Twin Soul Series Omnibus 1: Books 1-5 (Twin Soul Series Book Sets)

by McCaffrey-Winner

  The corridor opened out into a large foyer and Lyric slowed. Krea saw that in front of them were a set of steps in a wide staircase leading upwards. The stairs stopped in front of a pair of brilliant silver double doors. On either side of the door large marble hands circled them.

  “Are those supposed to be Ametza’s hands?” Krea asked.

  Lyric chuckled, “Ametza is a young arrogant god. It disgusts me how she tries to make herself seem as if she is Mother Terrene herself.”

  Krea had been introduced to all the gods in the small wooden set that had been passed down to her by her mother. She mostly worshipped Ametza, the sea goddess of where she lived. All the gods were created by the great mother, Terrene, and she created this world as a way from them to play and grow as she slept.

  Terrene was asleep, so no one prayed to her, as far as Krea knew. All she had learned was taught to her in the temple, or in whispers from her father. She realized she may not even a part of the whole truth.

  Lyric stopped, gesturing Krea forward. Krea gave her a worried look. Lyric gestured her forward once more, saying, “You must meet the gods alone.”

  Krea took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Krea has been shunned by Ametza, and seen by Ophidian, and had survived. Her father always told her if she trusts her own judgement and heart, the gods would respect her. Hopefully they would.

  Krea squared her shoulders and pushed both doors open at once. She entered a room which seemed endless and huge. Soft light streamed through the purple stained glass ceiling.

  “Wymarc?” Krea asked out loud with worry.

  This is your test, my dear, yours alone, Wymarc’s voice spoke inside her head.

  Krea nodded, took a steadying breath, and stepped away from the doors. They closed silently behind her, cutting off the light that had streamed in.

  In front of her, and to her left and her right, were huge statues. Statues of the gods.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know you all,” Krea spoke out loud, curtsying deeply toward them all and spreading out her arms as gracefully as her awkward self could manage. She held the curtsy for a long while, feeling that the gods were judging her. Finally, beyond the pain of her tired muscles, she stood up and moved forward once more. “I’m only young and I lived in Kingsland all my life,” she told them as she glanced from one figure to the next, not sure what she was looking for or even if she was looking for anything at all. “My name is Krea Zebala and my father was Rabel Zebala —” she cut herself off, putting a hand to her mouth in shock. Was? Quickly, she spoke again, “Please, please, can you tell me if my father is all right? I worry about him so.”

  Silence greeted her. She moved forward, keeping a sigh of disappointment to herself. She finally dared to look up at the face of one of the statues. It was a bearded man, his face, eyebrows, beard, every part of him covered in ice. He looked frozen and forlorn. Krea imagined that he was a nice man… god. She wondered why the figure was frozen, did it show her the god as he was now? She turned and saw Ametza, the sea goddess beside the man.

  She appeared very similarly to the figurine she had back home. Ametza’s skin seemed to be made of pearl and she wore a long dress if fish-like scales of blueish green. Instead of hair, she had long curled tentacles that seemed to move on their own.

  Was he her husband? Was Ametza married like the other young elemental gods? Ametza seemed to glare down at Krea. Did she know she was here? Did she know… she was twin-souled?

  What did it mean, to be twin-souled? Krea realized she’d never thought of it. She only knew that she’d wanted to help the mortally wounded wyvern, wanted to offer her comfort. And she’d made a bargain without knowing the consequences.

  She forced herself to move onward, past the frozen god and the frowning Ametza. Two more gods loomed up. They were glowing and fiery. Their skin seemed to be carved from coal, and their eyes were small orbs of fire. They both wore robes of what looked like melting lava.

  Krea knew they were the gods of fire.

  I am Vorg, the male god told her with a bright, shiny voice.

  I am Veva, the female god added.

  Krea curtsied to the both of them. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  We greet you, fire-borne, Vorg told her solemnly, we recognize you.

  “Are you sworn to Ophidian?” Krea asked.

  No, Vorg responded with a laugh in his tone. We are his younger siblings,.

  He is one of the Eldest, Veva added. But we are all of the fire.

  The younger gods rule the elements, Vorg said. Gods of water, fire, earth, and air.

  Krea groped for an answer. “And are there two gods for each element?”

  Yes, Veva said. Please excuse us, we must be elsewhere.

  The light of the two gods faded and the statues turned dull.

  I’ve spoken with gods! Krea thought to herself, thrilled and terrified both. The frozen god must be Ametza’s husband, she decided.

  She moved on, pausing to curtsy before the gods of earth and the gods of air. They did not give her their names, although she thought that perhaps the gods of air might speak with her. Perhaps another day. In fact, on reflection, Krea hoped that it would be another day — speaking with gods was extremely tiring.

  Well, go get some rest, then! A voice spoke inside her head, not hiding its irritation. Krea looked up and saw Ophidian.

  “Wymarc, you’ve found another child, haven’t you?” Ophidian said, not speaking to Krea but speaking for Krea’s ears. Wymarc did not reply.

  “She said that this meeting was mine alone,” Krea told the god apologetically.

  “Did she?” Ophidian said. “Always scheming, she is.” The figure turned its head upwards, the stone glowing red-hot as it melted to accommodate the motions of the god. Finally, Ophidian turned the head back down to her. “And what is it you wish to say?”

  “Is my father all right?” Krea said impulsively. Instantly she regretted her rash question but she decided that she had the right to ask — Ophidian had given her the chance.

  The fiery red eyes twinkled and grew brighter. Then they closed for a moment. “What would you offer for his safety?”

  “What would you have me do?” Krea asked. “I’m only a —” she stopped.

  “A little girl?” Ophidian finished for her, not hiding the laughter in his voice. “But you’re not, now, are you?”

  “No,” Krea said. “I don’t know what I am.”

  She felt her lips start to move, but not by her own accord. Wymarc was speaking through her.

  She is my savior, Wymarc spoke through Krea’s lips. Krea could feel her intent turn to the god. Without her, I would not be here and the Ferryman would have carried two souls onwards.

  “And what did you give her in return?” Ophidian asked, clearly hearing the words that seemed, to Krea at least, to be only spoken in her head.

  A choice, a chance to save a life, Wymarc replied.

  “I have already helped Rabel before,” Ophidian said.

  You will help him again, then, Wymarc said.

  “Who are you to order me around?” Ophidian demanded, his tone growing irritated.

  Because after all I have done for you, you owe me this at least, Wymarc said.

  “I’ll make him do it” Ophidian said.

  No doubt you will, Wymarc agreed, and charge him dearly for the honor.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Krea cried and was suddenly aghast with the knowledge that she’d shouted at a god — she’d ordered Ophidian.

  “If you survive the judgement, I shall do as you say, Krea Zebala, child of Rabel,” Ophidian said, turning the head once more to point forward, unseeing. And then the god’s spirit left and the statue cooled into a cold, lifeless figure.

  “What judgement?” Krea asked out loud. No one answered her, not even Wymarc.

  Chapter Thre
e: Wymarc

  “What did you learn?” Lyric asked as Krea closed the doors behind her. “Did the gods favor you?”

  “My father is alive,” Krea told her, “I was so worried about him!”

  “Is that all?”

  Krea wondered why Lyric was asking her these questions? Her father had taught her that her relationships with the gods were a private matter. Even the shaman at Ametza’s temple let each person have time to pray to the goddess alone; no questions were asked after.

  “It is more than enough for me,” Krea said, deciding to heed her father’s advice. She changed the subject, saying, “Is there anything I can get to eat? I’m hungry.”

  Lyric nodded and gestured for Krea to follow her. They went back down the long marble corridor but turned at the second right and continued a long way before Krea smelled marvelous scents coming toward them, the strongest being that of freshly baked bread.

  “Not so fast!” Lyric said as Krea’s feet picked up the pace. Krea turned back to her in apology but found that she couldn’t slow herself.

  She turned, in front of Lyric, into a large room which was sparsely filled with various peoples and arranged into a large dining hall. She stopped suddenly as a dozen pairs of eyes turned to her.

  Krea froze, realizing that she wasn’t wearing her hat. Her face was bare and exposed to the eyes of all these people. She wanted to turn back, shrink in on herself, turn invisible — anything to avoid the inevitable scorn heaped upon her because she was an albino. But the moment passed, the people turned to their food or back to their conversation, treating her as if she was nothing strange, just a normal person.

  A normal person, Krea thought to herself. To them, I’m normal.

  “Most of the people here came because of the gods,” Lyric told her. She gestured and Krea followed.

  There was a counter and behind it was a large, plump woman with bright smiling eyes.

  “What can I do for you, dear?” the woman asked in a rich, warm voice. She was short voluptuous women with long blond hair in braided bun. She appeared to be in her thirties and wore a long white dress with a bright red apron.

  “I’m hungry, is there something I can get to eat?” Krea asked politely. She turned to Lyric, “Is there something you recommend?”

  “Oh, you’re the one in the white room!” the woman said. She glanced to Lyric. “I’m glad to see her out and about.”

  “She’s been to the room of the gods,” Lyric said.

  “Oh, and she’s still alive?” the woman said approvingly. “Then I suppose we should feed you, at least this day.” She glanced toward Lyric. “And you, dear? Did you visit the gods, also?”

  “Of course,” Lyric said, seeming affronted at the woman’s question. “They were most useful.”

  “You brought her here,” the woman said. The woman looked at Krea, then stretched a hand across the counter. “I’m Sybil. I manage the cooking here.”

  “It smells wonderful,” Krea said, reaching up to grab the woman’s hand. “I’m Krea Zebala.”

  “The new twin soul,” Sybil agreed easily. She met Krea’s eyes and seemed to peer through them, into a place Krea couldn’t see. “Good to see you again, Wymarc,” she said. “You’ve picked a sprightly one this time.”

  Krea didn’t know what to say. This woman knew Wymarc? How?

  “And you, dear,” she said, looking at Krea once more, “you come from Kingsland?”

  Krea nodded in surprise.

  “So something fishy and spicy?” Sybil asked, turning back to the stove.

  “What did Wymarc like?” Krea asked.

  Sybil turned back again, with a bowl of something steaming in her hand and put it on the counter. “You’d have to ask her, dear.”

  Krea got the sinking feeling that she’d done something wrong and took the bowl with a nod of thanks.

  “Same as yesterday?” Sybil said to Lyric. Sybil turned and prepared a quick tray. Krea was surprised to see that Lyric’s tray was nothing more than cut vegetables, nothing warm or cooked. She kept her surprise to herself, nodding to Lyric who led them to a table.

  As they sat, Krea noticed that the woman who had been tending her in her room was seated a few tables over. The woman had her knitting piled on a chair next to her.

  Krea took in the light in the room, the carved ceiling, the decorations on the wall and said to Lyric, “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  “Of course not,” Lyric said, picking up a raw carrot and munching it down.

  “In your caravan we ate soup,” Krea said. “Did you want to try some of mine?”

  “I eat hot when I have to,” Lyric said. She seemed to think for a moment, then said, “I eat when I have to.”

  Krea looked around. “What is this place?”

  “The gods did not tell you?” Lyric asked. Krea shook her head. “Then I shouldn’t tell you, either.”

  “How long are we going to stay here?” Krea asked.

  Lyric shrugged. “As long as it takes.” She picked up a radish and chomped on it ferociously, ending the conversation.

  When they were finished, Krea picked up her tray and looked around. “Where do I take this?”

  “Leave it,” a voice called to her. She looked over and saw that it was the knitting woman who spoke. “When your turn comes, you’ll be assigned to clean.”

  “Thank you,” Krea said. “I didn’t know.” She tried a tentative smile out, saying, “I’m Krea.”

  “I am Hana,” the young woman replied, rising from her seat and grabbing her knitting with one hand, stretching out the other hand to Krea.

  Krea took it and shook it gladly. “Thank you for looking after me.”

  Hana gave her a nervous glance and said hastily, “It was nothing. I was told to do it.”

  “Well, thank you anyway,” Krea said. “I’m sure that you gave Lyric much relief.” Hana raised an eyebrow and looked at Lyric in confusion.

  “We should go back to your room,” Lyric said, tugging on Krea’s sleeve. “I’m sure you’ll want to rest.”

  Krea looked back toward Hana. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  Hana grabbed her knitting tighter and gave Krea a worried look.

  #

  Krea wasn’t tired but Lyric insisted she drink a sleeping draught and closed the curtains in white room, leaving her in silence.

  “Will Hana come watch me?” Krea asked as Lyric turned to the door.

  “I don’t think it’s her day,” Lyric said unhelpfully, shutting the door behind her quietly.

  Her day? Krea thought. Was Krea just a duty, like clearing trays in the dining hall? She hoped that Hana thought more of her than that but she couldn’t be sure. The girl seemed… lost.

  Hana’s . Her dark eyes had seemed to gleam with an intensity that almost frightened Krea, yet Hana seemed wary, confused, like her silence — and her knitting — were shields to protect her.

  Krea turned over in her bed and closed her eyes.

  The world was nothing like she’d imagined. She had taken her choice and now… she wondered what it would mean. She was here, in a place where she could talk to the gods and was watched by silent knitters.

  She was just drifting off to sleep when Ophidian’s words came back to her: If you survive the judgement.

  What judgement? Survive what?

  Krea tried to force herself back to wakefulness but the draught, and the food, were too much and she sank into dark, troubling dreams.

  #

  She was with Wymarc. She saw that the wyvern was crying, she looked devastated. Krea moved toward her, reached out a hand that wasn’t, trying to offer the wyvern comfort.

  “How can I help you?” Krea asked. “I am here for you.”

  “That is the problem,” Wymarc said. “You are here.”

  Krea
pulled her hand back, deeply hurt. “What, you don’t want me here?”

  Wymarc turned her gaze on her, tears burning down her brilliant white muzzle, over the white scales with the intricate gold filigree. “It is not you, dear. It is that I have you.”

  “What?” Krea was confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “For thousands of years this has been,” Wymarc said, almost as if to herself. “It has always been this way.”

  “This is all new to me,” Krea said. “I have only sixteen years, not thousands.”

  “And that, my dear, is why I cry,” Wymarc told her sadly, turning her head away from Krea’s eyes.

  The image of the crying wyvern faded from Krea’s sight and the world turned formless, dark.

  I was only trying to help, Krea wailed.

  You did dear, that is the problem, came a reply.

  Krea groped for words, for understanding, but her dream slipped away from her and sleep reclaimed her.

  Chapter Four: The Chore

  The next morning, Lyric came for Krea. She waited until she had dressed and led her down the corridors to the dining hall. Sybil greeted her cheerfully and offered Krea gruel but Krea pointed to the large golden brown stack of thin bread.

  “Oh, you want pancakes?” Sybil said.

  “Is that what they are?” Krea said. “They look like flatbreads.”

  “They’re much more tasty,” Sybil said. “Warm, with butter, and lavender syrup, they’re food for the gods.”

  “They’re too rich,” Lyric said, nodding to Sybil who, with a frown, placed another plate of raw vegetables on the counter.

  “We’ve got eggs, and bacon, if you’d like,” Sybil said to Krea.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “The bacon, some eggs, and a stack of pancakes will start your day properly,” Sybil said with a firm nod. She quickly assembled a plate and set it on the counter in front of Krea who put it on her tray with a quick curtsy in thanks. She gestured for Krea to wait, turned to the stove and assembled another offering. “And here’s a pot of vanilla tea with a hint of rosebuds. I concoct this myself. It’s also recommended for healing and recovering.”