by Rebecca Ross
Halcyon, Xander, Evadne thought. This golden light and warmth were inspired by them. And she raised her voice to join Damon’s. Her heart was filled by the lyrics. Because as she sang with Damon, she sensed her sister and his brother with them. There were four of them in that moment, and no fog could withstand such fire.
Damon’s magic cut through Selene’s, and the fog dissipated, the light flashing over her and her scribe’s astonished faces.
Selene’s shock morphed into anger, and she lifted her hands and brought a different song, her scribe singing in beat with her.
Kirkos’s pillar began to shift and move. The falcon perched on his arm woke from the marble, rustling its wings. He took flight from his master and transformed in the air. Evadne kept her eyes on the enchantment, watching as the marble falcon mutated into a griffin. And then he multiplied, until there was a horde of them, flying toward Evadne and Damon.
But Damon’s song had been waiting for this, for creatures of wings and flight, and he began to sing the second stanza. Evadne sang with him, their voices rough and soft—perfectly matched. And this enchantment was no longer mere words on a scroll, words she had scribed. This was a fragment of her, and it rose from her mouth like an offering, something so pure that it could not be overcome.
The griffins circled about her and Damon; they reached for her hair with their talons, but Evadne’s voice and Damon’s magic stirred their feathers. The creatures hovered and then yielded to Evadne of Isaura. The descendant of Kirkos.
The girl who knew the taste of flight.
One by one, the griffins landed. They bowed to Evadne and to Damon as if they were the queen and king of myths and wings.
Furious, Selene shattered the creatures into dust.
She raised her hands and brought a different song. Her voice was still strong, resounding with power. And since the pillars had not heeded her, she called to the ground. The black-and-white checkered floor began to crack around Damon and Evadne, opening to swallow them.
But this was not the first time Damon and Evadne had stood at an edge.
They had both fallen before, and Damon was not intimidated. He began to sing his third stanza, Evadne’s voice accompanying his. Water began to rise in the cracks, filling the broken places that Selene had made. The water shimmered and solidified into marble, and every crack she created, Damon’s song was there to fill and mend, to bring everything back together.
That was when Damon’s voice began to falter. He was singing slower, as if the words were fighting him.
The resistance had finally come.
Evadne looked at him. A trickle of blood flowed from his nose, over his lips, as he struggled to sing. His shoulders drew inward, as if the pain was unbearable inside of him and he was rallying the last of his strength to keep himself standing.
While his voice began to fade, Evadne’s only grew brighter, stronger. A beacon for him to find and follow.
He turned his face to look at her, to listen to her sing his magic. And all around them the floor was sundering, and yet Evadne continued to stand and sing, waiting for him.
He straightened. He still bled, but her voice brought him back to the lyrics, and his magic returned, flooding the shattered floor again, healing Selene’s destruction.
She was growing weary, too.
Evadne could hear Selene’s voice in spurts, as if she could not draw a full breath, and her scribe was singing a steady flow of words to her.
How much longer would they need to outlast her? Evadne wondered.
Selene rallied, just as Damon had.
She summoned the columns again. Euthymius’s pillar began to crumble, threatening to topple.
Damon sang the fourth stanza. He was pale and trembling now, blood dripping from his chin, but he sang and he raised his hand to the pillar. He summoned a wind, fragrant and strong, a breeze that he had felt in Isaura’s grove. It caught the pillar’s tumble and gently set it back in place, rooted to the floor and the ceiling.
And then there was a crack in the air, like wood splintering on stone.
Damon gasped. He fell to his knees, all his magic flooding back into him, into his open mouth. Light, wind, water, myths. His eyes shut, his face agonized.
Evadne stopped singing. She forgot the words, forgot where they were, what they were supposed to be doing. She was frozen, watching Damon writhe and groan and hold his left hand.
She could see the skewing of his fingers—his hand, his hand was broken—and the sight robbed her breath.
Damon rocked on his knees and cradled his broken hand. His moans turned into coughs, and he coughed up blood, spitting it onto the floor he had just mended. But there was something else within it, glittering shards that looked like gold. He coughed up more of it, and Evadne realized it was ichor. Pieces of divine in his blood, in his breath, in his voice. He was coughing up his magic, and it was no longer sinuous and beautiful. It was sharp and bitter and hard, cutting him up from the inside, leaving his body ravaged in its wake.
He ceased coughing, and the silver ring on his finger boiled and hissed into steam. He cried out in pain, his hand knotting into a fist. And the last of his magic abandoned him, evaporating in a plume of smoke, leaving behind a burned scar on his finger.
Evadne melted to her knees, unable to fathom this, unable to listen and watch him suffer and break and come undone.
“Damon,” she whispered, ragged. “Damon.” She crawled across the floor to him.
He bowed over his brokenness, his blood and the splinters of magic. But he stiffened when he heard her voice, when he caught a glimpse of her approach.
Damon lifted his head, his eyes wild and glazed. He looked at Evadne and whispered to her, “Who are you?”
XXXV
Halcyon and Evadne
Halcyon pounded on the southern gate of Mithra. She called up to the queen’s soldiers, who patrolled the wall, staring down at her. And when that did not work, she screamed orders at them.
But they would not open the gates for her or the commander and his legion.
“We cannot defy the queen’s command,” one of the soldiers shouted down at her. “We must wait for Queen Nerine to lift her order.”
And Halcyon knew it was futile. Of course they would not open the gates without the queen’s approval. Which was Selene’s order to begin with.
Halcyon felt like weeping as she stepped back from the gate, her knuckles torn and bloodied. Thales was still with her, worry marking his brow. And the sun was setting. The first stars were arriving, and there was no word from Damon and Evadne. No sight of Selene. What did this silence mean?
In Halcyon’s frustration, she did not see the man standing among the queen’s soldiers on the wall. The man who, if she had looked closer, was not decked in armor and who looked uncannily like a younger image of her father with a scar on his face. A man who had watched the entire battle unfold, knowing she was somewhere amid the flash of bronze and iron.
She did not see him step off the wall and hover in the air. She did not see him glide down to her on invisible wings.
“Halcyon.”
She startled, finally noticing the man who was approaching her. Uncle Ozias. The Basilisk.
“Uncle, how did you . . . ?”
“You need to enter Mithra?” her uncle surmised. “Come, I will carry you over the wall.”
She was speechless. But then she noticed the relic hanging around his neck. Kirkos’s relic, which Evadne had once worn.
The air stirred at her elbow, and Halcyon remembered Thales was beside her. The man who had once attempted to kill her uncle. She glanced between the two men, suddenly uneasy.
Thales had the right to appear wary. He took a step back, head bowed in submission, but Ozias was not paying him any attention. He looked only at Halcyon, knowing time was wearing thin.
She stepped into her uncle’s arms, and he flew her, slow and careful, over the wall of Mithra. The queen’s soldiers gaped, but they did not interfere, still await
ing orders from Nerine.
Ozias brought Halcyon down in the southern market, which was empty and forlorn. Halcyon, breathless from the flight, stepped out of his embrace and looked at him with gratitude.
“Will you swear to me that you’ll refrain from killing Thales, Uncle Ozias?”
Ozias granted her a sharp smile. “I have not killed him yet. I suppose I can wait another day.”
She could not tell if her uncle was jesting or serious, and she was too exhausted to spend more time on the matter. “I need him. Can you carry him over the wall as well? And Lord Straton? He is wounded.”
“I will carry them both,” Ozias said, watching as Halcyon began to hurry away from him. “But Halcyon! Where are you going?”
“The Destry,” she called over her shoulder.
She did not watch her uncle take to the sky again. Her eyes were set on one thing only.
It was two streets away. Its burnished roof basked in the fire of sunset, beckoning her to hurry.
And Halcyon ran to the Destry.
“Who are you?” Damon rasped at Evadne again. Frantic, bewildered. He edged away from her, like her presence was overwhelming him.
Evadne halted, felt his golden shards cut into her knees. She watched Damon’s anguish as he continued to move as far from her as he could, like she would harm him.
He does not know who I am.
And her heart broke into pieces; her chest felt like it was caving under the pain. She could not breathe. She could not think. All she could do was kneel in his blood and watch him tremble.
“Leave him be, Evadne,” a cold, pitying voice said.
Evadne, numb, looked up to see Selene, standing beside her. She regarded her nephew’s distress with a sigh.
“What . . . what has happened to him?” Evadne whispered, hoarse.
“He reached the bottom of his magical well and ran it dry. His magic has broken. And it has taken a portion of his memories with it.” She looked down at Evadne. “I am sorry to tell you this, but he will not remember who you are, Evadne.”
Selene’s revelation dripped off Evadne like rain. She could not grasp it. She could not imagine a world where Damon did not know her.
Evadne looked at him again, trying to suppress her devastation. She watched as he glanced up at his aunt, and the lines of pain eased in his face.
“Aunt Selene,” he said. “Aunt . . . help me.”
“I will help you, Damon. Give me just a moment.” Selene offered Evadne her hand. “Come, Daughter. There is nothing else you can do for him. It is best that you leave.”
Evadne stared at the mage’s elegant hand. The silver ring on her thumb. Selene had known Damon would sing his magic dry to the bone, and that was why she had cautioned him before the duel.
And yet his aunt had still partaken in the challenge, knowing her strength would outlast him. Selene had broken him, and she did not seem to care.
Reluctantly, Evadne accepted Selene’s hand. The mage drew her to her feet. A strained moment passed between them as Evadne saw pity within Selene’s eyes—pity Evadne did not want. And then that pity disappeared like it had only been an act, and Selene’s eyes narrowed with ire and hatred. She moved swiftly, gracefully. There was a gleam of steel in her hand.
Evadne stepped back, but she was not fast enough. Selene plunged a dagger into her belly, deep and jagged.
A sound of shock escaped Evadne. And then a wave of pain cascaded through her, shook her bones. Pain that made her want to drop to the floor. She felt the dagger withdraw, and Selene prepared to stab her again.
Evadne did not move, not until Selene had stabbed her a second time, the blade fully embedded in Evadne’s side, just beneath her ribs. Only then did she find her sister’s kopis, like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. She took the hilt, and with her teeth bared, she drove Halcyon’s scythe into Selene’s soft neck.
Selene jerked, surprised. But it was over—she had been defeated—and she knew it as she gazed at Evadne. Her blood began to pour down her neck, fast and bright. She stepped back and gurgled, clawing at the hilt.
Evadne’s mind went blank as she watched Selene succumb to the floor. Her blood spread out beneath her like a red cloak, and then the malevolent light dimmed in her eyes.
Evadne had just killed someone.
The truth echoed through her like she was hollow, and she felt changed. Culled. She felt as if she had just crossed a threshold that could never be found and recrossed again.
“You killed her.”
Evadne lifted her gaze to where Damon still sat on the floor. “Damon . . .” Her heart welled at the sight of him. She was overcome with the desire to go to him, to touch him, kiss his face. To hold him in his brokenness. And yet his eyes betrayed his anger at her. He pointed at her with his right hand.
“Stay away from me.”
She did not know what to do. He crawled and groaned, unable to walk. She could not leave him, and yet he did not know her. He did not want her.
A beat of footsteps. Dazed, Evadne glanced up to see Selene’s scribe was staring at her, backing away. She had forgotten about him. He fled from the Destry, and it was only her and Damon now.
She and Damon and a glimmer of something enchanted in the shadows.
Evadne realized the All-Seeing Crown was on the floor. Selene must have set it aside during the duel. The olive wreath waited in the shadows, silver and green and full of secrets.
Evadne started to move to it and discovered that walking was suddenly very arduous and painful. Selene’s dagger was still buried in her side, and Evadne looked at its hilt, wondering if she should remove it or if that would make her bleed out faster.
She set her teeth against the pain it provoked, and she walked with the blade still trapped in her side. It took her a moment to kneel and take the crown within her hands. And then it took her another stilted moment to rise to her feet and turn to where Damon sat, staring at her with suspicious eyes.
She walked to him. “Damon,” she whispered, and her love for him turned his name into a melody, a chorus.
He drew himself up to his feet with the help of Euthymius’s column. “I do not know you . . . Stay away from me.”
Evadne gently progressed, watching as he turned to face her, his back pressed against the pillar. He was angry and terrified and confused. And she could only hope that this crown would be enough.
“Damon, let me help you,” she whispered.
He stared at her, his breath ragged. But he did not move, and he did not protest.
“Please.” Evadne closed the distance between them. With a dagger in her side and blood soaking her chiton, she crowned Damon.
She waited, trembling and wondering.
The crown enabled its bearer to see either the past, present, or future of the one they looked upon. And as Damon studied her . . . Evadne could only hope that he would see her past. That he would see how they had come together as friends, as a mage and a scribe. That he would see all the trials they had walked through, all the pain and the worry and the magic and the desire.
Once, she had been reluctant for him to look into her mind. She had vowed she would never welcome him into her thoughts. But now . . . she longed for him to see her, to remember her.
She watched the change come over him, the tension fade from his body. His eyes—brown and blue—softened like earth after a long rain. He reached for her with his right hand; he traced the edge of her jaw and whispered her name, and she felt her heart stir and fight to continue beating even when it was slowing . . . slowing . . .
“Evadne.”
She smiled at him. He was blurring before her; she realized she was crying. Damon kissed the tears from her face, and she clung to him. Her body was turning cold. It felt like a shadow was creeping over her.
She groaned in agony when he brushed the hilt in her side.
He eased her back and saw the dagger. The joy in his eyes morphed into terror. Her chiton was red; she had smeared her blood on his clothes. Sh
e struggled to breathe and took hold of the hilt and withdrew it, let it clatter to the floor.
“Damon,” she whispered, and he held her, slowly eased them both down to the floor.
“Evadne, Evadne. Stay with me . . .”
She felt his warmth, his breath as he held her close. She could hear his heart beating, frantic. The contrast to hers.
She tilted her head back. The last thing she remembered was the ceiling of the Destry, how it was a mirror of the sky.
She watched it blush mauve as evening deepened. The first stars were awakening when she slipped away, into the darkness.
Halcyon entered the Destry, the doors slamming in her wake as she stepped into the lobby. She noticed the blood first. So much blood glazed the floor.
“Evadne?” she called, walking deeper into the cavernous chamber. She saw Damon sitting, holding, and weeping over her sister.
Her sister, drenched in blood.
No.
Halcyon hurried to them, slipping on Evadne’s blood. She hit the floor and crawled, distraught.
“No, no, no.”
Damon had killed her sister.
Damon had killed her sister.
She could not comprehend it, even as she saw the evidence of it. And then it hit her like a blow, and Halcyon felt her heart shatter. Trembling, she reached out to touch Evadne’s face.
She finally understood the pain she had given Damon, for now he gave it back to her.
“Help her,” Damon whispered to Halcyon. “Help her.”
Evadne was alive.
Halcyon uttered a desperate sound. Damon’s left hand was curled in a fist, but he opened his arms, and Halcyon gently eased Evadne from his lap onto hers.
“Eva? Eva.” Halcyon prayed, feeling her pulse.
Her sister still breathed, slowly bleeding out on the floor.
And Halcyon could save her. Halcyon had Magda’s Sunstone Ring of Healing. She could save Evadne, and she shifted her arms so she could withdraw her hand from Evadne’s back . . .
