by Rebecca Ross
She was on a veranda. Where? Where was she?
“Eva.”
She heard Halcyon’s voice and turned to see her sister was lying beside her. And Uncle Ozias was sleeping in a chair nearby, his mouth open as he snored, and another man—Thales—was also asleep, sitting against the wall.
“Where are we?” Evadne whispered.
Halcyon quietly sat forward and helped Evadne drink a few sips of water.
Gradually, her sister told her what had happened. Damon’s breaking, Lord Straton’s passing, Queen Nerine’s liberation.
“It is over, Eva,” Halcyon whispered and lovingly caressed Evadne’s tangled hair. “You have been so brave and strong, Little Sister. We have done everything that we could, and we have triumphed.”
Then why did Evadne feel like she had lost? Why did tears crowd both of their eyes?
She thought of Damon. As soon as she did, she felt all the pieces of her heart, still scattered and agonized, struggle to beat within her chest.
Halcyon read her thoughts. “Just before I took the crown from him . . . Damon wanted me to tell you that he will find his way back to you, as soon as he is able.”
Evadne said nothing, but her tears began to fall. How? She wanted to scream. How would he find his way back when his memories were culled?
He had only said it to ease her pain. And yet the pain was bright and sharp; she labored to breathe.
“Halcyon?” Evadne whispered.
“Yes, Eva?”
Evadne closed her eyes, and her tears continued to fall, streaking down her face into her hair. “Will you take me home to Isaura?”
Halcyon wiped away her tears. “Yes, Sister. I will take you home.”
And Evadne finally understood the pain of breaking, the pain of trying to mend after loss. She felt an echo of Kirkos’s anguish, and she wept as she finally understood the cost of his fall.
XXXVII
Evadne
Four Moons Later
Pupa? Pupa, do not wear yourself out, now. We still have to sing tonight.”
Evadne continued to move her small hand rake through the olive branches, smiling at Gregor’s concern. “Do not worry, Father.”
Despite her full recovery, her father had fussed over her, far worse than her mother. He stood beside the wagon, its bed brimming with olives, and he watched her harvest a few more moments, olives tumbling down around her onto the linen tarp, until he was certain the flush of Evadne’s face was from the bite in the air and not overexertion.
The afternoon was cold and crisp with the arrival of the harvest. She and her family had been working from dawn to dusk collecting and pressing the olives. And when night arrived, they gathered in the common room, breaking bread and sharing stories and singing choruses.
It had been four moons since Evadne had left Mithra. Four moons since Evadne had returned to Isaura. And she had finally begun to sing again.
In the distance, they heard the gate bell ring.
“Agh, who could that be?” Gregor said.
“Probably the herald, Uncle Gregor,” Maia said as she joined Evadne in raking.
“He was just here a few days ago, though.” Aunt Lydia scowled as she dumped an apron full of olives into the wagon.
“I will go and see what he wants,” Lysander swiftly volunteered, as if it were a chore to leave behind his rake. He jumped down from his ladder, where he had been harvesting at the top of the tree, and ran up the path, disappearing around the edge of the villa.
Evadne did not break her work. She was eager to focus on the branches, on the olives, on the motions of her rake. The work dulled her mind and her thoughts, made her sleep heavy at night, and she was grateful for it.
“My gods!” Aunt Lydia suddenly cried, and all of them looked up at the path.
Evadne saw Halcyon striding toward them, her bronze armor spangled with light, her smile broad, her strides eager.
Everyone rushed to her, and Halcyon embraced them all, saving Evadne for last. Evadne saw a gleam in her sister’s eye, a gleam that she had not seen in a long time.
“We were not expecting you until Ari’s holy day,” Phaedra said, and they abandoned work to walk with Halcyon back to the villa.
Indeed, Halcyon had been in Abacus, preoccupied with work. Evadne had not allowed herself to hope to see Halcyon for a while. The legion needed her sister more, ever since Straton’s death.
“I took a hiatus,” Halcyon said as they entered the courtyard. “I want to help with the harvest.”
Evadne could see how her father was all but bursting with pride over that statement.
“It has been a while since you raked olives, Sprout.”
Halcyon laughed. She had left her horse in the courtyard, and she walked to the mare, unknotting her saddlebag. “Yes, Father. But do not worry: I remember how.”
Lysander offered to take Halcyon’s horse to the stable, and Halcyon cradled her saddle pack in her arms, like something precious was hidden within it. She was looking at Evadne again, and Evadne cocked her brow, as if to say, What is it?
“I did come home to help with the harvest,” Halcyon confessed, reaching into her leather bag. “But there is another reason . . .” She withdrew something bulky, wrapped snug in a linen sack. “I also have a delivery for Evadne.”
Halcyon held it out to her sister, and at first all Evadne could do was stare at it.
“Here, Sister. Take it.”
Evadne took the heavy linen sack in her arms. A leather string was bound about it, and a piece of parchment hung from the string.
For Evadne’s eyes only, the parchment declared, in horrible handwriting.
Maia, who had crept up to Evadne’s side, scrunched her nose as she tried to read it. “Divines, that is some terrible handwriting! How can you even read it?”
Evadne’s breath caught. She felt the weight of the sack and she knew exactly what it held, knew exactly whose hand had written that crooked message. She met Halcyon’s gaze. Halcyon who only smiled, her eyes thrilled.
Without a word, Evadne turned and rushed into the villa.
“Eva? Eva!” Her mother called after her.
“Let her go, Phaedra,” Gregor said, and then he added to Halcyon, “You are certain you have no inkling as to what is in that bag?”
“Not even a smudge of an inkling, Father.”
Evadne ascended the stairs, ignoring the jar of her ankle, and flew into her bedchamber, all but slamming the door. Her heart was wild; her breaths were uneven. She slowly walked to her bed and set the bundle down, suddenly afraid to open it.
For Evadne’s eyes only.
Her hands shook as she opened the linen sack. She drew forth two different scrolls, and she recognized them both. One was thick and beautiful, its handles gilded. The other was slender and simpler, with smooth ashwood handles.
She traced them. It felt like reuniting with two long-lost friends, even though she had never held or written in these scrolls. But Damon had. To her greatest marvel and curiosity.
She took up the square of parchment and saw there was more written on the other side.
Start with the gilded scroll, he instructed.
Evadne crawled onto her bed and took the gilded scroll into her lap. It was thick, heavy, and she took a deep breath as she opened it.
His handwriting greeted her, crooked and ridden with ink blots. These were all of his right-handed words. And she began to read them.
11th Day of Storm Moon
Today I graduated from the Destry. This, Professor Zosime tells me, will be my breaking point. Anything after this day—after my finger takes the ring—will be lost should I run my magic dry. Should I break.
She told me to keep a journal. All wise mages do, even the most powerful of ones. Professor Zosime says I should record everything that means something to me, even if it is simple things, daily things that most take for granted.
“Would you be sad to lose it?” she posed the question to me. “If the answer is yes, re
cord it down before the sun sets.”
“But how?” I asked her. “I cannot write with my left hand, and I can hardly write legibly with my right.”
She only raised her brow at me, and I know that look. I am to figure out a way, whether that is to strengthen my right hand or hire a scribe to record my daily experiences or take the risk of loss. But why would I want a scribe to hear all my inner thoughts? These pieces of my life that I want to ensure do not break from my mind?
Anyway, today is the breaking point. And my hand is already tired and I am frustrated—will I even be able to read all of this, if I am misfortunate enough to break?—and so I will write more tomorrow.
12th Day of Storm Moon
The worst and best thing about graduating from the Destry is putting your hand in the fire. For eight years, I have a been a student, studying and learning spells, eager to make my own someday. For eight years, I thought that my magical well would be as deep as my aunt’s. My father thought this, too.
I set my hand into the magical fire, before all of my professors and fellow classmates, before all of our families, and I waited for my ring to form, to reveal how powerful I am.
The fire did not burn me. But I felt the ring take shape, welding to my finger.
When I drew my left hand back from the flames, there was the ring. Silver as the moon. Gleaming on my middle finger.
Average. I am average.
I am not strong. I am not weak. I am in the middle.
And I felt such envy to see a mage like Macarius come up behind me, set his hand in the fire, and come away with a deeper well, with more power than me.
And I could not bear to look at my father’s face. All of his hope had been resting on me for our mission, and now it is waning, and I know he will not think I am capable, strong enough.
Why am I even writing this down?
Perhaps, though, to write it down is to find release. To find some catharsis.
And so I press this memory to papyrus and hope it will soon become iron, something to sharpen me.
This scroll was not at all what Evadne had thought it would be. And she continued to read his journal, knowing this was the path he had forged for himself, the path he would take to remember. He had an entry for every day. He always wrote about what had happened that day, even if it was something small, insignificant. And her heart started to pound as she drew closer to their meeting, knowing what was coming . . .
9th Day of Archer’s Moon
My brother is dead.
My brother is dead, and I am coming undone.
11th Day of Archer’s Moon
My brother is dead. And my father is missing. And I do not know what happened.
I do not have the strength to endure this.
19th Day of Archer’s Moon
Halcyon killed Xander. I can hardly fathom this. My father finally sent word and has informed us that we must travel to Abacus at once.
Evadne had to stop reading. To stand and walk about her room. She lit her lamp, for evening had come. Eventually, she sat on her bed again and cried as she continued reading his entries of the hard days, the painful days when the truth came together and Halcyon had to take the fall.
And then she came to these lines: I did not know that Halcyon had a younger sister. She sat across the assembly hall from me. I watched her for a moment before she noticed, and then she met my gaze directly. As if she could see through me. And suddenly, I found it difficult to be so angry, to be so bitter at Halcyon. Because I saw Evadne’s pain as she listened to the trial unfold. I saw her pain as if it were a reflection of my own.
Gradually, Damon began to write more and more of her. Evadne drank his words, felt them stir her heart. She could hardly breathe as she read by firelight, and she held these certain entries close. She felt her stray pieces begin to come back together:
I swore to Halcyon I would watch over her sister, and yet the first night of travel, Evadne tries to get herself killed. By none other than one of Ivina’s phantoms. In the shadow of Euthymius. I want to rend my clothes with the irony of it all!
I should not care that Evadne is scrubbing our floors. I tell myself not to care, and yet I cannot sleep, thinking about her hands being cracked and broken by the lye. I asked Lyra to make a healing salve. My sister looked at me dubiously, like she knew exactly who it was for, and I am a fool, and I should guard myself. But Lyra made the salve, and I had it delivered to Evadne’s room, and despite it all, I still cannot sleep.
I want to ask Evadne to be my scribe. And yet I am terrified. She will undoubtedly turn me down.
She has agreed and I can hardly believe it. Now I need to tell her the truth of the mission, and yet how? How is the best way for me to do this? Why do I feel so vulnerable in her presence?
Evadne moved on to the second scroll. This one began with his entry of Mount Euthymius, and Evadne knew Damon had purchased this scroll in Abacus, just before he joined up with his father’s legion. Because the gilded scroll was still in Mithra, and Damon could not risk losing these memories.
In the utter darkness of the mountain’s heart, I almost perished. I should have perished, and yet there was a girl, a girl made of secret wings, who carried me, brought me down gently in her arms.
His last entry was the night Evadne had seen him writing in the tent. He wrote of Halcyon’s triumphant return to the legion. He wrote about his worries of breaking and running his magic dry, and yet despite the risk, how he did not want to be afraid.
She has strengthened me. When I hear her sing, all of my fears and all of my doubts drift away. If I must break, then I will. I can live without the magic. But I cannot live without—
That was it.
His last entry. He had not even completed his sentence. What? Evadne wanted to breathe to him. What can you not live without, Damon?
She sat there, stunned. It was long past midnight. Halcyon had never come to their bedchamber, granting Evadne the privacy she needed.
Evadne made to close the scroll until she saw something. The tip of a feather, peeking from the right roll of the papyrus, as if beckoning her to open it, just a little more.
She did and found a falcon feather, resting above one more entry. The final entry, inked only four days ago. And as she read his words, Evadne knew. She knew he had found his way back to her.
7th Day of Olive Moon
Evadne, my heart. My chorus. I would sing with you until the end of days. I would sing with you until my bones turned to dust.
XXXVIII
Evadne
You are raking them all wrong, Hal.”
Halcyon paused on her ladder, staring at the branch she had been harvesting from. “What do you mean?”
“You are supposed to rake in the other direction,” Lysander said from below, but he burst into laughter and Halcyon pelted him with an olive.
“I told you I remember how to rake olives,” she said, resuming her work with feigned indifference.
Evadne sat on the ground plucking stray leaves from the harvest, a mountain of olives spread on her shawl. It was just the three of them working on this side of the grove. The sun was setting; soon their mothers would call for them to return to the villa for dinner.
In the distance, the gate bell rang.
And it would almost seem that Halcyon was expecting it, because she dropped from the ladder and said, “I’ll get it!” before the bell had even finished clanging.
Lysander was on her heels, as if opening the gate required two people.
Evadne merely watched the two of them race up the path, Halcyon leaving Lysander in her dust. And then it was quiet, and Evadne leaned her head back against the olive trunk and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the grove.
It was cold, and she shivered, her arms bare. She should carry her shawl and the olives up the path to the wagon, but she delayed, reveling in the quiet dusk.
She heard footsteps approaching, soft on the grass.
She thought it was Halcyon and dra
wled, “And what news did the herald bring now?”
A pause. She felt the prompting of a gaze, but Evadne kept her eyes closed.
“He says that it is miraculous he remembered how to find this place.”
The voice was deep and mirthful, with a bite of gravel in it.
A voice Evadne had longed to hear for moons.
She opened her eyes to see Damon standing a few paces away. For a moment, she could not breathe, and it seemed he could not, either. And then he smiled, and Evadne rose to her feet, suddenly embarrassed that her chiton was stained with dirt and grass, and her hair was loose and wild, and she smelled of olives.
Not once in his recordings had he described her appearance. He would not remember what she looked like, and now . . . he was finally seeing her for the first time, this girl he had written about in his journal. This girl he had come to love.
“I was not expecting you,” she said, discreetly attempting to brush the wrinkles from her clothes.
“You received my delivery?” He took a step closer to her.
“I did. But I . . .” She let her voice trail. It had only been last night that she had read his journal. And his final entry had been inked only days before. She should have surmised he would come within days. She should have known he and her sister had coordinated this. “I did not know you would come so soon.”
Damon stopped. He was so close to her. So close she could smell the sun and wind in his clothes, see the sheen of golden dust on his sandals.
“I should have waited another day.”
“No. I am glad you are here.”
Damon was quiet for a breath, drinking her in. His eyes drifted to her shoulders, where her bronze wings caught the sunset. He would not remember them, she knew. He would not remember that he’d had made them for her, because he had never written about them. And yet something stirred in his eyes. As if he was realizing a dream had not just been a dream.
“I read every word,” she said.
“Then you know that there are a few things that I have forgotten,” he replied.
“I will help you remember,” she whispered.
