by Adalyn Grace
The woman I love.
The woman I love.
Something between us changed here in Curmana. From the moment I caught him placing protective curses on my door, to him distracting Elias enough to save me despite the poison in his body and the toll of soul magic, my frustration with him has waned. Curse or no curse, I trust Bastian with my life, no matter how hard I’ve tried not to.
“I found a way to break the Montara curse.” It’s time I tell him everything—about Blarthe and the clue he gave me, and how I can’t sleep. About the faces I see every time I shut my eyes. I tell him of the power said to be left behind by the gods, and how, with it, I can repent for the damage my family has done. All the while he keeps his eyes to the floor, wordless, contemplating. I talk enough for the both of us, because once the truth starts, I can’t stop it. There’s freedom in releasing it.
“Does Vataea know you’re working with Blarthe?” is the first thing Bastian asks. “You need to tell her.”
My shoulders cave in. I know I should; Vataea deserves to know we’ve captured the man who caused her years of pain and trauma. But I’m closer than ever to my goal, and I can’t risk losing this opportunity. Besides, what might she think now that I’ve kept it a secret this long?
“When the time is right,” I tell Bastian, “I’ll tell her everything.”
I tense when he stands and runs a hand along the dark beard that’s beginning to take shape over his jaw, waiting for his reaction. Waiting for him to yell, or to tell me how naive I’m being by risking it all on Blarthe’s word.
“I want this, too,” he finally says. “I want my freedom, and to travel freely. But if we’re going to do this, you and I need to be on the same page. I’ll help you, but only if you promise that we’ll work together from this moment on. No more secrets.”
I flinch, remembering saying those same words to him last summer. I never expected how guilty I’d feel being on the opposite side.
“You’d forgive me?” I ask hesitantly. “Just like that?”
He huffs a small, quiet laugh. “You’ve forgiven me for worse, Amora. Do we have a deal or not?”
I nod, skin hot. “We have a deal.”
“Then it’s time to find out what Ornell has to tell us.” Bastian crosses the room to fetch Nelly, who waits anxiously behind the door. “Did you bring it?” he asks, to which she nods and hands him a large, smooth stone. He’s quick to set it upon the small table he drags between them, and takes a seat close to Nelly.
“All you have to do is think about what you want us to see,” he instructs. “Let your memories flow freely. Can you do that?” As he speaks, he tries to still his trembling hands on the stone as another aftershock of soul magic seizes his body. It makes my own feel like it’s boiling before it passes. Shakily I exhale a breath while Bastian only grips the stone tighter, as if to pretend he hasn’t felt a thing.
While Nelly could simply tell us her story, memories fill the gaps where words cannot. Using Bastian’s curse magic, she can show me everything she knows about the artifact, though it’ll be up to me to decipher what it means.
“Nelly, since we’re accessing your memory, all you have to do is add your blood to the stone,” Bastian says. “You’re the one doing the work. I’m just here to guide you through it and attach the memories to the stone. Don’t pull away until you’ve shown us everything.”
Nelly nods and peeks at me as I lounge against the cot, leg propped up, trying not to let my pain show.
“Are you sure this will work?” I ask. “She doesn’t have curse magic.”
Bastian cuts me a look. Drawing his push blade, he takes hold of Nelly’s hand and gently presses its tip into her index finger, enough to draw blood. Lifting the stone, he dabs her blood onto its surface. “It’ll work because I’m here guiding her. It won’t be any different from when you saw Sira’s memories about Cato last summer.”
It’s odd, seeing how versatile curse magic is. For years I believed the magic only had one purpose—an eerie and frightening ability to trap people into a state where they see whatever strange images the magic wielder wants them to. But seeing it used like this—to transfer thoughts, images, or memories from one person to another—is a showcase of how diverse magic can be. It’s always shifting and evolving, never staying stagnant. It’s how I want my kingdom to be, too.
Nelly wraps her fingers around the stone and shuts her eyes when Bastian presses a finger to it as well, his own eyes closing tight.
“Amora, touch the stone,” he says, and I obey.
Forehead knitting into lines of deep concentration, I settle back as the distant pulse of magic swells within me. Bastian’s magic feels cool and placid. It’s nothing like the starved, scorching beast of soul magic, and it’s strange to be reminded that this is how magic is meant to feel. That what I practiced all my life was not truly magic, but a curse. While this magic may drain Bastian after a while, his tiredness can be cured by sleep. It’s not the bone-tired, life-threatening exhaustion my magic brings.
Once more the magic swells to a peak, and as Nelly feeds it her memories, I’m swept away within them.
* * *
His name is Rogan Rosenblathe, and there’s nothing I want more than for him to look at me.
I’m pulled into the memory in the same fashion I was pulled into Sira’s memories last summer. Only this time I am not a woman, but a young girl of perhaps eight, and the one whose attention I want so fiercely it feels as though the emotions are my own, is my father’s.
I watch Papa through the crack of his office door, left ajar just enough for me to peek inside. As usual, he’s seated at his desk, poring over a mess of parchment—notes, maps, charts, guides of the constellations, and even leather-bound tomes of old seafaring legends.
I’m told Papa used to be a sailor once, years before I was born. But he doesn’t speak of those times.
Empty decanters filled with ale and stale wine are strewn across the desk and floor, and Papa’s hair is mussed from running his fingers through it so many times, tugging at the ends and cursing words Mama told me I should never say.
“It should be here,” he’s muttering to himself, voice so low and frantic my skin crawls. “It should be here. Blasted godwoken, why isn’t it here?” Jerking from his seat, he slams a fist against the already splintering wooden desk. An unlit oil lamp tumbles to the ground, oil splattering onto the thatched floor. The hungry wood soaks it up, but Papa doesn’t notice. It’s not until he hears my sharp, surprised breath that his attention lifts to the door.
“Mariah?” The razor-sharp edge of his voice has me teetering away from the door, wondering if I should run. But there’s no time. His boots fall with heavy, drunken steps that grow closer by the second. “I thought I told you never to—”
Papa throws the rickety door open, confusion awash on his face. It isn’t until he looks down that he notices me, trembling and pressed back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as I feel.
“Y-you didn’t come down to dinner,” I stammer. “I wanted … to check in…”
He sighs, and here in the light of the hallway I notice his eyes are dewy and bloodshot. Kicking the door open behind him, Papa says, “Come in,” though there’s no fondness in his tone. There’s none of the warmth I keep hoping I might someday find.
But I don’t care; Papa has never let me into his office, and I can’t so much as remember the last time I spoke to him. I cling to what I can get.
“I like maps too, you know.” From the corner of my eye, I watch to see if he’s impressed. “And I know all the major constellations, and how to navigate with them. My friend and I are going to be sailors one day, just like you! She’ll be the captain, and I’ll be the navigator. Unless … you ever decided you wanted to sail again. I could be your navigator instead, maybe? If you wanted me to.”
“I will be sailing again.” He says it so plainly that my heart soars. “Just as soon as I figure out where I’m going. But you won’t be coming
with me.”
My heart crashes back down, straight into my throat. Though I never truly let myself believe otherwise, I’d hoped Papa would at least consider me. I’ve been studying every night, just like him. I know I could be so helpful, if he’d let me try.
My sadness swells, but I won’t let him see it. Papa never shows his emotions, after all. Maybe sailors aren’t supposed to. Maybe this is a test, and I’m not meant to show mine, either?
“Are you looking for something?” I take a seat on the edge of the small bed behind him. Then I lift my chin high, trying to sound serious and worthy of his notice.
To my surprise, it works. Papa doesn’t tell me to leave, or cast me a withering stare. He simply sits in his chair and runs both hands through his blond hair, tugging at the ends with a sigh.
“Yes” is all he says at first, and I hesitate, unsure whether to press or keep quiet. In the end, I decide to go for something in between.
So quietly I almost hope he doesn’t hear, I ask, “What is it?”
The chair beneath him squeaks as he tips it back and draws a long sip from his decanter. Even from here I can smell the sweetness of rum on his breath. “Do you truly want to know, Ornell?”
Something in my gut stirs, telling me I should leave; I’ve never seen Papa like this before, and something about it doesn’t feel right. But before I can move, he’s talking again, and I can’t bring myself to disturb him. He’s never talked to me so much at one time; I should want this.
Slowly, I nod.
“I’m looking for the one who has my heart.” His voice is smooth and factual, each word like a punch. “I’m searching for the way to bring the woman I love back from the dead.”
Everything in my body numbs. “But … Mama’s not dead.” I know they’re naive words even before I say them, but they tumble out. Never has Papa spoken like this; never has he put emotions like love into his words. It must be the rum bringing it out of him, for his eyes grow more glazed and bloodshot and the words tumble out faster with each sip.
“No, but Corina is,” he grits out. “And no matter how many times I’ve tried to save her, I’ve always failed. Tell me, have you read this?” Kicking his feet onto the table, he toes at the edge of the leather-bound seafaring book that sits open to a sketched picture of a bird flying into a town that sits upon the clouds. I’ve never read it, but I’ve skimmed enough to know it’s about the legends of Visidia—things like kelpies, hydras, and the Lusca—legends Mama told me were forged by drunken sailors who needed to find ways to get through long, lonely nights.
“There’s a legend in here about the godwoken—four deities who were the first of the gods’ creations, each tasked with a duty—the protection of land, sea, sky, or humankind. They protect our world with bodies that hold the power of the gods. One scale from their skin or a feather from their wings, and someone would be the most powerful human ever known.” His eyes are alight with a hunger that has my hands trembling. Desperately, I steady them into my lap. “But their magic comes with a price—to have what you most want, you must give up what you most love.
“When I was eighteen,” he continues, “I was engaged to a woman I would have moved the stars for—Corina. We were set to marry the next summer, when one day she joined her father for a fishing trip and never returned. Little did she or I know, it wasn’t truly a fishing trip at all, but a poaching trip to capture mermaids and steal the scales from their bodies. In the end, those mermaids used their voices to win the fight, and they took the lives of every one of the sailors aboard that ship. I was never meant to see Corina again, but that was a fate I couldn’t live with. I knew from the moment I heard of her death that I needed to find a way to get her back, no matter the price I had to pay.
“It took me five years before I discovered the secret of the godwoken—if I could get their power, I could use time magic to amplify it. To turn back the clock and win back her life. And I did it.” His voice is a low whisper, as though he’s no longer telling a story, but speaking for only himself. “I did it. I hunted the water deity—a beast made from coral and the weeds of the sea—and stole a scale from its back. That day, I changed my fate forever.”
His long, pale fingers clench tight around the decanter. “But gods are tricky bastards. I never stopped loving Corina—she was the reason I lived. The reason behind every breath I took. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into with that magic; I thought I could offer something else, and that so long as I got Corina back I could make anything work. But what I wanted most was her, and what I loved most was also her.
“I turned back the clock, and I brought her back. But she didn’t remember who I was. And try as I might to win her over, she was repulsed by me. No matter what I did, I couldn’t win her heart. And in the end, none of it mattered. She got back on her father’s ship that same fated day, and the mermaids stole her from me again.
“So I tried a second time. The guardian deity of the sky was said to have wings as soft and as white as clouds. I sailed to an island far beyond this kingdom, to a place with mountains so tall they touch the skies. It was the last place anyone had ever seen it, and I searched there for two years before I found what I’d been looking for—a fallen feather, imbued with its magic and power. Again I turned back time, and again Corina slipped out of my reach and back onto that blasted ship. I don’t know what I lost that time, but I gained something even more important: the knowledge that I needed to love something else, something new, before I tried again.” He takes a long swig from his decanter. “I thought to start a family. If I had that, I could give those blasted guardians something new, in exchange for Corina.”
The glow of the oil lamp feels dimmer, and the draft in the room cooler as it gnaws into my bones. The room tightens with shadows that crawl from the darkest crevices, stretching toward and across the floor. They take me by the throat, making my voice hoarse.
“You wanted to trade me and Mama? But … we would die.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own; it’s too squeaky. Did I misunderstand? Surely, that’s not what he could have meant?
Papa would never trade me …
His profile is shadowed by the dim amber light, turning him into nothing but sharp and shadowed angles—a monster in the night. He doesn’t turn to me; doesn’t try to ease the fear boiling hot in my gut, making me too numb to move.
“I just have to find a guardian.” He turns back to the parchment at his desk, and I see now that one of them is a map scrawled with notes. Several of the islands are circled or crossed out, with notes scrawled along the map. They’re words like “leviathan?” and “fire serpent?” accompanied by page numbers for source material and scribbled-out notes and drawings of the beasts. The air deity is so beautiful even in the artwork, with feathers so thick and white it almost looks like fur, and a curved obsidian beak. Though it’s got four massive claws, it doesn’t look like a vicious beast. It looks peaceful, and as though it should be a crime for anyone to even imagine hunting it.
I wait, deathly still, to see if Papa starts laughing or offers anything more. His back remains bent as he huddles over the parchment, shuffling them with a stream of whispers too quiet and quick for me to decipher. It doesn’t take long to realize I’ve been forgotten.
Praying to the gods to keep it that way and to make my feet and breaths as noiseless as possible, I slip off the bed and out of the room, my heart beating so fiercely I worry he may hear it even as I’m halfway down the hall, sprinting for Mama’s room.
Mama’s always said Papa had his own way of loving people. But as I climb into her bed, tears falling faster than I can process them as I tell her what happened, I realize we both know the truth, now: Papa doesn’t love us, and he never will.
That’s what the gods took from him that second time he tried to steal their magic—his heart.
Rogan Rosenblathe truly was a heartless man.
* * *
It feels as though hours pass before Nelly breaks away with a gasp that Bastian and I
echo, ending the curse at once. Even back in reality though, my mind lingers to the final parts of Nelly’s memories.
She and her mother snuck away that same week, leaving Rogan far behind. They went to live with her mother’s family in Suntosu, where Ornell changed her name and took up restoration magic at the age of twelve before later moving to Curmana for work. She never saw her papa again, and I’m glad for it.
And yet it’s not Nelly who’s at the forefront of my mind as the memories drag to an end, nor is it the fact that using this godwoken magic has a steep price I’d never known until now—to have what you most want, you must give up what you most love.
Right now, that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Rogan Rosenblathe had successfully used the godwoken’s magic to reunite with the dead.
And if he could do it, what’s stopping me from doing the same?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nelly’s cheeks are soaked with tears, and there’s surprise in her wide emerald eyes.
“Sorry.” She’s quick to dab her cheek with the hem of her shirt. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It’s just … He’s not someone I like to think about.”
“There’s no reason to apologize.” Bastian’s expression is one of deep sympathy. “Some memories are easier left forgotten.” I don’t miss the shadows that sink into his skin, hollowing his eyes. I feel the emotion brewing within him, and though I can’t read his thoughts, his yearning is enough to tell me he’s thinking of a time long before this. A time when he was still on Zudoh with his family.
A time before his brother stole that life from him, and took my father from me.
“It was actually cathartic, in a way.” Nelly’s smile is thin as a reed, and her airy voice too sharp. “He was an awful man, and yet I spent years obsessing over him and his damn maps. I guess … I think I saw some of my father in Elias. I hadn’t been able to help my father, but I thought that maybe I could help Elias, you know? It’s hard to admit sometimes that others aren’t your responsibility. There was nothing I could have done to help either of them.”
