left eye was swollen shut, a deep cut on his temple dripping blood down his cheek. His clothes were torn and covered with gore, but he was here and he was alive.
“I’m fine.” Her voice rasped, her throat dry as sand.
“As are the rest of us, thanks to you, Lord Calorian.”
Twisting, Lydia looked over her shoulder to see the group standing next to the xenthier, all eyes on her. Including Malahi’s.
Killian let go of her shoulders, stepping past to Malahi’s side, both the Queen and the High Lord immediately demanding answers as to what had happened.
Had they seen what she’d done?
Only Lena was watching her now. “Is Bercola…?”
Injured. And badly. “I’ll go to her now.”
Lydia took Lena’s torch and ran back into the chamber, hating how alive she felt. How good she felt in the face of what she’d done.
The giantess lay on the floor, groaning but not fully conscious. Easing the woman onto her side, Lydia grimaced at the sight of the jagged split in her scalp and the fractured bone beneath. A mortal wound.
Six more soldiers ran into the chamber. “That way.” Lydia gestured down the tunnel. She waited until they were gone, then pressed her hand to Bercola’s head injury, pushing life into it. Bone solidified and the bleeding of the brain ceased, the giantess’s skin knitting beneath Lydia’s hand. She gave Bercola all that she had taken from the corrupted. Only when she felt once again herself did she remove her hand and slump against the wall. There were bodies everywhere. All around her.
Bercola lifted her head from the floor, eyes searching. “Where is it? The corrupted?”
“Dead.”
And Lydia was covered in his blood, her skin coated with it.
“Malahi?”
“Killian’s with them.”
There was blood in her mouth. She could taste it.
A soldier came back in their direction, his eyes landing on Bercola before moving to Lydia. “The Queen is safe. We’ll secure the passage and get you all out of here.” Then he nodded once. “Well done.”
It didn’t feel well done.
A rhythmic rattle caught Lydia’s attention. Her scabbard, tapping the stone floor. Only then did she realize she was shaking. Crying. Her breath came in escalating pants, not enough air reaching her lungs.
“It’s all right.” Bercola eased upward, wrapping her unbroken arm around Lydia’s shoulders and pulling her close. “It’s over. Deep breaths.”
It didn’t feel over. Instead, waves of fear and remembered pain washed over Lydia, smothering her. Yet it was nothing compared to the panic that rose up like bile when she thought of what she’d done. The way it had felt. How some part of her, deep, deep down, wanted to feel that way again.
Sonia appeared from around the corner, quickening her step at the sight of them. Gwen and Lena arrived on her heels. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Lydia said. “Bercola needs to see a healer.”
Despite Lydia’s protests, Lena hauled her up; both Gwen and Sonia helped Bercola to stand. Two more of the guardswomen appeared, then Killian and Malahi. The Queen’s jaw tightened as she surveyed the dead civilians littering the chamber; then she inclined her head to Bercola. “You saved our lives. Thank you.”
Without another word, she carried on.
Hacken raised one eyebrow as he passed, murmuring, “I believe she’s disappointed you survived.”
There was no answer to that, so Lydia kept silent, watching as the rest of the guardswomen and soldiers made their way through the gory chamber until only she and Lena remained.
“Come on.” Her friend tugged on her arm. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”
“You go. I need a minute.”
Lena opened her mouth as though to protest and then nodded. “I’ll make sure they don’t lock you down here, but don’t take too long, all right?”
“I won’t.”
Picking up the flickering torch, which burned low, Lydia waited for the sound of footsteps to fade, and then she went in the opposite direction.
The tunnel was a mess of bloody footprints from all who’d passed, the corpse of the corrupted shoved to one side. Lydia avoided looking at the dead man’s face as she skirted around his decapitated head, her boots sticking in the pooled blood.
The xenthier stem was as thick as her wrist, jutting three feet out of the rocky floor, her face reflecting in its multitude of facets. “Where do you go?” she asked. Picking up a small stone, she tossed it at the stem. It disappeared, already somewhere far away.
She knew the risks. Knew that reaching out to grasp the xenthier might result in her dying in an instant. In an