The Silenced Tale, стр. 114

Bevel spins Kintyre in midair, and my brother falls on his trothed, limp-limbed and flopping. Bevel scrambles out from under him, blood already splashed up his chest. The cyclone approaches, and Bevel wraps his hand into Kintyre’s belt, determined not to be ripped away. He is pressing on a wound in Kintyre’s stomach, but the force of the gale is so strong, it keeps pushing his shoulder back. Blood spins into the air in tiny droplets, like morbid rain.

Cement dust and splinters of broken furniture swirl up into a deadly cloud. It swallows my brothers, and my enemy, and my wife, whole, obscuring them from my gaze.

“Pip!” I cry. “Pip!”

Another sound shatters the keening scream of the wind and the high-pitched whine of the Viceroy’s laughter. It is a deep, dark thrumming, like drums, and motorcycle engines, like angry cats. A throaty boom shakes the room, and cuts through the Viceroy’s cyclone like the fallout from an atomic bomb. The wind stutters to a stop, and I stagger, wincing and grimacing as I try to keep my feet under me. I had been braced against the push of the wind, and must reach out to the rubble to steady myself. Another boom, and the dust and blood fall to the ground, revealing a grisly tableau.

Kintyre is sprawled on the ground, spread-eagled, his hair a tangled mess. But I can see his face, and he is . . . thank the Writer, he is blinking, he is blinking. He is still alive! Legs thrown over his hips, straddling him, a half-naked Bevel presses his own shirt against the wound, packing it as best he can and leaning down low over Kintyre, Speaking Words of Healing straight into his ear. And Pip . . .

Oh, Pip, I think, stumbling forward a few steps before the cutting pain in my side forces me to stillness with a frustrated grimace.

Pip is flying.

The ivy is doubling back, surrounding her, answering her call now. Her fury. Bending to her will. Behind her, over her shoulders, the vines weave together, leaves flaring bright, into a pair of violently green wings. Green . . . and violet.

I had once compared Lucy Turn Piper to an angel. We had been in the Lost Library, and she was standing in a shaft of light that struck her at such an angle it appeared as if she was wreathed in wings made of golden light. Seeing her now, hovering a few handspans above the floor, glaring down at the Viceroy with all the holy fire of the righteous in her eyes—eyes that glow completely green, the color blotting out the iris, and whites, and pupils all—I am reminded that, in the Overrealm, angels are creatures of fury and terror. Angels avenge.

“Enough now,” Pip says, and the boom is in her voice. The Viceroy, too shocked to even speak, crumples to the floor and gibbers.

“The Author is Dead,” she intones, “but Authorial Intent lives. I control the afterlives of the characters, not you!”

The Viceroy wriggles and writhes like a worm on a hook, pleading, slurring.

My wife turns her powerful gaze on me, and holds out her hand. Who am I to disobey the command of such a creature? I stumble forward and take it. As soon as our palms kiss, the pain in my side eases. I can’t decide if it’s terrifying or arousing that my wife has become some sort of emerald valkyrie. I simply feel lucky.

“How lucky am I that I got to fall in love with you twice?” I say, and lift Pip’s hand to my mouth, kiss her knuckles softly once, twice . . . and a third time, because there is magic in threes.

And then I don the Shadow’s Mask for what I know will be the final time, and turn to face what is left of the Viceroy.

The truth of being a spymaster is that sometimes, one must do terrible things in order to preserve peace. To keep the kingdom healthy, one must sometimes wield a surgical knife. While I preferred to run my network from the warmth and safety of my private study in Turn Hall, there were those of my predecessors who were more inclined toward getting their hands messy.

Reaching deep into the magical memory banks of the mask, I pull up and download into my mind the most terrible and dark deeds of those who came before me. Until now, I had avoided filling my head with the horrible knowledge they had amassed, content with fooling myself into believing that I could preserve the freedom of my kingdom without recourse to dark deeds and darker spells.

But now?

Now, I tumble every Word ever Spoken, ever Heard, ever learned, ever developed by a Shadow Hand—Bevel included—into my mind, and soak them up, eager and parched.

The Viceroy doesn’t even look up at me, doesn’t even consider me a threat, until I am standing directly over him.

“What are you—?” he begins, and then realizes I am wearing the mask. “N-no!” he stammers. “You can’t!”

“And yet,” I say softly, memorizing the way the smooth, cool silver of the inside of the mask brushes my cheek for the last time, “you are the one who named me more threatening than your archnemesis. You were the one who acknowledged me as such. Not I. You are the one who claimed the Shadow Hand as your great enemy. And by the rules of the narrative, that makes it so, does it not, Reader?”

“It does, Main Character,” Pip intones solemnly.

Words have always been my power. Words have always been my domain. So I slip up to him and whisper Words of Unbinding, Words of Unraveling, Words to Loosen Knots. Words that, backed with my newfound understanding of physics and biology, I can use to not only Reverse, but also Unmake.

“Oh my god,” Pip breathes, her face taking on a beatific expression even as the tears slip down her cheeks. “Forsyth, the