A swell of water grows beneath me at the command of Ivaia’s magic, and I rise with it. It’s difficult but I manage to maneuver in the water as it ebbs and flows into a taller wave with me at the crest. I glimpse Ivaia’s rings on her waving hands before the wave collapses toward the brink of the pool. Delivering me back onto the dusty cave floor, naked and coughing. The water recedes at her command and she rolls her eyes from me to my filthy clothes.
“Stay put.” She returns moments later with one of her own gowns. The frail material does little to fight the chill that’s soaked into my bones. My long, wet hair drapes over my shoulders. My skin is colder where there should be material on my back but there isn’t, because this is Ivaia’s dress.
“I always keep extras in that chest over there. We’re quite a walk away from the loft.”
I huff in response.
Again, she positions herself before the shrine, taking ample time to pin her circlet of glass beads into her hair. She closes her eyes and bows deeply at the feet of Elymas. For several breaths, I watch her twist and stretch into various positions. At her leisure, she brings her head to her ankles in a way that baffles me.
She pops one eye open and demands, “Tell me about the hunt.” As if my retelling of a night filled with bloodshed is perfect for her meditation, she awaits my response.
“I failed. It should have only been nine.”
“And how many did you kill before Riordan interfered.” Her voice straining as she bends backward.
I mull over the details in my head and remember, “Nine, actually, but he stopped me from the tenth. We almost got away; we were running. And then…”
“And then you protected him.” She’s standing upright again, still as Elymas behind her.
“I slaughtered them.”
“How many?”
“All those who stood in our way. I lost count.”
“So, you did it. He put himself in danger.” Ivaia says. “You killed the nine you went for. Only his interference made you—”
“Iv, did you hear me? I couldn’t stop! No part of me wanted to. He stopped me.”
Her hands make their way up to her hips as she processes the short of it all.
“Riordan is okay, in case you were wondering,” I add.
A thought flashes across her eyes like lightning and she turns back toward the statue. She places a hand on the chest of Elymas before resting her head on it.
“And you only used the bow.” There was disappointment in her voice.
“I used the knife too, I mean—”
“You did not use magic.”
I swallow my response.
I’ve seen this statue countless times and never noticed its eyes. They seem honed on me, tracking my movement as I approach Ivaia. It’s been fifteen years since I started training my magical abilities under her guidance. My power manifested in my first few years of life. I was younger than anyone else in my family was when their magic awoke. However, never once have I used my powers to kill.
“A poisonous snake who bites and gives no venom,” Ivaia says.
She’s right, but, “If my bite is deadly, venom is overkill.”
She looks up at Elymas, a silent prayer on her lips, a silent response on his. Birds chirp outside, their shrill voices traveling along the cave walls. She lights three candles on the shrine and removes the circlet from her head. A breeze enters the cave, chilling my wet skin. Ivaia places the beads at the statue’s feet. Finally, she makes eye contact with me.
“Keres, you have a fear in your heart, and it cripples you. If you were to use the gift of magic Elymas has bestowed upon you, you would gain confidence.”
I shift from one foot to the other.
“The Gods chose you.” She turns and continues lighting candles all around the shrine. “All know that a God may choose a mortal as their servant to bear their power. Mrithyn has chosen you as His. Elymas has no servant.” She glances at the statue. “Though many have tried to gain his favor.” She looks at me over her shoulder, diamond eyes reflecting the firelight. “He’s gifted us with power, you and I, as He has gifted our bloodline for generations. As he has gifted many Mages throughout Aureum. Of what must be thousands, none are like you.”
I busy myself with scraping dried blood and dirt from under my fingernails.
“Two Gods, two gifts. The spirit of Death, and the blessing of Magic. Control over life and nature.” She allows her words to sink into me. “A warrior.” A flame dances into life upon the candle wick. “An instrument of the divine,” She waves the long lighting stick drawing with its smoke. “A Mage.” She blows out the flame. “A three-headed hound.”
I drop my hands to my side and meet her stare.
“What’s in that head of yours? Ignorance or flagrant disregard for the Gods’ will?” She hisses.
I press my lips together and roll my shoulders back, trying to dismiss the tension building between them.
Ivaia narrows her eyes. “All these years of training you. For what?” A laugh lilts off her tongue, and pangs in my ears.
She doesn’t understand. Then I remember Riordan’s words. “All these hunts! For what?” I ask.
She pauses.
“Ivaia, understand what this is doing to me, to our people. You think what we’re doing is right. This balances nothing. I lost control— I raised the alarm of an entire army camp— you think there will be no consequences for this?”
She digests my words.
“You think they will go back behind their walls when a little girl came and killed a quarter of their soldiers? You think this will inspire fear in them. Make them stop terrorizing our people and leave, but it won’t. They answer to King Berlium. His power. Not mine. And we need our Queen. We need Hero. Not me.”
“We don’t need that child,” She growls.
“Ivaia! This power you insist I use, it’s not good enough. We need an army! Not one Elf standing in the shadows with a bow and bloodlust!” I decapitate my confidence for the sake of the truth. “These hunts make us feel better. They’re not actually making anything else better.”
“Do you know what men see before you take their life?” Her question startles me. I lower my eyes and see my bloodied armor on the ground.
In the past, I’ve stared into a looking glass for hours, trying to summon the beast inside me. Searching for a glimmer of the darkness brought out of me by violence. I remember the ninth kill, his eyes aflame with horror at the sight of me. They all look at me that way before I kill them. As if I’m their worst nightmare. Half of me has always wanted to know what I look like in that moment. The other half dreads the truth. Knowing they see my God coming to claim their souls through me is enough.
“An executioner with the abysmal darkness of death in her eyes. A blue fire glows under her skin as divine power charges through her veins. A cloud of white hair floating around a jagged face. You speak to them.” Her voice lightens. “I don’t know if you hear yourself, but you speak in a divine tongue. A voice comes out of somewhere deep inside you, out of the realm of the Gods. Your voice sucks the air out of lungs, your throat swallows up life like a chasm into the pit of the earth.” She approaches me.
“Stop,” my voice cracks. I’ve tried to maintain my emotional armor for all my second life. Ever since my mother’s death, I’ve fought and grown stronger, colder. Worse than anything life’s done to me. Then my best friend got murdered and a dam burst inside. My entire troop. Nine more weak links in my armor. But should I tell her how I’m feeling as Rio suggested? She scorns weakness.
I’ve always resisted the dark, intrusive thoughts the Death Spirit summons. Trained hard and fortified my resolve. Now, it’s all crashing down. Everything I’ve buried deep inside has been unearthed. The cage I’ve kept my overzealous monster in is unhinging. And Ivaia is pushing me in ways she never has before. I’m losing all control; I feel myself slipping. It’s like I’m trying to run upstream, and the current is constantly pulling me down. I know I’m strong enough.
I have the power of a God within me. But now the question is whether I want to keep moving forward. Do I deserve to?
“When you move in on your prey, time slows. Your hands,” She takes my trembling fingers in her palms, “Reach for life. Your arrows bite at their souls.” She seems about to laugh, “You tear these humans from the world with a smile on your face.” She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “A reaper whose bones call for blood. A victim of terrorism granted the power to take vengeance. Death Incarnate.”
I pull out of her grasp, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Imagine the smile on our Gods’ faces at the sight of you.” She laughs under her breath and turns toward Elymas’s statue. “Imagine Elymas’ and Mrithyn’s power coupled in one being!”
Ivaia’s voice deepens, the weight of it slamming against the cave walls as she looks back to me. “You are fire. Burn without fear. To create any light in this dark world, you must first embrace your own brilliance.”
She holds up her hand. In her palm, a blue fire bursts into existence. She raises her other hand, encased in a frost. “Ice.”
I look away from the growing terror that hides deep inside this powerful Mage. I take a breath as the surrounding air raises every hair on my body.
“Water,” I feel the water in my body respond to her. My body goes rigid as she takes control of my blood.
“Air.”
The beads of water on my skin evaporate into a gentle whisper against me, ravenously stealing all the breath from my lungs. My eyes roll back after catching sight of her widening smile. After a few breathless moments, my vision returns, and my lungs expand. I fall to the floor gasping as she lowers her hands.
“Earth.”
A guttural rumbling sounds from deep within the cave. The water ripples and dust falls from above. A fissure opens in the ceiling and sunlight tumbles through. Cracks of gold and shadow break over her face. I jump out of the way of falling rocks.
“Ivaia!” I move as more dust and rocks splinter out of the cave ceiling and attempt to bury me. The cave crumbles in on us, dust shrouds us.
I react.
Large chunks of stone and gravel float around us, frozen in the air by my outstretched hands. The weight of the mountain is falling on top of me, and I strain with a cry to push it back up into place. As if physically weighed down, I struggle to stand, forcing all my magical energy against the tumbling mountain. The cave ceiling floats up and begins piecing itself together. All the holes through which the sunlight had broken through seal again. With a final gesture, I heave the fissure closed and collapse to the ground exhausted.
As the dust settles, echoes of her applause clap against the cave walls. “Strength that moves mountains, Keres.”
“You’re wrong,” I scramble to my feet, toes tangled in the too-long dress. “You think you understand what this means? I’ve been chosen by a God, my own life spared on one condition— that I kill others. And you pretend to know what this kind of existence feels like or should be like?” I realize how alike my words are to the ones she spoke to Riordan last night.
She lifts her chin and her mouth forms a thin line. I straighten up and point a finger at the statue of Elymas.
“You believe that the day might still come when your beloved God will notice you.” Laughter drops from my mouth like a stone into water.
“The Gods do not see you, Ivaia. They do not see any of us. They see this world and what we have done to it. The Gods pass off their power and they dump the responsibility to fix their world on us.” I pound my hand on my chest. The beast behind my ribcage recoils.
“This is not strength!” Anger shakes my voice. “This life comes with a curse! You marvel at the monster the Gods have made me into and what the curse does to me. A three-headed hound, as you said. Still, only a dog bid to do their will! And you envy me of this?” I ask, incredulous. My inner Death Spirit is silent, and it’s all me this time. The clear voice of my conscience quiets the voice of my cursed soul, and the sound of it echoing off the walls is like cool water to a parched throat.
She laughs, “Ignorant fool. You squander your gifts on self-pity and loathing. Yes!” She throws her hands up, “I envy your gifts. I’m blessed with power but was never chosen as the servant to the God I love most. And you, Keres, are the blood of my own. You disgrace their will. I will never understand why they chose a child like you when I have been a more faithful servant!”
I stop, astounded at the confession.
Knowing the truth now, I curse her.
Ivaia will never respect the differences between us. She doesn’t understand how these hunts unravel me. I don’t understand it. I keep losing people and I keep taking lives, but it’s never enough to set the world back in order. My life has been off-kilter from the moment I died. No matter how many suffer or how many Men pay, I can’t avenge anyone. Not even myself. Why did Mrithyn choose me? How was cursing me with His “gift” a change in the balance? If I don’t learn how to control this… this monster inside me, it won’t be anyone’s saving grace.
The Sunderlands needs a warden. To stem the tide of bloodshed, not drown it in a crimson tide.
Ivaia will not ask for help from the kingdom or its allies. She won’t open her eyes. She wants to play God through me. She wants to use me, as if she understands how to. I gather my belongings, my ill wish hanging in the air between us, and desert her.
She follows me from the cave, calling my name with a softened voice, but I ignore her and quicken my steps.
6. THE BIRTH OF TERROR
He couldn’t look; his head stayed buried in his hands. King of Ro’Hale’s armies, bowed by his wife’s bedside. Vomit tinged his throat. His palms were sweaty. Cold darkness loomed at the edges of his vision. Was he spinning? Or was the room? Her heavy breathing made him dizzy. It had been hours of this toil, this pain. Her screams dissipated into sobs. His fear brought him to his knees. Everything threatened to go black, and then there was nothing but red. She was losing blood.
Footsteps shuffled around him. He stood frozen in place. Felt more like a ghost watching her body lose all color and energy. Her lifeblood pooling between her legs. A baby cried somewhere in the corner of the dimly lit room. He tore his eyes from his wife, searching for that sound. A nurse turned, bearing the child in her arms. She settled the squealing bundle of blankets into his arms before he realized she had even moved.
Everything slowed. Every sound grew fainter as his eyes zeroed in on hers. Her eyes opened. Her cries ceased. My Princess.
“Darling,” someone whispered. He turned back to his wife as the nurses made themselves busy with the blood beneath her. “Let me see her.” His wife’s voice grew louder.
His other senses returned. The smell of blood stained the air. The sweat beaded on his brow slipped down his face, sprinkled against his eyelashes. His mouth was dry; he needed water. Too many candles were lit, too much light and heat.
He laid the baby onto her mother’s chest before pressing a kiss to his wife’s head. Her small frame shook with what seemed like both a laugh and a cry. She was perfect; he stared at her in wonder. Then he looked to the babe and ascertained she was perfect too.
The nurse’s flitting movements caught his attention. All the blood worried him. The power between her trembling legs amazed him. The baby demanded their attention again and he couldn’t stop the tears as they flowed from his eyes. His hand lingered on his Queen’s forehead. So much power in her body, to bring forth and sustain life. His knees buckled. Again, he knelt by her side.
This was their third child, but he never grew accustomed to the phenomenon of birth. He never forgot to worship her life-giving power. Queen among all women, the mother of his children. A piece of the Goddess of Life dwells in every woman; he was sure of it. How is it that Kings rule the children of Queens?
“Praise Enithura,” he said.
“King Adon!” The nurse startled him.
His eyes flew to his wife. Her face was grey, her green eyes lacki
ng their usual luster. He removed the baby from her and passed her back to the nurse. The Queen’s head drooped to the side, her body going limp once the baby left it.
Fear erupted in his throat; a cry and a scream, “Atyra!” He gripped her frail shoulders in his hands. Not enough power in those hands to hold her back from the brink of death. The blood was leaving her without a sign of stopping. How was it that he, a King, had no power to save his Queen? He’d fought and stopped wars. He could not stop the bleeding.
There were things Queen Atyra would have done as the babe’s mother, and he tried to remind himself of them. In the middle of the night, when the infant wailed, and he sobbed beside her cradle, he prayed. Sometimes he prayed aloud, to the Gods or to the spirit of his dead wife.
“There were things you would do, I can’t remember. I can’t.”
As time passed, the nurses stayed by his side. They taught him how to be both father and mother to his children. Deep down he knew the ability didn’t come only from their relentless guidance. It came from his wife, from the place in his soul where he bore the memory of her. In time, his love for his wife overflowed into his love for their daughters.
“Bring the child to the Oracle,” Attica, one of the nurses, whispered to him as they watched the growing baby sleep. “It’s what she would have wanted.”
Atyra and Adon had presented their older daughters to an Oracle in the palace temple around the same age. Each Oracle made claims different from the rest. Of the first daughter, the Oracle had said, “Stillness in her blood. Chaos in her wake.”
King Adon and Queen Atyra tried to understand these riddles. Without a doubt, their firstborn had no magic in her being. Her only power was her remarkable beauty. Like her mother’s: black swirling hair, sapphire blue eyes, porcelain skin, and a tender frame. Herrona, a name meaning, “her mother’s likeness.”
The Sunderlands Page 5
