Page 92 of Sword & Sacrifice

The memory-Olivia reached toward Valerian, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him. A reward for freeing her memory from the pests.

Standing on the outside, Valerian couldn’t feel anything, not even the ghost of her lips.

It didn’t matter; she wasn’t the one he wanted to kiss anymore. But he would accept her gratitude. “Goodbye,” he whispered to her.

A better farewell then they’d actually gotten.

He left her tree alone and plunged deeper into the forest, looking for a fight and something to burn.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Archer knelt in a meadow, his head bowed, hands clasped tightly before him. Above him, the wind rustled through the trees in a steady chorus, whispering promises of the future. His mother stood before him, voice rising like the mountain peak, “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two people and two kingdoms.”

Arnsveldian weddings were simple, private affairs only attended by the couple’s family and their closest friends. Even a royal wedding afforded no more fanfare than their best clothes and an exchange of heartfelt vows.

“To a bright future together,” she said, raising a goblet of wine.

A cheer rose from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, wishing happiness and prosperity on the newlywed couple.

His mother held the goblet to Archer’s lips but the liquid inside had no taste, left no impression on his tongue. Then she held it out to the person kneeling beside him.

A thick veil obscured their face. Archer’s heart pounded as he waited for them to remove it, to reveal Silas smiling at him.

Delicate hands grasped the edge of the veil, tossing it up and over the head to reveal a woman with a pinched face and dark hair ruthlessly tamed into a tight bun.

Archer recoiled, watching in horror as his mother pressed the goblet to Mirinda Canton’s mouth. Silas’ adviser drank deeply from it, her throat bobbing with every gulp.

Red wine stained her lips in a vicious smile as she gazed back at Archer. “Why so surprised, husband? You had to marry someone, and you refused all the noble ladies.” She gestured behind him.

Ladies with garishly colored dresses huddled together, all whispering to each other as they gawped at Archer, their voices drowning out the gentle sounds of the wind.

“No,” Archer growled, waving his hand through the air.

The ladies squawked and fluttered away like startled chickens, fleeing into the forest.

The only person I want to be with is Silas.

“Silas?” Mirinda asked, responding directly to his thoughts. “Why would Silas want anything to do with you? You left him.”

“No, I …” Archer tried to remember why he’d needed to leave. He was … chasing someone, hunting something.

“You always leave him,” Mirinda said. “You abandoned him at Adelaide’s.”

Archer shook his head sharply. He hadn’t abandoned Silas—he’d left him in the witch’s care, where he needed to be to break his curse and learn how to defend himself.

Mirinda’s features shifted, becoming less distinct. “You abandoned him the night of the fire.”

Archer’s hand clenched painfully, as if he could reverse time, hold onto Silas even as the crowd pulled them apart. Or if not that, hunted him down, found him again, rather than chasing after the soldiers heading in the opposite direction, leaving Silas to face the destruction of his home alone.

“You left him to fight Alistair alone.”

Silas on his knees, as if begging Archer not to leave him. “No,” the single word choked out of him even as Archer slammed the door in his face.

“I wanted to protect him,” Archer croaked, but even as he spoke, he knew it was useless. His actions hadn’t protected Silas—they had ensured that when he did face Alistair, he was alone.

“You will always leave him,” Mirinda insisted, her features now disappearing completely, leaving only the slash of a red mouth. She grabbed the front of Archer’s tunic, digging her claws into him, and stretched her mouth wide open. “Come, kiss your bride.”

A loud crash tore Archer from the nightmare, followed by a startled yelp. Panting like he’d just raced up a mountain peak, he looked around the room in confusion. One of his hands was twisted in the bedsheets, the other was outstretched over a nightstand, oddly damp.