“They are hiding something they do not wish us to see.” That sharp edge in Zander’s voice creeps in. “Open the gate, or we will open it for you.”
The archers don’t move.
“Why must people test my patience today?” Zander turns to me. “Remember how you took down that cave?”
“Yeah?” How could I forget?
“Can you do the same thing now, to that?” He gestures toward the thick timbers, bound and braced with cord and pegs and sturdy crossbeams.
“I can try.” My well of elemental power is flowing again, waiting to be unleashed. This is why he wanted me up here. “But we don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side.”
“I will take care of that. You focus on that gate.”
“Right.” There’s fire beyond, and where there’s fire, he has his affinity.
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the thread that brings forth air.
But it doesn’t answer my call.
“Remember who you are protecting, Romeria.” Gesine’s glowing gaze is on the archers who shift nervously. “These people behind us. The little girl in the wagon. The king. If you do not take that gate down, they will sit in these deep woods until nightfall and nothing good can come of it. They will not be safe. At this moment, that gate is the only thing keeping them from safety. It must come down.”
I know what she’s doing—drawing out these instincts she claims drive my ability to channel more easily—and it’s working. Her words stir my anxiety.
I reach for that thread again. This time it unspools and lengthens, the energy radiating until it surges to my fingertips, my body vibrating. I throw my hand out, and the force of the affinity launches forward.
The gate explodes as if hit by a wrecking ball, sending archers flying and logs scattering like twigs in the wind.
A thrill swirls inside me, even as I pray I haven’t caused anyone irreparable harm.
Abarrane and Elisaf draw their swords, bracing for the potential rush of villagers.
But no one charges out.
“Jarek! Zorya!” Abarrane hollers.
Two sets of hooves pound on the dirt road as the legionaries close in.
“You and Gesine, stay on your horses no matter what. Gesine, protect her,” Zander warns.
We move in past the destroyed wall, the village eerily quiet other than a few coughs from the shadows.
“Fates,” Elijah whispers. “What happened here?”
“A massacre.” Zander hops off his horse. The others, save for Gesine and me, follow.
Grimy faces peep from small windows of tiny huts. Women and children, mainly, while the men stand at the doors, brandishing rusty swords and daggers as if to declare they will fight to the death for those inside.
And along the street in front of us, piles of bodies are heaped over stacks of wood, burning.
I press my cloak against my nose to cover the stench of charred flesh, my stomach roiling, threatening to spill.
Abarrane walks a slow circle around one of the bonfires, the tip of her blade dragging through the dirt. “Who are they?” she asks no one in particular.
Silence answers, the villagers’ anxious gazes shifting, some stalling on Gesine and the gold that peeks out beneath her cloak. Even up here in the remotest part of Islor, at least a few must have heard the fabled tales of the collared casters.
Fearghal crouches for a closer look at one of the faces piled on the bonfire, not yet scorched. The head isn’t attached to a body. “I reco’nize him. That’s Corbett. He was a leader, you might say.” He scans the other piles. “That’s another one. Looks like all the elven are dead.”
The villagers killed the immortals … It dawns on me. Of course. “They poisoned them all.”