Then he’d decided he required an army to march to the Wastes and reclaim what was rightfully his. But being so immature, with his magickal talents vastly underdeveloped, he hadn’t known how to control them. Instead, the power began to overwhelm him. Only the fear of being killed by his own undead minions had prompted him to redirect the magickal force back into the jar. The experience had left Stellan with a deranged mind and a castle full of rotten, frozen corpses.
Even now, he struggled to maintain control. His temples throbbed as he forced the corpses onward. Sharp stabs of pain threatened to split open his skull. He was a conduit for the magick’s power, whatever its otherworldly source. He had to maintain his stance or risk breaking the incantation. But the effort was quickly draining his energy. The living-dead army wielded astonishing strength, but the Pestilence victims were more elusive than humans and harder to kill. If he continued for much longer, it might not be his mind that succumbed to the pressure, but his heart.
Stellan heard a familiar cry behind him. He turned to look. It was Gretchen. Her face pale and hair all askew, the gypsy woman kneeled in the snow. She was calling his name and pointing behind her.
Stellan followed the line of her finger. What he saw struck him with the force of a thousand blows. What have I done?
Patrulha.
She marched onto the battlefield. She wore her usual battle gear, her short green cape fluttering. Strands of unkempt hair obscured her face. Stellan stared as she approached. The sights and sounds of battle faded away as he absorbed this harrowing event.
How can it be? Was she still alive, or an illusion? Against all logic, hope flared in his heart. As she reached a spot a few feet from his position, he forced his lips apart. “Patrulha!”
She stopped and then stiffly turned her head to gaze at him.
Stellan recoiled, for she stared back with eyes unseeing. One was a bloody crater, the other was still hidden by her patch. Her skin looked ashen, ten times more so than when she was alive. She hovered at the fragile juncture between the living and the dead.
His invocation must have summoned her. Stellan frowned. He hadn’t meant for Gretchen to see her daughter in such a macabre state. Or for Patrulha to become a pawn in his conflict with Sada. Her appearance gave him pause. What gave him the right to command the dead, anyway? Like a fool, he hadn’t even questioned the matter.
The act reeked of something his father would do–or manipulate Stellan into doing. He sucked in a breath as a new suspicion arose. The cowled man in Dungeon Forest had probably been Renaudas. Stirring up the hostilities between his children would play right into his hands. Knowing Sada’s abilities, he had ensured his son could compete with her. Bastard!
Stellan made a fist. He should have anticipated this very situation. But in his haste he hadn’t considered the possibility. Well, at least he was aware of the deception and could make less harmful choices. He would find another way to defeat Sada.
But first he had to figure out what to do about Patrulha. He swallowed hard, seeking the right words to address her. “What is your purpose here?”
Patrulha stalked forward. The rank odor of her decaying flesh flooded Stellan’s nostrils as she neared. She closed the distance between them. Now they stood only a handbreadth apart.
Snow flecked Patrulha’s hair and skin. She cupped the back of his neck, her touch ice cold even through her glove. Stellan braced himself as he gazed into her ravaged eye socket.
She stood still, and for a moment it was just the two of them. Memories flooded through him. He remembered the wariness with which they had first greeted each other after her family appeared out of the storm and landed on his doorstep. He remembered the training days with her father, the friendly competitions, the arguments, their travels, and the laughter, rare though it had been.
“Why are you here?” he whispered. Then he realized she probably couldn’t speak. He opened his mind to her, acting on pure instinct.
And then it hit him. The force of Patrulha’s memories punched through skin, bone and flesh to pierce the deepest core of his mind. Stellan gritted his teeth as her spirit filled him.
Her memories flashed by, many of them similar to his. The difference, however, was seeing himself through her eyes. The discovery was almost too much to bear, but he kept the link open. Stellan had never known the depth of Patrulha’s capacity for tenderness and love. The experience left him humbled.
The perspective shifted. This time, Stellan felt Patrulha project a strong image of Clarysa. Then of Stellan and Clarysa together. As the picture filled his mind, emotions followed. Happiness. Loyalty. A fierce desire to protect them both.
Patrulha wanted to be their champion. “Are you sure?”
She didn’t speak, but the hand about his neck tightened. Stellan was touched beyond words. His eyes burned hard with unshed tears.
Patrulha released her hand. She turned away from him. Toward Sada. With smooth precision, she drew her sword.
Stellan reached out an arm, desperate to keep her with him for a moment longer even in her undead state. “Patrulha, wait! You don’t have to do this. I’ll release you from the enchantment.”
“Let her go, Stellan.”
He looked to his right. Gretchen stood beside him, wrapped in a brown shawl. Her expression hollow, she stared after Patrulha with red-rimmed eyes. “You know as well as I that Patrulha is choosing this path. Dead or alive, her will remains her own.”
Stellan nodded as understanding dawned. Only one force in the known world could overcome magick.
True love.
A shudder passed through him. Perhaps Patrulha wasn’t being controlled by the jar’s magick after all.
Gretchen pressed a hand to her heart as tears spilled from her eyes. “Farewell, dearest daughter,” she said hoarsely. “May the gods
