeterminate shout alone. But it’s a classic hunting strategy: the beaters start wide to flush out the prey, then close in once the animal breaks cover, driving it towards the waiting marksmen. He and his friends can’t turn back without running into a group of soldiers and calling the hunt down on their heads. The only advantage they have right now is that the hunters don’t know exactly where they are. And that will change in … oh, about a day’s time. When the net tightens all the way, forcing them onto the Arc to be attacked from two sides.

Unless …

Is there anything you can do? It goes against the grain to ask for magical assistance, but any spar will do for a drowning man, and Luthan has been useful before … The faint flicker of hope dies as she shakes her head.

It is against the five laws for me to hurt ordinary people. And without my stave, I can’t achieve anything more subtle.

But you pulled down the roof of the tunnel beneath the Retreat – 

It’s about all I can manage: converting magical energy to other forms. Heat, light, sound, movement. And the more I do, the more of my blood I have to shed and the weaker I become.

Fabithe considers that. Then could you create some kind of barrier behind us, at the right time? Move the earth to make a trench, or …

I believe so, Luthan says. What are you thinking?

That I’d expect the weak point of the trap to be on the far side. To get men there quick enough to be sure they were ahead of us for the ambush, they’d have had to travel light and limit numbers.

So you think we can get past them?

Not if the rest are close behind us. We’ll be overwhelmed before we can break through. But if we can get there far enough ahead of the net …

We are not very fast, Oriana points out. Toralé is exhausted already. How – 

We’d have to keep going through the night, despite the dangers. Aim to reach the Arc by dawn tomorrow.

Frowning, she turns to Toralé, touching his arm to claim his attention. How do you feel? Can you walk any further?

Yes. His voice is a raspy whisper, but his expression is determined. I would do anything rather than be taken back to the Retreat.

What about mages? Luthan asks. They know I’m with you. Surely there will be at least one mage with the ambush party.

Fabithe nods. But better one or two mages than half a dozen. And you can handle them, right? You said you can’t hurt ordinary people. You didn’t say anything about mages.

I can try. She doesn’t sound very sure. But even then, do you really believe we can make it through?

It’s only guesswork. All of it. But I don’t think they’ll expect us to try to get there quickly. I think they’ll expect us to avoid the trap for as long as possible. And if that’s the case … So many ifs. If they can get through the night without dying. If they can beat everything that’s waiting for them on the other side of the Arc. If Luthan can cut them off from the rest of the army. He squares his shoulders, trying to look as though he knows what he’s doing. Maybe. It’s our best shot, anyway.

You’re only fooling yourself, the shadows say. You don’t stand a chance.

Not me, he replies. But maybe them.

Jenny is still in the waiting room of the therapist’s office. She wouldn’t let me take the bus here; she insisted on driving, then on staying until I was done. No doubt she thinks there’s a risk I’ll disappear again. And perhaps I would, if I could.

She greets me pleasantly before we leave the building and walk the short distance down the street to where her car is parked. She doesn’t pester me with questions, or say anything to suggest even the slightest reproach for the trouble I’ve caused her. Yet despite all that, I can barely suppress the surge of irritation that fills my throat with angry, cutting words. For three weeks I’ve been making life-or-death decisions, yet now I’m being treated like a child.

My friends are running for their lives, I want to tell her. And you’re making a fuss about me going places alone.

It makes me queasy, to think that they might be captured or killed. What would be the point of any of it, if I took down Ifor only for his minions to finish the job for him?

But then, maybe my mistake lies in assuming that there has to be a point.

How are you feeling? Jenny asks, once she’s pulled away from the kerb with me safely buckled into the front passenger seat. So that was her plan all along: wait until I couldn’t escape before starting the interrogation. I favour her with a shrug.

You know, she says after a pause, if you ever want to talk to anyone in a … non-professional capacity, you can always talk to me.

I go from annoyance to tearful gratitude in a heartbeat. My emotions seem to be that way at the moment: lurching back and forth like drunkards, knocking things over and leaving chaos in their wake.

Thanks, I mutter, blinking furiously. I already know she doesn’t believe a word of my story, so I’ll never take her up on the offer, but it’s nice to know she’s willing to make it.

As she navigates the one-way system in the direction of Woodleigh, I lean my head against the window and pretend to watch the streets of Clifton Ree slide by, but secretly I’m checking on my friends. They’re walking again, ready to follow Fabithe’s plan to push on through the night and reach the Arc by dawn. Flashes of thought invade me as soon as I invite them in. I hope I’m not getting this wrong. He might not want to admit it, but he is worried. I’d rather walk until I die than be taken back there. This could be very dangerous without my stave. I never used to be able to read this much from them at a distance, without going inside their heads. It could be coming back here that did it, but I think it stems from beneath the Retreat, when Luthan gained a scar to match ours – that instant when I lost myself completely, torn between multitudes.

Speaking of which …

I’m used to silver threads in my mind. I’ve thought of them that way ever since I went into Endarion and started meeting the people I’d been having visions about. But there were only ever four: Oriana, Fabithe, Luthan and Toralé. They’re still there, brighter than the rest. Yet now, there are more. Lots of silver threads, some nearly as bright as the first four, some as faint as the shadow of a whisper. If my life was complicated with four other people clamouring for my mental space, I can’t imagine what it will be like now.

And that isn’t even to mention the single dark thread: the connection that should be there, but isn’t. The connection to my brother Ifor.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the glass. My brother. I have a brother, when I thought for so long that I was alone in the world. He’s the cruellest person I’ve ever met. I made him disappear. And part of me, a part that’s tiny yet all too real, wishes I’d chosen differently. It wishes I’d promised him everything he wanted – betrayed my friends, let the world burn – in return for answers to the questions I’ve been asking my whole life. What happened to me? Where did I come from? Who am I?

So maybe it’s a good thing that I’m here, and my friends are there, and that’s the end of it. Because otherwise, I’m not sure I could look them in the eye.

Two

The sky is finally beginning to lighten. Oriana blinks and rubs her eyes, trying to convince herself it is not a hallucination born of sleep deprivation. Because she can also see far more sky than she could before, great patches of it appearing between the leaves ahead. They must be coming to a break in the natural foliage of the Duskmire. Which means, unless they have deviated off course during the difficult night’s travel, that they have achieved what Fabithe wanted. They have reached the Arc.

Ahead of her, Fabithe has stopped, looking through the thinning leaves. Oriana joins him, then blinks several more times to be sure of what she is seeing. He said it was a bridge, but this is not like any bridge she has seen before. It looks to be made from the same kind of magic-wrought iron that formed the fantastic shapes of the Iron Fortress. A perfect semicircle, it rises without handrail or foothold to tower dizzyingly above her, its apex shrouded in mist. The land ends in a ravine on this side, before rising again in steep cliffs on the other. The sound of water rushing amongst the rocks below only hints at what the bottom of the ravine must be like.

This is the dangerous part, Fabithe murmurs. They’re almost sure to have someone watching this side. As soon as we break cover, there’s no going back.

A pang of terror twists her stomach. Then we should get it over with.

He turns his head to look down at her. Based on his troubled expression, she half expects him to cast new doubt on the plan. Yet what he says is, You know, I never thanked you.

For what?

Saving my life, beneath the Retreat. I’m grateful, Oriana. I want you to know that.

Tell me on the other side, she says firmly.

His frown deepens. He seems about to reply. But then he walks out into the open space, and the rest of them follow.

Before they have even reached the foot of the Arc, a piercing sound splits the air. They turn to see several soldiers emerging from the undergrowth, one of them holding the bow that just loosed the whistling arrow now soaring overhead. A signal, to the men waiting on the other side of the bridge and the men who follow.

That’s done it, Fabithe mutters. They’ll converge on us like vultures. We need to get across now, before the numbers get too high.

Luthan nods. Her knife blade flashes, opening up her forearm in a scarlet line. I’ll catch up with you.

The earth beneath their feet begins to tremble. Oriana hesitates, watching a vast crack widen in the ground between them and the approaching soldiers. Then she cups a hand beneath Toralé’s elbow, and follows Fabithe onto the Arc.

What is this? Toralé whispers.

I am not sure. Though clearly it must be some kind of magic. Despite the rain, the metal is warm through the soles of her boots, as if heated from within. And although it is slippery, each step takes effort; there seems to be an invisible layer across the surface of the bridge, keeping her feet close to it, like a lodestone attracting iron. Walking too fast makes it easy to stumble, yet walking too slow makes it almost impossible to get anywhere. After a few dozen steps she falls into a brisk march that keeps the right balance, and then it is just like climbing another hill … as long as she does not look at the narrow metal path and the sheer drop to the rock-strewn water below.

Be ready, Fabithe says over his shoulder. I heard them, up ahead. The rest of the ambush is coming to meet us.

Heart racing, Oriana draws her dagger. I will never be ready for this. A wave of nausea washes over her, intense enough that she has to stop and breathe deeply for fear she might vomit. Yet then she glances at Toralé, waiting beside her, and her resolve hardens. However difficult this is for her, it must be worse for him. He is about to be forced to defend himself against the people who imprisoned him for years, and he cannot even see to do it.

Here, she says softly, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his knife. I will stay with you. I promise.

They keep climbing, through the mist that clings to the bridge, chill droplets beading on their hair and clothes. The metal path ahead of them is narrowing, Oriana realises. The top of the Arc must be thinner than the base. There is still room for her and Toralé to walk side by side, but only just. And she cannot see more than a few paces in any direction. At this rate they will blunder into the northerners by accident.

As if in answer to the thought, a sharp cry cuts the air somewhere ahead of her. She does not understand the words, but the mist disperses, all at once, as if blown away by a giant. Magic, surely. Luthan was right. But there is no time to worry about it – because now she can see that they are near the summit, and soldiers are approaching from the other side.

Fabithe turns. The mixed emotions that Oriana read in his face earlier have gone; he looks perfectly calm.

Stay here, he tells her. They’ll get past me eventually. But maybe I can take out enough to help the rest of you break through.

No, Oriana says. Fabithe, you cannot – 

But he is already striding forward, sword in hand, setting himself in the centre of the path so that no one can pass him without coming within reach of his blade. Without hesitation, the northerners surge forward to meet him.

I sit up, head swimming, feeling for a weapon. My fingers touch nothing but softness. I’m in bed. Not in Endarion. Home.

I’m Alyssia Gale, I say aloud – but I already know that. It’s been a long time since I was unable to tell the difference. Instead of reassuring me, the words just make me feel guilty. I’m Alyssia Gale, and I’m sitting here in comfort while my friends face down an army.

Flinging back the covers, I jump out of bed and begin pacing the floor. I should be there. I should –

No. It’s fine. It’s all fine. They’ll get out of it. Best to focus on something else. It isn’t as if I can do anything to help.

You could have helped, I imagine Ifor saying, as vivid as if he’s truly speaking to me. I promised to let them go, if you would only leave quietly. But instead, you took me with you and left your friends to suffer.

That isn’t true. Is it?

I keep pacing, but I can’t shake the thought: Perhaps I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Luthan runs up the side of the Arc as fast as the magical surface will allow, blood sticky on her forearms. She sent ripples through the earth to knock the soldiers off their feet. Created a deep chasm between them and the foot of the bridge. Any mages arriving with the main army will be able to fix the problem with no trouble at all – but with any luck, they will be too late.

Curse Ifor for breaking my stave. She is already tired; there is only so much blood a person can lose. Yet she is just getting started. Because somewhere up here, as part of the ambush, a mage or even a mordathe is waiting for her. And she has absolutely no idea what she can do to defeat him.

When she nears the summit, she stops. Oriana and Toralé are side by side. A short distance further forward, Fabithe is engaging two men in combat. The narrowness of the Arc is both a positive and a negative, Luthan realises. Positive, because it means the soldiers on the other side can only approach one or two at a time. Negative, because that means there will be no quick resolution to the stand-off – and from the northerners’ point of view, there doesn’t need to be. All they have to do is hold out until the larger force arrives.

As she hesitates, trying to decide how best to help, a movement catches her eye. Beyond Oriana and Toralé, beyond Fabithe and the men he’s battling, someone is moving away from the group of soldiers. Moving away and out, into the air, walking on nothing as if it’s an invisible second bridge and not an unfathomable drop into the ravine below.

Luthan almost flees. She doesn’t have a stave any more. Her arms are already sore. And the mage approaching her is powerful enough to turn the air solid beneath his feet without any sign of effort. Even if she can work out how to match him, she isn’t at all sure she’ll be able to shed enough blood to defend herself against him at the same time.

Yet if she doesn’t, her friends will never escape with their lives.

Gritting her teeth, she digs the knife blade deep into the lacerated flesh of her forearm. And then, as the mage draws nearer, she steps out into the air.

They’re going to die. I keep pacing, my hands moving over the surfaces of my bedroom – the rough grain of wood, the scratch of a painted wall, the chill of glass – as if I’m searching for something that can only be identified by touch alone. And maybe I am. Maybe I could stop myself being pulled away, if I could just find the right anchor. Avoid seeing the fate I left them to face.

My heart is racing. Clutching the back of my chair, I lean over and take deep breaths. Stay here. Stay –

A blade narrowly misses Fabithe’s head, forcing him to retreat a pace or two, and Oriana suppresses a cry. Distracting him now would be fatal. Several of the northerners have already fallen, but the rest are pressing him hard – trying to force him far enough down the Arc that there is space for them to get past. In a way she wants that to happen. Being in the battle could hardly be worse than watching helplessly as Fabithe puts himself in danger; at least, then, she would be doing something. At least she might be able to help.

What’s happening? Toralé whispers.

He is holding his place against them. He is … Reckless. That is the appropriate word. Already she can see several places on his sleeves where blood is soaking through from minor cuts. He does not seem to care if he is injured, so long as he stands his ground.

He expects to die. She knows it is true, but she does not want to say it.

He is defending us, she says instead, blinking back tears. But they will get through in the end, and we need to be ready.

Toralé nods. Just point me in the right direction.

I will. And I will defend you, Toralé. As best I can.

A heavy blow sends Fabithe to his knees, and she bites her lip hard enough to break the skin. He recovers, struggling back to his feet, but he has been forced to retreat a few more steps. And that, finally, is enough for the relentless soldiers. Several of them surround him, trapping him at the side of the bridge with nothing behind him but empty air. And more slip past, heading for Oriana and Toralé.

Here they come, she whispers. Her mouth is dry. She can no longer see Fabithe in the melee ahead of her.

A blade flashes towards her, and she raises her own to meet it.

I straighten up so fast that it hurts, turning to confront the threat –

But nothing’s there. Just me, in my empty bedroom.

This is your fault, Ifor’s imaginary voice says.

No! The word is loud in my own ears. Jaw clenched, I march back to the bed and climb underneath the covers. This is pointless. I can’t spend the rest of my life being terrified by every disaster that befalls these people. I’m never going to see them again, so I have to find a way to block them out.

I have to stop caring.

Do something else. Distract yourself. I grab my book from the bedside table. It’s a romance novel that Jenny lent me last night. I couldn’t stand the thought of opening any of my fantasy books: too close to the bone. Likewise, stories about troubled teens in this world – not much escapism there. She offered me a thriller, but at the mention of bloody murder on the back cover, I handed it straight back. I’ve seen enough carnage for a lifetime. And so, I ended up with romance.

It’s a sweet story, but I can’t concentrate on the words. Even though I read several chapters yesterday, I don’t remember who everyone is or what they’re doing. But it doesn’t contain anything that’s remotely like my life in any way, and that’s the important thing.

You will never be free of this, Ifor’s voice says in my head. It is your gift, Ariamé. Or perhaps your curse.

Go away, I tell him. You’re not really here. But I can’t help suspecting that imaginary or not, he might be right.

Blood streaming down both arms, Luthan stumbles through the air towards the safety of the Arc. Before she can reach it, an invisible whip coils round her ankle, tumbling her onto her hands and knees. Far below her, water churns around the rocks at the bottom of the ravine.

Give up, the mage says. We don’t need to kill you unless you resist. Our instructions are only to take you back to the Retreat.

Stop resisting. That sounds like a wonderful idea. She is so tired. It takes a lot of power just to hold herself up in the air like this. No doubt that’s why he brought her out here.

Perhaps now you can see how foolish you are to have been so restrictive about your blood sources, the mage says. The more blood is spilt today, the stronger I become. Whereas you can only grow weaker.

Luthan nods. She could point to it with her eyes closed: the constant dragging temptation of power that is the battlefield. And he is right, it would be easier. So much easier. Although without a stave she can achieve only the most basic of workings, no matter how much blood she draws on, a large amount of unrefined power would be a lot better than nothing. Yet the vow never to use someone else’s blood is the first and most important of the five laws. No matter what else she does, she will not break it.

Luckily, she has something else in mind.

She releases the energy holding her in the air. All at once, like an explosion. It sends her hurtling back in the direction of the Arc – and the mage hurtling away in the other direction. With the last of her strength, she pulls up a column of water from the narrow channel below, using it as a vast wave to drag him down into the ravine. Then she hits the black metal surface of the bridge, and all the breath leaves her lungs.

When she finally manages to sit up and look around, it is just in time to see Fabithe fall. A blade appears out of his lower back, red with blood, and then it is wrenched out of his body in another gush of scarlet and he crumples –

And suddenly, Luthan’s resolution of a few moments ago seems like the most foolish naivety.

I will never use the blood of another.

But she has no power of her own left. She cannot lose any more blood.

I will never harm the powerless.

But if she doesn’t, her friends will die.

If only he hadn’t broken my stave …

But he did.

She struggles to her feet. A man is approaching Toralé, short sword in hand. Oriana stabs him, but then a second man steps in, hurling her bodily to the floor. He lifts his own weapon to run Toralé through –

Without another thought, Luthan draws power from the blood soaking the black metal around her, and turns it into heat and light.

Fire.

The man threatening Toralé bursts into flames, all over, screaming as they take hold of his hair and clothes. He stumbles over the edge of the Arc and is gone. And maybe that should be it. Maybe it should be enough. Yet there are other soldiers, and they have not yet given up. They regroup, ignoring Oriana and Toralé to focus on the new threat.

I will never use the blood of another. I will never harm the powerless.

But the blood is there, so much of it, offering far more power than Luthan could ever hope to draw from herself alone. And fire is easy.

Tears pouring down her cheeks, she burns them.

The pages of my book swim before my eyes. I can still see the flicker of flame. I can still smell the burning flesh. I double over, letting the book slip from my hands. I think I might be sick.

So those are your friends, I imagine Ifor saying. Willing to burn people alive to get what they want. And you still think they are on the side of what is good and true?

They wouldn’t have had to do that if you’d just left them alone, I mutter, then wince. Great. Now I’m talking out loud to the voice in my head – and I’m not even sure I’m right. Perhaps they could have done something different. Something less destructive. Perhaps …

But I shouldn’t even be thinking about this, because it doesn’t matter. Good or bad, right or wrong, they have nothing to do with me any more. I’ve decided to stop caring, remember?

Yet I can’t stop looking.

The clash of steel has ceased, leaving only a ringing quiet. Gasping, Oriana pulls herself to a sitting position. Her hands are covered in blood. Beside her, a man lies moaning, his guts spilling out onto the black metal surface of the bridge. Was that – did I –?

A sob rises in her throat, but she chokes it down. Get up. You have to find out who is still alive.

She clambers to her feet, nausea sloshing inside her. Mist is already beginning to reform over the metal surface of the bridge, making the air hazy, but it is not enough to hide the devastation. There are bodies everywhere, strewn across the Arc like so much discarded waste: some bleeding, some burned. She begins to tremble, all over; her knees threaten to give way. Stop it. Focus on one thing at a time.

She spots Luthan first, both hands pressed to her mouth as though trying to hold back a scream. Then Toralé, beside her. She was protecting him, Oriana remembers. That was how it started, the fire. And they always knew they would have to defeat these men to escape with their lives, so what Luthan did is no worse than anything else they might have done … except it is, somehow. It is.

I could try healing them. The thought comes to her in a rush of relief. She has accessed the power of her bloodline twice before: once to save Luthan from being poisoned, once to wake Fabithe from magical sleep. Perhaps she can do it again. Perhaps she can make this right –

But that would only leave her and her friends where they were before: in danger of being captured and tortured and killed. No. Though the knowledge makes her stomach churn harder, she has no choice but to let these men die.

Then her gaze falls on Fabithe, lying broken and bleeding among the rest, and panic hits her hard enough to drive out every other thought. She stumbles across the bridge, drops to her knees in the spreading pool of blood beside him, and presses both hands to the wound. Yet she may already be too late. Her scarlet-smeared fingers fumble at his throat, searching for a pulse, but she is shaking too hard to feel anything. Stupid. Stupid girl. Just fix him –

The world comes alive.

Overwhelmingly, what she sees first is the vast metal structure of the Arc: a carmine blaze as bright as a sun, with the swirling colours of magic dancing around its edges. That pure red light is just what she needs, but she does not dare touch it. Far too powerful. It would kill both her and Fabithe were she even to try. But as her eyes adjust, she realises that there are also smaller patches all around her. Discarded weapons, each glowing with the scarlet light of steel. She can use one of those. And the closest, brightest source –

Fabithe gasps. The colours that make up his life force are fading fast, grey unlight spreading through them like the tendrils of a poisonous plant. Frantically, she stretches across to the sword protruding from a dead man nearby. As soon as she touches it, energy surges through her veins – painful, almost unbearable, as if she is the conduit for a force far greater than herself. She grits her teeth and keeps going, pouring the red light into him. This is good. Whatever it takes.

The sword explodes into several bloodstained pieces, and the world snaps back into focus. Oriana leans forward, through the pounding headache that threatens to blind her, peering anxiously into his face. Fabithe!

His eyes flicker, then open. "It’s all right, tekirra. I’ll live."

"You will now," she says on a sob.

Then you …

She nods.

He lifts a hand as if to touch her cheek, only to let it fall again. Are you hurt?

She blinks at him, wondering how he can possibly be concerned about her at a time like this. But then she feels a tickle on her top lip, and swipes the back of her hand across it to find a thick smear of blood.

It is only a n-nosebleed. Truth be told, she feels sick. Drained. She is shivering so hard that her teeth are chattering. But none of that matters. M-maybe, when I healed you …

You shouldn’t have hurt yourself on my account.

It is only a s-side effect, I think. The real energy, the light, it comes from the steel.

One corner of his mouth turns upwards. I thought I asked you not to break any more of my knives.

It was n-not a knife.

He follows her gaze to the shards of steel scattered nearby. "You broke my sword? Do you know how much that thing was worth?"

He is trying to conceal the depth of his emotion, but Oriana knows it is there. Wrapping her fingers around his, she says firmly, Less than your life.

Fabithe returns the grip, but he does not look at her. She remembers how he fought, just now, angry and wild. How he threw himself against the northern blades as though he barely cared that they would cut him. But why, when Ifor is gone?

Can you get up? Luthan asks. "We have to go, now."

Oriana jumps, craning over her shoulder. The mage is standing a short distance away, one hand under Toralé’s elbow. She still looks drained and guilty, but now there is determination, too.

I can try, Fabithe says. Releasing Oriana’s hand, he pushes himself into a sitting position. She catches the wince that crosses his face, but he says only, Good enough.

She scrambles to her feet, blinking impatiently as her own head swims. Be careful. You have lost a lot of blood.

Gripping her proffered forearms, he hauls himself up after her. They stand there, clinging to each other. His skin holds an unnatural pallor; she can feel him shaking. She reaches for her healing gift again, but finds nothing. She has no control over it. Or maybe she has simply exhausted it, for now. She is not sure there is much more she would have been able to do, anyway. What he needs most, now, is time to recover – yet he is not going to get it.

I heard voices, Luthan says. The rest of the army must have found a way across my barrier. If we don’t go now – 

It’s all right. I can walk. Letting go of Oriana, he takes a few steps before his knees give way. She hurries to catch up with him; he accepts the unspoken offer of a shoulder to lean on, but his lips tighten. Not that it matters. We’ll not get far before they catch up with us.

Luthan shakes her head. I think I can stop them. We just need to get off the Arc.

They pick their way slowly past the bodies of the dead and dying, then down the far side of the bridge. Fabithe’s arm is heavy across Oriana’s shoulders; he stumbles as often as he steps. Behind them, Luthan guides Toralé. When they reach the bottom, she closes her eyes as if listening intently for something.

It will work, she mutters. There is enough, even at this distance. Glancing at the others, she adds, You’ll need to move away from the edge.

Oriana takes Toralé’s elbow. The two of them and Fabithe keep walking, as fast as they can, away from the foot of the Arc and into the foliage beyond. Behind them, the ground begins to rumble and shake, just as it did when Luthan moved it on the other side. Biting her lip, Oriana turns. Luthan is standing with arms raised; in front of her, vast fissures are opening up in the earth, circling and converging at the foot of the bridge.

Then, slowly but inevitably, a chunk of land begins to slide down and away. Two chunks, in fact: one each side, tumbling