“That temple is the unmarked Temple of Mrithyn. I feel it is my duty to preside over it as the Coroner.”
“And how do you know this?” She asks.
“My God showed me when I visited Osira today. I will see her again tomorrow. I will do my best to aid her in interpreting her dreams and visions. As a Blind One, I may be of some help to her. It helps you to let me help her. Will you?”
Hero stands up, a wild look glazing over her eyes. The scent of Osira’s answers on the wind puts her into a frenzy. She needs closure. I need insight.
“Very well, cousin. I grant you charge of her.”
I bow to her and thank her for her time. She allows me to leave. As I close her door, I see her approach a vanity table and pick up the ornate hand mirror. She speaks to it in a language like the one Osira spoke.
21. DESOLATION’S DAUGHTER
My bed still smells like Darius, like ginger. I sit cross-legged, next to the imprint his body made in the sheets. Ink stains my hands as I fill page after page of an empty journal I found in the nightstand. Like a little ant, frozen in amber, I sit stuck at the bottom of a long list of names and issues. As the Coroner, how many times have I sat with a list of names before me? Never once did I spare pensive hours, racking my brain for solutions because the names on all those lists were of the dead. Most of the people on this list are not dead. They are very much alive. Even those who have passed are still causing problems for us left behind. Problems I need to solve.
Osira’s Veiling is unorthodox.
Osira speaks the language of the gods.
Dorian offered to teach me the doctrine of Mrithyn.
The Temple of Mrithyn and Transcendants… The heart-tree revived with my blood and seems to be linked with me.
A disembodied voice told me to “Curse my God and die.”
My mother wore shoes.
Darius….
Silas has been fucking Moriya for years.
Herrona and Berlium were lovers because of a spell she was under.
Ivaia broke the spell to free her sister.
Ivaia started the civil war between Humans and Elves.
Herrona gave my mother to my dad against her will.
Indiro cared “deeply” for my mother.
Rydel is an ambassador from Elistria.
Rydel is close to Hero. Too close. His “power” to seep into minds may be what’s influencing Hero.
I stop writing and touch the soft feather of the quill to my nose as I think. I put the hand-written prophecies on the bed with everything else: my wedding ring, Katrielle’s prayer beads, which I’d forgotten buried in my rucksack, all the letters, and my crimson shawl.
I open the prophecy that’s garnished with my mother’s name:
Princess Resayla of Ro’Hale
Mother of nations, bringer of light.
Power will drop from both her palms in to two pools.
One pool like blood, the other like starlight.
The second is decorated with my aunt’s.
Princess Ivaia of Ro’Hale
Power that begins and ends inside her
but continues on through her.
My father told me he wished he could have presented me to an Oracle as a baby. I wonder why he never did. I take a moment to indulge in the idea of Osira giving me a prophecy about myself. I’d like some answers about my own fate, more than I care about Herrona’s alleged murder or the powers that be. Though, I’d never admit that to anyone. I feel my heart beating in my chest and it reminds me of the temple; the throbbing red leaves of the white tree. My purpose as Mrithyn’s little monster might not be so terrible after all, if my power birthed something so beautiful.
Power will drop into two pools? I reread my mother’s prophecy and deduce that the two pools might be Liriene and I. I represent blood, because I’m the Coroner. And Liriene is like starlight… because of her gray eyes? I rub my temples. Tangled. I feel tangled in a web of secrets and revelations. The funny thing about secrets is you’re never sure whether you know them all. Queen Hero must have a prophecy about her too. She was born here. Why hide it from me?
Darius saunters into my thoughts, stalked by Silas. I tell them both to leave. I think of my father. Of home. I’ve only been gone a couple days, but I can feel it. I’ve never left home before. Never been away from Ivaia and Riordan or Indiro and Liriene. Picking up Katrielle’s prayer beads, I rub my finger over the stone bead. The Past. She got that from the river. I remember her laughing at a book we read. Every other line her giggles interrupted my quiet reading. Was it merely days ago she died? Not years? I examine the ant frozen in time. The present. I wonder how Liriene is coping with her loss.
The white bead is Mrithyn. Orange for Elymas. Oran, yellow, and Adreana, dark blue. Gold is Katrielle and Red is me. The glass one is the future. I dangle the beads in front of my nose, “Be strong,” I tell myself her words. I gingerly slip the beads back into the pouch. “Wherever you are, whatever you do, be like an ant. Be strong, no matter whether anyone notices. Mountains move one pebble at a time,” I recall, looking at the list again. One pebble at a time. I close my eyes.
King Arias is in my mind, asking me to go to court. I see each pair of golden eyes. I hear the hypnotic voice in my head: “While you slept, she claimed the lives of your oppressors. She claimed vengeance, and in silence, she carried out her duty to your dead.”
I hear my people as if they are in the room with me.
“You said she nearly got them killed, what of Thaniel?”
“Tell us, does a God bleed?”
“She is to blame for Hishmal’s destruction!”
“If we hand her over to the Dalis, whose blood is on her hands, they will stop hunting the innocent!”
Kaius is suddenly in here too, giving me away to Silas. “Swear to love and serve each other until Mrithyn takes one or the other.”
Silas is kneeling before my bed, growling, “I needed to make you mine the minute I saw him touching you… Are you still afraid?”
“I came and he didn’t,” Darius interrupts Silas.
I open my eyes. I scan the room. Grains of sand cascade into the bottom half of an enchanted hourglass that turns over on its own every hour. Memories crowd the room; the past pushes in from the walls. I can’t stop remembering. Even the room is feeling overly familiar. I feel as though I’ve slept in this bed all my life. I shake my head and cover my eyes with my hand.
One of the closet doors opens. Startled by the sound, I lean forward on the bed as it creaks out of place. The fragrance of the dying bouquet within, leaks out into the bedchamber.
I’m ambushed by the memory of being shaken out of bed by the news that one of the nine dying warriors was choking. I jump from the bed.
I didn’t wash my face, I didn’t dress. I ran.
I run into the darkened closet and the door clicks closed behind me on its own.
The decrepit hut before Ivaia’s loft. I’m there again. That hungry door, swinging and creaking on its hinges. The pitch blackness throws its hands over my eyes, and the door slams shut behind me.
Pulses of energy reach for me. Enveloping me in the smell of floral decay. Death and life. Beauty and entropy.
A thrumming begins in my stomach and my bowels turn to water as the strange sensation ravages my nerves.
Wards.
I do not shy away from the energy or the rising panic it creates in me.
The candle on one table sparks. I look at my hand and see it poised as if I just snapped my fingers. The candle light gleams off the mirrored surface of —
The shoes!
I run to the couch and take the shoes off the table. The cold mirrored glass lights up my senses when I touch it. Like a finger touching a spindle. I place the shoes near my feet and battle with putting them on.
How many times have I done this?
Never.
No, too many times to count.
What’s wrong with me?
I push one foot in and th
en the other. They fit perfectly, molded to my feet. I sigh with relief. I gasp with horror. Duality takes hold of me as I tear into two selves. Me… and someone else.
I’m walking now, tall in these glass shoes. Compelled by something other than my own will. The Other and I stride down the aisles, running our hand over the garments fondly. I pluck a green dress off the rack and hold it against our body. I remember this dress. But it’s not my memory.
My mind wars with whoever has taken over my body as we walk through rows of clothes, remembering a life I never lived— but she did. The mirror on the wall stops me. The woman within; her shining green eyes. Green as envy. They look like my own, but the wide smile and the graceful stance differs. I am now taller, I’m far more beautiful, I’m blond. I’m not me at all.
“Mother?” My voice is not my own.
I twirl in place, feeling my body laugh. Giddy with pleasure at my own, yet not my own, beauty. I’m trying on jewelry.
“It was a gift,” I say to the vision of a servant that appears before me.
“From who, my lady?” She’s raises a brow at my jewels. The shape of her eyes, the slant of her nose, the frame of her face…
“I cannot tell you, Attica!” I laugh again with the jingling voice I heard only as a child.
The doors open and the ghost of a beautiful woman with long black hair and crystal blue eyes glides in. “Resayla.” Her voice is sharp, like she’s in unending pain.
“Yes, Herrona,” I stop twirling, I hold my hand to my neck to hide the necklace.
“You’re still not packed.” Herrona’s ghost frowns. She stabs a look at Attica, who bows her head.
“I got distracted!” I flourish the skirt of my gowns. “I don’t want to uproot my life. I don’t want to pack.” I spit the last word onto the floor between us. I catch the mixed tones of my own voice and my mother’s when I speak again. “It’s not fair. I want to keep my room here in the castle. I want to know I can come home.” I stomp a mirrored foot. Light glints off it at the movement, glaring in Herrona’s bright blue, dream-hewn eyes.
“You will always have a place here.” Herrona’s eyes rim with tears. “But you must stop dallying. The chariot will be here at dawn.” She turns to go. “Leave the shoes, they will offend your new husband.”
“I will never love the Shepherd. You ruined all chances of me being with the one I love,” I scream at her disappearing back, gripping my stomach. Something flutters there. I stop and revel in the feeling, rubbing my hand gingerly over my navel.
“That wasn’t me, dear sister.” Herrona regains our attention. “Ask Ivaia what she’s done, before you judge me for what I must do.”
In a pain-stricken voice, Herrona’s ghost says over her shoulder, “Attica, leave her to pack. You encourage her insolence by gawking.”
Herrona’s apparition disappears as the servant scurries out of the room after her.
The candle blinks out. The room is dark. I’m me again. I feel it. I snap my fingers and the flame returns to the wick. In the mirror I see me, in a lace blue dress and enchanted shoes.
“I walked through her memory.” I shiver. My green eyes are pale compared to hers. My long white hair looks dead; my skin looks sickly. I look so little like my gorgeous mother, and nothing like Hero’s breathtaking mother.
“Do you know what men see before you take their life?” The memory of Ivaia in the cave steals my mind’s stage. I kick off the shoes, trying to rid myself of the urge to remember and remember and remember.
“An executioner with the abysmal darkness of death in her eyes, and blue fire glowing under her skin as divine power charges through her veins. A cloud of white hair floating around a jagged face.”
I hear my mother’s angelic voice. I taste her words still on my tongue. It’s not fair.
“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.”
I attempt to twirl in the mirror like my mother did. Tears stream down my face as I watch my death-touched bones move. She was so graceful. Would she be proud of what I’ve become because of her sacrifice? Is this what she wanted? I twirl until I can’t see myself in the mirror.
“When you move in on your prey, time slows. Your hands reach for life. Your arrows bite at their souls.”
I spin until I’m so dizzy I fall.
“You tear these humans from the world with a smile on your face.”
I look again into the mirror and if I close my eyes, I can still see my mother’s smile. I doubt mine ever looks as comforting.
The Fate of the Sunderlands
My fingers brushed away her long black hair,
turning each strand white as the full moon.
My hands wandered along her body,
giving her my strength and power.
The Fire of Elymas courses through her veins,
He staked His claim on her before I could.
She need not know, she needs only Me.
I covered her mouth, eyes, and ears,
gifting her with the senses to behold My world as it is.
I placed a seed of darkness on her tongue, a mite of My power.
It should have killed her.
She swallowed it.
And wiped a streak of blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
It took root in her soul,
Making her Mine.
When she awoke in the realm of my Beloved,
I filled her mind with solemnity so that she did not grieve any loss.
-Mrithyn
22. DISCIPLE OF DEATH
You told him to meet you tomorrow, ass.
Adreana claims her hours and I’m wide awake. Debating whether I should go find Darius. Trying to think about anything but the closet and my mother’s shoes. The fluttering I felt in my womb. Or was it my mother’s womb? Ugh. I don’t even want to contemplate it or the feeling of being torn into two people and walking through someone else’s memories. Strange magic. Naturally, my thoughts turned toward home instead— to Darius. Now, I can’t get him out of my head.
“Goddess of Night, do you curse mortals with insomnia because you are lonely? Are the stars not enough company for you?” I roll over in my bed.
Reason and desire fill my head like thunder and lightning. Go get him. Go to sleep. Moriya’s yellow eyes are lighting up dark corners of my head. Memories of sex with Silas churn in my stomach. And painful lust burns between my legs. I’m stuck between thoughts of the two men in my life that I’m attached to, and the ghosts and secrets latching themselves on to me. I entertain the lovers.
Silas has been unfaithful to his promise. Why shouldn’t I? versus “We’re not married yet, Silas.” What I told him when he caught me kissing Darius in the River Liri. He wasn’t married to me when he bedded Moriya. Maybe he loved her.
“As good as mine,” he’d called me. Did we already belong to each other when he was loving her — giving her false hope? When I was crossing lines with Darius.
I kick the blankets off and pace the room. Ignoring the door, ignoring my cloak. Urging myself not to get dressed and leave. Demanding I get back in bed and behave. Who even is Darius to me? A week ago, he was no one. Then he was in my face. Now, he’s in my head. Now, I want him inside my body. “What the fuck?”
I run my hands through my hair. It’s tangled from tossing and turning. I light a candle; the sharp smell of the burning wick scrunches up my nose. The fragrance of the melting wax pours into my head. The only sounds are of my shuffling feet as I walk around the room.
Silas is the person I’ve been jealous over for years. I thought my sister had him tied up too tightly around her finger, and he was mine, so I wanted him. Then I learned of her affections for Katrielle and my jealousy over Silas broke down into absolute disinterest. Darius attracted me in a moment of rage. What does that say about us? Can’t be good. But I want him. He stoppered my anger but unleashed a wh
ole new type of frustration in me. He’s here. He came after me. Silas didn’t. Silas probably wants to keep as much distance between himself and both his women. The three of us in the same place would have exposed his lie.
“Fucking sod,” I kick a pillow I’d knocked off the bed.
I told myself I’d be betraying myself by breaking my vow. My standards. What about being loyal to myself and what I want in life? Hero called self-betrayal a great sin. Am I betraying myself if I go against my values and break a vow? Or am I betraying myself by not going after what I want and submitting to a meaningless tradition? Which is the worse offense? I’ve never imagined myself to be the disloyal type. If I loved Silas… if I chose him of my own accord, I would feel differently. I think. But I didn’t choose him. I know I don’t love him. I don’t love anyone. Not even myself.
Not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could be someone else. Power of Death aside, what kind of person am I becoming? Who is this girl everyone else made me to be? I feel like the only things I have control over are where I go and who I fuck. What I am, my power, my purpose? Up to the Gods. Who I belong to? Again, up to the Gods and my family.
Keres… I don’t know this woman. I don’t honor her. She’s a mess and she’s hard. But will breaking a standard of mine move me toward restoring my relationship with myself or damage it? Gray is not the color of my comfort zone.
I’ve lived in this morally clouded realm for so long, I’ve grown accustomed to not being able to see myself clearly. Everything’s so blurry. I’ve been crawling, pawing at darkness like a feral beast, looking for answers all my life.
Mrithyn, will you ever show me what this is all worth? What is this power really for? This curse? Why did you spare me? All I’m doing with my second chance is fucking up, it seems. Did you really make me into this divine creature, just to hand my reins over to every other mortal in my life? My jealous knight is the worst among them.
Is Silas worth being loyal to? Does his worthiness determine what’s right and wrong for me to do? Darius could be my someone. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Can he take away this misery?
The Sunderlands Page 24
