As predicted, Jaetheiri was furious when she woke up that morning. “Apparently, I am not supposed to sleep ever again,” she spat upon learning what she had slept through.
“But I survived,” Yethyr said mildly.
“Aye, and half our fighting force didn’t.” She had already made the rounds through camp, viciously interrogating Kettir and Mandorias until she left the former stumbling over words and the latter in tears. She had been thorough precisely because she knew Yethyr would downplay whatever happened.
He was much too cheerful for someone who had been nearly slain. Even now, he sat exactly as he had the whole night, crosslegged on his sleeping bag, my white blade over his knees. He hadn’t slept, but he probably looked more rested than Jaetheiri had ever seen him. He had spent the last two hours revelling in the bliss of painlessness.
It showed. There was a lightness to him that did not suit the severity of the discussion. “It’s hardly your fault Grokar and Hegrir chose treachery.”
Jaetheiri sat beside him warily, almost unnerved by his good mood. She looked down at me. Yethyr had thoughtfully wiped Hegrir’s blood from my blade, but Jaetheiri knew what I had done.
“You killed Hegrir with the sword.”
“I did,” Yethyr said without remorse.
Jaetheiri frowned. “Why did you use it?”
“He threatened you specifically.” The Prince’s expression darkened. “It no longer seemed appropriate to offer his life to Kenth. Defending the sanctity of your spirit is my business, not his.”
That was quite a thing to claim to be his business, but Jaetheiri did not disagree. “I think your angel would rather let the Conquering Fang handle it, than let that sword…keep doing whatever it is doing to you.”
“It saved my life.”
Jaetheiri sputtered. “It stabbed you in the shoulder!”
“Yes, in the shoulder. Hegrir aimed for my heart and missed. Are you seriously suggesting that he failed a killing blow at a bound and helpless target? I may hate him, but I won’t insult him.”
Jaetheiri’s eyes widened in understanding. “You think the sword made him miss.”
“I know it. At first, I thought the sword was trying to kill me. I could hear its deathsong masquerading as Hegrir’s murderous thoughts. It did the same when you first held it. Like back then, it urged him to kill me. I could hear it.”
“It spoke?”
“No, no, no. It only seems to be able to communicate by warping the thoughts of its wielder.”
It was useful that he had come to that conclusion. It meant I could “talk” to him without him knowing how much I really understood.
“I assumed it was warping Hegrir’s thoughts to kill me, but then Mandorias said he came to my rescue because he heard Hegrir shouting.” Yethyr shook his head. “Hegrir never shouted, but the deathsong chanting in his mind was loud. It must have been what alerted Mandorias, and that cannot be an accident. Bonesong wanted those ‘thoughts’ to be noticed. It wanted my assassination to be stopped.”
Jaetheiri’s frown only deepened. “That is a level of cunning I’m not sure I want in a sword.”
“That cunning saved my life.” Yethyr looked down at me. “It saves me still. Even now, I can feel its power trying to heal my wound.”
Ah, so he had noticed that. I had been experimenting for the past few hours, trying to determine if I could accelerate the natural healing of his shoulder. His wound was bound to slow progress to the mountain, and I wanted no delays—the Council of Songs needed to be brought to justice as soon as possible.
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So far, I was not sure if I was making much of a difference. People had only ever died when I stabbed them. Making mortal wounds was all I knew. I had no experience healing them. Besides stopping the bleeding and keeping it clean, I had no idea what else I was supposed to do.
It was charitable of Yethyr to acknowledge my attempts at all.
Jaetheiri, for her part, had gone very pale. “You’re letting it command your body?”
“Just for the moment,” he assured her, “until I am stable.”
“How do you know it will let you go?” Jaetheiri demanded.
“I can break its hold at any time. Bonesong cannot force me. My will remains stronger than it.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
Yethyr blinked in honest surprise. “Are you really questioning my will?
“It was you who taught me to never give in to possession, not for a moment, not ever.”
“I said never to give in to Hell. Bonesong isn’t a demon.”
“You don't know that!”
“Jaethe.” His voice was small, like a child’s. “It took away my pain.”
That admission sat between them like a physical thing. Jaetheiri might as well have been slapped. She looked dazed, stunned, awed.
“And then…” Yethyr's voice cracked. “And then it helped me stand, without armor or deathsong. I stood on my own feet and when Spryne came to knock me down, he—”
Yethyr swallowed. He was trembling.
“Bonesong fought him. For a brief moment, Bonesong fought him, and I was still standing, and Spryne could not make me fall.”
“My prince,” she breathed, reaching to take his hand. There were tears in her eyes. If Yethyr had not spent his own tears in lonely darkness hours ago, he would have joined her. Instead, he just snarled in frustration.
“I know I cannot trust it! I know I can’t give in. Possession is possession, but nothing has ever worked, Jaethe. Nothing has driven Spryne away, and Bonesong can. I can feel it. It has the power to drive Spryne away, if I harness it.”
I was not convinced that was actually true. Resisting Spryne even for those brief seconds had been exhausting. I was not going to correct Yethyr’s inflated assessment of my abilities, though.
Jaetheiri didn’t correct him either. “How do we harness it?” she asked fiercely, squaring her shoulders. Her scepticism had been swept away, and now she was all business.
“The sword has a will of its own,” Yethyr said slowly, “And although it seems inclined to help me, any will born of Daened’s malice can’t be trusted. To use it safely, I’m going to have to dominate it, just like any other spirit.”
Jaetheiri nodded. “That has always been the plan.”
“Yes, but now I know the stakes. When this game with Bonesong began, I played it idly. In the back of my mind, I believed that if the danger of Daened’s curse grew too great, I could leave it. Perhaps even destroy it as Wesed wishes and walk away free.” Yethyr squeezed my hilt. “I cannot escape it, Jaethe. Perhaps I never could, but I definitely can’t now. I used its power deliberately last night. If there was a way to escape its blood pact through ignorance, that path is certainly shut to me now. The only path to freedom is through. I will dominate the sword, or it will dominate me. There is no other outcome.”
Well then.
At least we were both of the same mind about that.
Jaetheiri hummed. “Does the sword know your intentions?”
“I can’t say. There is an…innocence to it that makes it difficult to know what it understands. I sense—” he cut himself off.
“What do you sense?”
“I cannot help but feel that last night was a dare in some way. Bonesong locked my knees against Spryne only briefly. It was a statement, a proclamation: ‘Here is the power that would be yours at my defeat. Now come and take it if you can.’” Yethyr smiled grimly. “There were no ritual words such as that, but it was a challenge, Jaethe, the kind that begins a great heavenly duel.”
I almost laughed. He made me sound like a cheerful sparring partner that would welcome defeat so long as the sport was good. He had somehow turned our war of wills for total mental enthrallment into some honorable Brinn thing.
Truly, Yethyr had a knack for finding the most positive interpretation of my actions.
Kettir suddenly entered the tent. He looked unsettled, almost embarrassed.
Yethyr frowned. “Was your hunt unsuccessful?”
Kettir shook his head. “Worse. Our party is at risk of shrinking even further.”
“What now?” Yethyr snarled. “Did Nisari decide now, of all times, to die of old age?”
“No, my prince. We’re about to lose the thralls.”
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Is Bonesong powerful enough to overcome Spryne?
