Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-Six

The servants, skies bless them, still hadn’t touched Tibs’s old room, which meant Detan found a whole pits-load of sel to work with. He hunkered with Honey and Ripka in the foyer where the first guard had fallen, looking pretty ridiculous as they each carried a massive balloon of selium on a rope. Honey was looking at hers like she wanted to stab it. Based on what he remembered of Forge and Clink’s stories, she probably did.

“You sure about this?” Ripka asked.

“I saw Pelkaia do something like this once. Worked a treat. Trust me.”

“Was it on fire when she did it?”

“Well, no, but have a little faith, Rip ole girl. The Valatheans will shit themselves.”

“Charming.”

He mimed a noble bow for her. “Miss me?”

She grinned, just a little. “Yeah. Kinda. Don’t forget, Enard and Tibal are both in there.”

“Pah, New Chum is a marvel with a blade and Tibs is far too crafty to get himself caught in that nonsense. They’re probably skulking about these halls worrying that we’re in there.”

“I hope you’re right.”

He did, too, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. The thought of either of those two stuck in that room with the Valatheans made his blood boil, because he had no doubt they’d be used as pawns against him. The very idea that anyone he cared about would be harmed as a proxy to harming him made him want to tear the whole damned city down. A sentiment he needed to keep on a very, very tight leash.

They’d left those two with Gatai, looking after Tibs’s little overindulgence, and if Detan was very lucky then they weren’t even aware of the trouble brewing in the wedding hall. He tried not to think too hard on how luck had been playing out for him, lately.

“Think the brigade is in position?” he asked.

Ripka leaned back to glance out a window, where a smear of yellow light graced the clouds from the tree fire. “Any time now.”

“Honey, my dear, you don’t have to join us. If you’d prefer to wait on the ship–”

Both women stared at him like he’d just started burping up snakes. “Uh. Right. Never mind. Onward.”

As one, they slashed the balloons of selium and let the gas coalesce into a shimmering cloud above their heads. Wasn’t as much as he’d like to work with, but the only other source was in the flier, and that would have taken far too long to siphon out safely.

He extended his senses, gathered all that gas into a cohesive cloud, and found the center of himself. Calm, Ready. Onward, indeed.

He pushed outward, mentally, shoved that cloud of selium through the door in front of them for all he was worth. Cries of alarm echoed in the room, shouts and stomping of feet. He swirled the gas up, tracking it in his mind, envisioning all those lanterns his auntie had dangled from the ceiling to celebrate his wedding, and pushed. The lights went out with a snuff.

The brigade, skies bless them, didn’t need another cue. Shouts echoed as the bedraggled crew stormed the palace, and it wasn’t long before the heavy crack of the massive wooden doors breaking down filled the air.

He gave it a couple of beats, just to let the brigade get inside, then muttered, “Let there be light.” He reached out, grabbed the selium trapped in the ceiling, sectioned off a small sliver of it, and fed his rage into it. The hall returned to light in a violent burst, and it was a testament to his new finesse that he didn’t blow the damned ceiling off by feeding his anger into the remaining selium. Those lanterns still being fed oil caught, burning merrily, while some burst and dripped flaming oil to the floor. Oops.

Ripka and Honey were through the door the second the lights came back on, sabers out, stances ready. Neither of them found shields, but neither seemed to mind. Especially Honey. That girl had taken up singing at the top of her lungs, some ancient mourning rite that gave him shivers straight to the bone, as she waded into the fray.

Detan hung back, aware of his vulnerability when the blades came out, and focused on manipulating what selium he had left. Didn’t last long.

“Honding!” Ranalae’s voice, firm and irritated. “You have until the count of three to show yourself, or I slit your cousin’s throat. One. Tw–”

That was that, then. Time to play a different game. He strolled into the hall like it was his own idea, hands in his pockets, eyebrow cocked like he couldn’t quite imagine what they wanted from him. Ranalae and Aella stood toward the front of the room, Callia huddled at their feet, and a rather bored-looking imperial lingered just a step behind them. An unsteady Tibs was held up between two surly looking imperial bruisers in mussed coats. Detan grinned. At least Tibs had gotten a few shots in.

“Hold,” he ordered and, to his surprise, the brigade listened. No one quite put their weapons down, but they backed away unsteadily, pointy ends still pointed in all the right places, eyes wary as they examined their imperial contestants. The brigade had Ranalae outnumbered, easily. But she had Tibs. Pits-fucking-damnit.

“Now Ranalae, this is mighty rude of you. You’re a guest in my home.”

“Spare me the polite-lord act, Honding. Order your men to put down arms.”

He rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the fact he’d just seen New Chum slinking up behind Tibs and his guards, a knife in each hand. Damn man could move like a rockcat on the hunt when he wanted to.

“Naw, don’t think I’ll be doing that. I think you’ll be handing Tibs over, nice and gentle, or I’ll rip this place to itty bitty bits.”

“You won’t,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Detan caught Aella’s eye, stared hard at her. “Fucking try me.”

“He might,” Aella conceded. “He has become increasingly more unstable since his time in Hond Steading. I suggest a removal from the local stimulus to enhance further study.”

“Suggestion declined,” Detan grated.

New Chum moved. Faster than Detan could follow he swooped in, opened the hamstring of one man and plunged his blade into the kidney of the other. Both went down, hard, spasming on the stone, and Tibs stumbled forward, startled by the sudden freedom, lost his footing and skidded across the floor. Ripka was there in a flash, grabbed Tibs by the shoulders and hauled him up and away.

New Chum pivoted, blades flashing, ducked in low and tight for Ranalae’s stomach and then – Misol. Detan’d forgotten about fucking Misol, who worked for Aella, not Thratia. The damned doppel dropped her false face as a random imperial alongside Aella, half-turned, and with a casual thrust sank her blade straight through New Chum’s loyal little heart.

“No!” Ripka screamed. She lunged forward but Tibs had her now, and that was for the best, because Detan was real sure Ripka wasn’t prepared to take on Misol. Not now. Not blind with rage as she was.

Detan was having his own anger problems.

“You fucking monster!” He reached for the sel above his head, shaped it, formed it into a spear twin to Misol’s favorite little toy and aimed it straight at her face. In a blink, it was done. The explosive force knocked what was left of Misol’s body back against the wall in a greasy, red stain.

Aella’s sphere of dampening fell around him, cutting him off. Ranalae brushed gore from her shoe.

“Well, that was disappointing,” she said.

His vision fogged. He couldn’t look at New Chum. Couldn’t look at Ripka. Couldn’t stand to see either the tears hot on her face nor the blood pumping, endless, from New Chum’s shuddering chest.

Pits below, but he wanted to close that distance. Wanted to tell Tibs to let Ripka loose. They should shove some cloth in that wound, get some salve – something, anything. But that was a killing wound, and he’d only be buying time, and with Ranalae and her nasty coterie hovering nearby Detan couldn’t even get close. Couldn’t even hold New Chum’s palsying hand as he passed to the endless.

“Enard,” Ripka said, and her voice was so very cracked and broken that the mere sound of it nearly cut through Detan’s resolve.

Pink foam frothed at the corners of New Chum’s lips, stealing his voice, stealing whatever he might want to say before the end. But he could still move, if only a little, and he reached, stretched his arm out toward Ripka, fingers curled as if he’d take her hand.

And then he went very, very still.