by Jamie Foley
Tekkyn gave her a disapproving look. “My word and my loyalty run deeper than that, Frizz, and I thought yours did too.”
Kira cringed. “Well, I mean, didn’t you give Vylia your best soldiers as guards?” she asked her father. “And Ryon said she was leaving for Sekoiako lands anyway.” The mention of Ryon’s name cut through her.
It didn’t matter what she’d agreed to before. It didn’t matter what was right. If she had to choose between her fiancé and her princess—no, the princess of the empire that she loathed and that her people would soon declare war against—there was no contest. She held no ill will toward Vylia, but she would choose Ryon every time.
Was he technically her fiancé though? Yes, she decided he was. She would find him and marry him as soon as they were able. The fates weren’t allowing for any longer of an engagement period.
And if Illiana wanted to marry him for some twisted reason . . . She’d just have to be faster still.
“Let’s just go talk to Vylia,” Tekkyn said. “She’ll understand.” He ruffled Kira’s hair and smiled softly when she jerked away to ensure the butterfly pin Ryon had given her remained in its place.
“Do not let any harm come to her,” Oda’e said to Tekkyn in a low tone. “Take anything you need and go swiftly.” He strode to Kira and knelt until he was eye-level with her. His piercing blue gaze shone with concern and determination. And something deeper . . . a father’s love.
“I know you’re hurting,” he whispered. “But don’t act out of desperation. Quiet your heart. Use your mind—it’s sharp.” He kissed her forehead. “You get that from me, you know.” He winked.
Kira grabbed him in a tight hug, clanking his armor plates together as a sob tore free. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Go get him.” He hugged her back, then looked up at Tekkyn. “Vylia is collecting what she can from her ruined embassy. The top platform. Quickly.”
Vylia turned her coral crown over in her hands, looking for burn marks or other signs of damage. But aside from the smell of smoke, the blue, pink, and purple spires branched outward, unharmed.
A deep sense of loss settled in Vylia’s stomach as she ran her fingers over the bumpy sea shells protected by shining lacquer. Her old life was gone. Sousuke would probably say to leave her crown behind, along with her dresses and the rest of her luggage—anything that could reveal her identity.
She sighed and carefully set the crown back on the dresser where she’d left it that fateful day. Best that it stay here, at her embassy that was not meant to be. Where many of the people closest to her had died. Xi. Juli. Uma.
Vylia looked to the stripped bed, where piles of belongings of her lost companions had been neatly piled. A leather-bound journal rested atop Uma’s priestess robes.
Tears threatened to rise, causing an odd sensation. Like her eyes were pulling for moisture, but had run dry.
She didn’t want to cry any more. She’d been miserable, mourning in the dark caverns beneath the city for days.
I choose joy. Even though I can barely hold my head up, I will force myself to smile and pretend to be happy. The feelings will follow.
Uma had taught her that. It’s how she’d dealt with the loss of her mother and her father’s coldness. Thrived in spite of it.
Vylia blinked at the uncomfortable feeling in her eyes and moved to the collection of Uma’s things. Longing for her mentor tugged hard at her heart as she lifted the small, worn book and examined its binding.
Uma had journaled every day. It felt too soon to open such a private thing. As if her spirit still lingered and would catch Vylia snooping.
But her curiosity got the best of her, as usual.
Vylia unwound the cord that wrapped thrice around the book, holding the folded leather cover tight around the pages. She flipped to the last entry. Held her breath, waiting for the emotions she knew would hit her like high tide.
Uma’s handwriting was pristine, reflecting her tutelage under the empire’s most renowned scribes.
YEAR 3469. HARVEST SEASON. WANING CRESCENT.
I fear I have made a grave mistake.
It would be foolish to write about such things, but I must organize my thoughts, and I have no other priestesses to beseech for wisdom.
I must remember to remove these pages and put them to the flame when I return to the temple and set things right. Assuming I have not done too much damage already.
Vylia is lying to me. I know it. It breaks my heart that she will not confide in me. Perhaps it is because the nature of her situation is confusing. Unthinkable. Forbidden.
Heavens, the Emperor will have me killed for this.
I think the mirror is speaking to her. Whatever is inside it, no one can say. But it cannot be the goddess. It is deceptive. Desperate. Evil.
We all know not to listen to it. Not to speak of it.
Simply writing this fills me with dread. And yet admitting it in some form also gives me peace. Recognition of what I have done. Acknowledgement of this surreal situation and confidence to do something about it. Though I scarcely understand what’s happening or what should be done.
What I do know is this: by removing the Malo Stone from its place in the temple, I’ve unintentionally removed its restraints. Somehow.
I know that makes no sense. None of this makes sense.
But what if the decorative dais the Stone has sat upon for years has a functional purpose? They say Lillian’s mate, Felix Kael Tae, forged it when she ascended to godhood. What if he forged it from glass-gold to prevent a demon from manipulating the stone? Or a spirit from possessing it? Or some dark entity from siphoning the power of the goddess’s mirror?
We cannot ignore this any longer. When I return home, I will speak plainly of this to the High Priestess. We must determine what or who the voice truly is. Because of our ignorance, in removing the Stone from its dais, I fear I have placed Vylia in danger.
But the last Empress removed the Stone upon her inheritance, though it was quickly put back to rest for many years. We’ve heard whispers of Empresses and Priestesses hearing the voice before. Maybe the glass-gold only hinders it. Or something else about the temple, perhaps?
We cannot turn a blind eye for fear of blasphemy any longer. We must determine these things before something terrible happens. Whatever it is must be speaking quickly and clearly to Vylia—I believe she has already tasted its power.
What have I done? Not only have I set something free—or enabled it—I have written of the forbidden. I must destroy these pages. But not until I can read over my scrambled thoughts, pray, and hopefully grasp some shred of truth.
Only one thing is certain: I must return the Stone to the golden dais as soon as possible.
And perhaps, though it is certainly ill-advised, I may have to speak of this to Vylia before she is deceived. Whatever power the voice offers, it surely comes with a price.
Goddess . . . Wind Serpent . . . Creator. Whoever is true, whoever is listening—help me! Let me return the Stone safely to the temple. Let no harm come to Vylia. Let the High Priestess listen to my worries. Reveal to me the truth, and calm my rattled heart.
Vylia stared at the final words in shock. The rest of the pages were blank.
Her beloved mentor had passed into the next life without discovering the truth. But what was the truth? And why had the priestesses not uncovered it?
Vylia realized she was holding the journal too tightly. Asking those kinds of questions would make them sound like pagans to the priestesses. Because the inquiry might prove their precious Lillian to be a false god.
Or nothing but an elemental trapped inside a rock. Imprisoned by the creator for unknown deeds lost to time.
“Your Highness?”
Vylia startled and whipped around. “Oh! Sous—”
It wasn’t Sousuke. One of Oda’e’s most trusted men watched her with a guilty look, as if she were a porcelain vase he’d just dropped.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry, my lady. I didn’t m
ean to startle you.” He took a step back. “Sousuke is guarding the front. Would you like me to retrieve him?”
She almost said no, but in truth, she wanted nothing more than Sousuke at her side. These new guards might be Oda’e’s best, but she didn’t know them. And she had bad history with guards she didn’t know.
“Yes, please.”
The guard bowed. “There are two people requesting to see you: a young man named Tekkyn’ashi and a young woman named Kiralau. They say it’s urgent.”
Vylia nodded. “Send them in.”
The guard hurried out and Vylia scanned Uma’s last written words again. Glass-gold . . . surely she’d meant the beautiful sculpture that formed a perfect mount for the smooth oval shape of the Malo stone. Vylia remembered seeing it a few years ago in all its splendor—it looked like a lotus flower with a bird resting on top, with petals reaching up and feathers stretching down to meet in gentle crystalline tips.
She hadn’t known that the fire-spirit Felix had forged it, and she’d assumed it was made of glass infused with streaks of reflective, glittering color and a golden sheen.
Yet again, everything she’d once thought was wrong. It wasn’t glass, it was gold—somehow. Perhaps only an elemental could forge such a thing.
And the pedestal wasn’t a piece of artwork for Lillian’s mirror to rest upon. With the way the glass-gold petals and feathers touched, it was more like a prison.
Vylia hastily closed the journal and placed it back on top of Uma’s belongings. If Uma’s assumptions had been correct, there was a chance to set things right.
She would finish her mentor’s mission. Or she at least had to try.
Footsteps announced the arrival of Kira, Tekkyn’ashi, and Sousuke. Vylia stood up and instinctively went to straighten her dress before remembering she was wearing nondescript Katrosi garb. It was so comfortable she kept forgetting about it.
“Princess.” Kira bowed as she approached, and Vylia waved in an attempt to get her to stop. It would be nice to have a friend who could treat her like a normal human being.
“Call me Vy.”
“Vy.” Kira came closer with a troubled expression. “My fiancé, Ryon, has been taken by the Emberhawk.”
Vylia blinked. “Oh. Oh, no.” She gathered from Kira’s disheveled appearance and the beaded sweat on her forehead that this had just happened.
“Please release me from service so I can go after him,” Kira said.
“Kira,” Tekkyn’ashi scolded in a low tone, but his sister ignored him.
Vylia was left stunned. “O-of course,” she granted, though selfishly, losing another friend was the last thing she wanted. But what else could she do?
“I’m sorry,” Kira said. “It’s not that I want to leave you, but I have to find him, and I know it’s safer for you—well, you’re heading in the other direction. But at least my translations aren’t needed as much now that you have a Malaano guard again.”
Vylia listened to Kira stumble all over her words. Of course Vylia still needed a translator while she remained in tribal lands, especially to communicate with the Sekoiako. Kira was clearly grasping, but Vylia couldn’t blame her.
Sousuke watched from the corner, where an exquisite armoire was marred by what appeared to be a splatter of dried blood that might have been his own from that fateful night. He folded his arms and didn’t seem to give Vylia any sign or opinion of his own.
“I release you,” Vylia said, although she supposed Kira was more under Brooke’s employ than her own. “But please do me one favor first.”
Kira was visibly relieved. “Yes?”
Vylia pointed to the bracelet around Kira’s wrist. “What is that made of?”
Kira pulled the bangle close to her chest. “It’s gold. I know it doesn’t look like it, but . . . That’s what I was told.”
Vylia’s jaw went slack. She doubted the golden-streaked, shimmering bracelet was large enough to fit around the Malo stone, but still, it was a start.
“May I have it?”
“No.” Kira clutched it tight. “I mean . . .” She looked down at it with moisture cresting in her eyes. “Ryon gave it to me. He said it was his father’s.” She slowly slid it down and over her hand. “But if it will let me get him back—”
Vylia stopped her by placing a hand over Kira’s before she could fully remove the bracelet. “It’s all right. I only need something made of gold that’s been forged in the same translucent manner. Do you know where else I might find some?”
Kira glanced back at Tekkyn’ashi, who shook his head. “No . . . I’ve never seen it before this,” Kira said.
“Perhaps in the treasury,” Sousuke said. “Why do you need it?” His green eyes searched her as if he knew something was amiss.
Vylia took a deep breath. She’d probably sound like a lunatic, but they deserved to know. And at least now she had Uma’s diary to support her claims.
She instructed Sousuke to shut the door. Then she told them everything.
Kira listened with a set jaw. Sousuke stood still but his fingers thrummed on his belt as he stared into nothingness. Tekkyn’s eyes grew to the size of twin moons and appeared to get stuck like that.
“So, would you please come with me to the treasury?” Vylia asked Kira as her story concluded. “You’re the only other person I know who’s heard the voice. Help me find a piece of glass-gold, and then you can help determine if it works. Then I can feel safer on the journey back to Maqua, where it can be returned to its proper place in the temple.”
Kira looked up from Uma’s journal to meet Vylia’s gaze with knitted brows and a frown. She could read her own thoughts on Kira’s face: Maqua was the most dangerous place on the planet for Vylia. Even more so to be traveling across the Sea of Bones without a wavesinger to protect them from the ocean’s wrath, since the Malo stone hampered Vylia’s elemental abilities. Finding a piece of glass-gold—if it worked—would increase the odds in their favor.
“I’m sure Dad will let us into the treasury if we explain this to him,” Kira said as she handed the journal to Vylia and turned to leave. “Let’s go as fast as possible.”
Brooke stood numbly, watching Sorrel disappear into the distant sky with Lysander’s limp form lashed onto her back. If only gryphons could carry more than one person! Since she didn’t have a flying mount of her own, all she could do now was hope that Sorrel knew the way and that Lysander’s grandmother was a birdwatcher who’d see them coming and get him that antidote as fast as possible.
Everything that had just happened . . . surely it hadn’t just happened. It was a dream. No, a nightmare. Several nightmares.
She could scarcely believe Soaring Heron had attacked her and tried to kill Lysander. Sure, he was an entitled prince, but assault and murder were nothing short of criminal. Well, they were criminal in Katrosi lands, at least.
She wouldn’t wear the paint of mourning for him.
No, Heron hadn’t murdered Lysander. He couldn’t have.
Brooke squinted after Sorrel, barely able to see the gryphon on the horizon as she disappeared between jungle leaves. Aeo, save him!
She hugged herself and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt hollow, like she’d been robbed. Her strength mocked and her honor violently stolen. Thank the heavens Lysander had been there, otherwise . . . A shudder tore through her.
Lysander couldn’t die. It was too much.
How long had she been standing there? It didn’t matter. What on beautiful Alani should she do? How could she possibly explain such circumstances to King Raven Eye?
The Tribal Alliance wouldn’t survive this. It would only be the Sekoiako, the pacifist Roanoke, and the tattered Katrosi until the Malaano invaded and wiped them out.
Her heart ached. All of her work ruined by a single act. Something out of her control. And yet she’d failed. Failed the dreams of her father and the legacy of her grandfather.
The Katrosi people would not understand. No one would. Except Lysander, but he was as goo
d as dead. Unless he had some sort of resistance to dreamthistle, he could be dead already. How far away was his grandmother’s pyramid?
Brooke’s mind refused to think any more. Her hands trembled. She knew she had to move. Had to do . . . something. Anything but stand there between the tipis in her rumpled clothing and broken headdress.
Dimbae. He’d know what to do.
Brooke headed for his tipi. It was inappropriate to enter uninvited, but she already knew Lysander wasn’t in there. And circumstances permitted. Dimbae probably wasn’t even in there since she’d given him a break, but it was at least a place to start.
She found Dimbae napping inside on a hammock that looked entirely too small for him. Awkwardness felt dulled in her bruised heart. “Dimbae,” she called, keeping her distance. She knew better than to startle him awake.
He woke with a deep breath and looked at her over his shoulder. Watched her sleepily, like he was wondering if she were a dream.
The tears came then. “Heron is dead.”
Dimbae threw his quilt aside and was standing before her in an instant. “Are you hurt?” His eyes widened with concern. She must look awful.
“No,” Brooke said, but it felt like a lie. “He poisoned Lysander and . . .” Her voice died.
Dimbae’s gaze ignited. He cursed. “Where?”
“M-my tipi.”
Brooke could barely keep up with him as he left, dashed across the path, and stormed into her tipi with his blade drawn. She ducked under the tent flap behind him and nearly ran into his back.
“Where is the body?”
Brooke moved around Dimbae and stared at the wooden floor in shock. Only a few drops of blood and broken feathers lay scattered.
Horror crested on her like a tide. “He was right . . . here . . .”
Heron’s bodyguard. What was his name? Long Root.
Her chance at covering this up had just disappeared with the body.
Sounds muffled and colors dimmed. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She only existed in this muted, ghastly, hopeless reality.
