Crescendo (Song of the Fallen Book 2) by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz [Haimowitz, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2014-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

Freyrík stayed half the night with Ayden in the little stone cell where the elven healer lived and worked. She could barely hear over the starfall locked round Ayden’s flesh, but Freyrík held no power to remove it.

The befanged stuff distressed and distracted her, made her work painstaking and difficult. Freyrík begged her for anodyne to no avail—’twas locked in a sturdy cabinet for which she had no key—so he held Ayden’s hand instead, let Ayden squeeze until his bones felt ground to powder. The pain made it easier to block the elf’s whimpers and cries as the healer went about her starfall-hobbled work.

Four ribs, two arm bones, and one damaged kidney later, she sent them on their way. She’d not bothered with the bruising; not a one among them thought it worth the pain.

By the time they returned to their rooms, Ayden looked so wrung out that it came as no surprise when he mumbled, “I pray you make excuses for me tomorrow,” crawled beneath the covers, and fell dead asleep.

Freyrík watched him awhile, sitting beside him on the bed and letting his thoughts wander. He’d been distracted by Ayden’s needs, but now, in the silence of the night, ’twas impossible to hold the world at bay. Tomorrow was the day of reckoning, and afterward, nothing would be the same. And still he’d not found a way to warn the Aegis.

Nor was he certain ’twas the right thing to do.

The more time he spent with his brother poring over attack plans and testimonies of dark elf sightings, the more hope he held for a world free of the darker threat. True, Ayden had said there were no dark elves, but Ayden’s first agenda was protecting his own people. Freyrík did not begrudge him that. But nor could he doom the whole of mankind for his love of Ayden.

And dark elves had been sighted—’twas not a rumor, he was certain of that. This last day he’d read through record after record of such instances: sometimes one being, sometimes two or three or even ten, the darkers circling thick round them as if foot soldiers round their generals.

And if indeed the dark elves could be destroyed, if their deaths would mean peace at last for the humans, then Freyrík could not doom the whole of mankind for his love of the Aegis.

Beside him, Ayden stirred in his sleep. Freyrík stroked a hand across Ayden’s hair, its softness gone beneath a layer of dirt and sweat.

Ayden . . . what would become of him? If Freyrík threw his life on a desperate attempt to warn the Aegis—if he failed—no doubt Berendil would see Ayden silenced, or else truly claim him as a slave, an heirloom for House Farr. Centuries upon centuries of cruel servitude . . .

It would kill him. If not in body, then even worse so: in spirit.

And even if Freyrík succeeded in warning the Aegis, he might not be pardoned for his involvement. Again, Ayden would share in his fate or be claimed as reward for all time.

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