“Look at it.” Cheyenne reached toward the twisted bark, then pulled back her hand. “It doesn’t have anything left to give.”
“Not true.” Corian folded his arms and glanced at Maleshi and Cheyenne. “There is plenty more left in this tree. It just has to be used the right way.”
The halfling gazed up the length of the twisted, gnarled trunk. “What do you know about using this the right way?”
“Don’t forget who I’ve been bound to for centuries, Cheyenne. I’ve learned at least as much from him as he’s learned from me.” With a curt nod, the nightstalker approached the Nimlothar and gently set his hand on the twisted bark. Faint purple light pulsed beneath his touch. “We still have to move quickly if we want to make this work. For everyone.”
“Kinda hard to give the Spider my terms when there’s no Spider in sight.”
Corian blinked at her, then nodded at the tree. “Put your hand there.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to summon the Spider together, Cheyenne. I imagine that’s as far as I can take you before you face the rest of it on your own. Now close your eyes.”
With her hand on the rough bark, which vibrated slightly beneath her palm, the halfling did as she was told and took a deep breath.
“Call her to you—silently, aloud, it doesn’t matter. Just call her.”
Sure. Just call the drow who’d rather kill me than step down. No problem.
Still, Cheyenne forced herself to picture Ba’rael Verdys’ face. Beside her, Corian muttered a spell in O’gúleesh, and the Nimlothar’s purple light grew stronger and pulsed faster.
“Say her name, Cheyenne.”
She took a shuddering breath. “Ba’rael.”
The doors burst open at the other side of the courtyard, and in stormed a scowling Ba’rael Verdys, the Crown of Ambar’ogúl, cloaked in thick black robes. Behind her was Ruuv’i, glancing dubiously from one of L’zar’s rebel magicals to the next.
Of course, he’d be with her. That’s better for me, though, isn’t it? I’ll only have to state the terms once.
Ba’rael stopped when her golden eyes settled on her niece’s hand resting against the Nimlothar. “Giving up so soon, Cheyenne? You still have plenty of time.”
“But you don’t.” Cheyenne removed her hand from the tree and stepped in front of it, almost as if she were protecting the Nimlothar from yet another mad drow ruler. “I’m surrendering the rest of my fortnight to offer you my terms right now, Ba’rael. The new Cycle turns today.”
“Oh.” The Crown tilted her head, then let out a lilting chuckle. “Such a grand speech for an infant.”
“I’ll start then.”
“Yes, by all means.” Grinning, Ba’rael looked over her shoulder at Ruuv’i, who did nothing but scowl at the visitors to the Crown’s court. Then his gaze fell on Venga, and when Ba’rael saw the fear in her Nós Aní’s eyes, she spun. A shuddering breath wracked her chest.
The necromancer erupted in booming laughter, his voice echoing through the Heart. “Ba’rael. You worry too much.”
“I most certainly do not.” The drow woman swallowed and spared Cheyenne a quick glance. “I worry exactly the right amount. Child, what chewed through your brain and convinced you it was a good idea to bring this death-dealer back to my gates?”
Cheyenne raised her eyebrows. “Mostly just to see that look on your face. And because we all know how much you hate it. And because he’s useful. To me.”
“You foolish—”
“You screwed with the wrong drow, Ba’rael.”
The Crown snarled. “L’zar’s not even here!”
“I’m not talking about L’zar. Shouldn’t be that hard to pick up on.” Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “You know, I could just let Venga kill you right now. That’d solve all my problems. You’d be out of the way, and we’d have a new Crown just like that, no votes and no arguments. Having a necromancer on the throne might take some getting used to, but it’s better than—”
“No, no!” Ba’rael staggered forward, one hand outstretched to stop her niece and the other tightly clutching at the bodice of her black robes. “I will hear your terns, Cheyenne. That is the least of it.”
“Excellent.”
Footsteps echoed through the courtyard, and the rest of the Four-Pointed Star emerged from the archways leading from the tunnels. Nu’ek, Foltr, Elarit, Sakrit…one by one, they lined up around Cheyenne and the other rebels, eager to watch the exchange and the turning of a new Cycle.
Cheyenne took a deep breath. Didn’t realize how much better I’d feel with more magicals standing behind me than her. “So, here are my terms. You’ll step down as Crown. Obviously. And leave Hangivol. There’s no coming back for you after this. Ever.”
Ba’rael blinked slowly.
“When you leave, you take nothing from the Nimlothar with you. Not a leaf, not a twig, not even a scrap of bark. You’ll be on your own. Ruuv’i has a standing offer to peel himself away from you like a scab. He can stay here if he wants as part of my council.”
The courtyard was quiet. Ba’rael stared at her niece, then burst out laughing. The sound rang through the courtyard. Cheyenne put her hands on her hips. Okay, the heartless bitch has a pretty laugh. We get it.
“You can’t be serious.” Ba’rael composed herself and shook her head, chuckling softly. “That’s all? You’ve had nearly a week, and that is all the Weaver handed you to deliver to me?”
“Almost.” Cheyenne reached into her pocket and pulled out the shrunken Darkglass with the metal star forged from Neros’ magic hovering at its center. The silver light in that four-pointed star pulsed brighter than ever. “I also have this. If you refuse my terms, Ba’rael, I will use it.”
The Crown’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw clenched in fury. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
The drow’s eyelids fluttered closed as she tried to find words. “How did you find him?”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Cheyenne shrugged and tucked the Darkglass back into her pocket. “What matters is that
