Maiden's Wolf (In Deception's Shadow Book 3) Read Online Free Page B

screams still echoed in his
mind.
    Ahead of him,
Cymael stumbled a third time and fell heavily onto her knees.
    “Mother!”
Silverblade didn’t bite back the instinctive call, worry for his mother
overcoming centuries of training in a moment.
    Again he sought
his lupwyn form even as he reached for her.
    Not even a drop
of magic answered his call. Only a deathless cold emanated from that spot in
his chest, next to his heart, where his Larnkin used to dwell. His own injuries
ached and burned and bled. Rage was the only thing keeping him moving.
    He gripped his
mother’s arm and dragged her back to her feet. “Mother, you must come. The
river is only a little ways farther. If we reach it first, we may be able to
lose the acolytes.”
    Silverblade didn’t
actually believe that, but the hope might be enough to keep his mother on her
feet a little while longer. Her normally rich, brown skin was ashen, a fine dew
of sweat covered her skin, and she coughed, blood splattering her lower lip.
Shock and exhaustion were clear in her trembling limbs, but she staggered in
the direction he indicated.
    They managed
another quarter candlemark of desperate, painful travel before he heard the
sound of horses coming up behind them. He continued to half-carry, half-drag his
mother towards the river. For all her height, she was slightly built, like all
of her species. She topped him by more than a head, but weighed only half his
mass. If she fell again, he’d carry her to the river, his own injuries be
damned.
    Better they die
in the river’s embrace than feed whatever dark power these acolytes served.
    Cymael lost her
footing again, the force dragging her from his side. She lay on the ground,
grey-skinned and panting with exhaustion. She no longer struggled to get back
up. Silverblade stood over her protectively. He just needed a moment to catch
his breath, gather his remaining strength, and then he’d carry her to the
river. The slow drip of his blood, tiny plops hitting the dirt and leaf litter
at too-frequent intervals alerted him that he didn’t have much time left if he
intended to make it to the river. His worst wound was the crossbow bolt still
embedded in his shoulder. Tearing it out would only make the wound bleed
faster, draining him even more—so he left it even though his fingers twitched
with the need to just rip it from his flesh.
    “Silverblade.”
Cymael’s voice shook. He knelt beside her and she reached out to touch his
face. “Go. Go now. There’s nothing you can do. My Larnkin is dead. I will
follow it into the afterlife within heartbeats. Please, go. I must know that
you survived. Go to Grey Spires. Your father is there, tell him and the others
what we found here. I need to know that you live on in the world.”
    “Mother, no.”
Silverblade begged. He hadn’t been a child in centuries, but his mother was an
elder—powerful, old, a part of his existence. She couldn’t die. It was not
possible.
    Cymael reached
for him with trembling, blood spattered hands and cupped his face. “A child is
always a mother’s baby. Always, my beautiful boy. Promise me you’ll escape our
pursuers and live for me.”
    He doubted that
was possible, but sometimes lies served the greater good. “Mother, I won’t let
the acolytes have me. I promise.”
    She sighed softly
and then her fingers went lax against his cheeks and only his own hands kept
them cupped against his face.
    “Mother?”
    Her eyes were
still open, looking up at the sky, at the bright orange and pink clouds high up,
reflecting the sinking sun. Her spirit would already be flying up toward that
light, to sit up among the stars until he one day joined her there.
    With a soft whine
of pain, he placed his fingers over her eyes and gently closed their lids. With
a prayer to speed her soul to the next life, he bent and gave his mother one
last kiss upon her forehead.
    “Such a waste.”
    The cold voice
came from somewhere behind him.
    “The Divine
Speaker wanted to