Burn of the Everflame — Chapter 57

57

DIEM

aran blanched. He leapt to his feet and ran to the edge of the terrace. AT moment later, he whipped back around, looking ill. “Zal’s gone.”

“I can still feel his aura,” Luther said. “They probably just stepped inside to speak.”

Taran flew for the door. “I have to stop him,” he shouted.

Eleanor grabbed the scissors and ran after him. “Taran, your hair!”

“You don’t think Aemonn would try to ruin today, do you?” I asked Luther. “Surely he doesn’t hate his brother that much.”

“Aemonn has a history of meddling in his brother’s affairs.” He drew me in for a quick kiss. “I better go with him. If Taran gets Aemonn’s blood on his suit, Zalaric will charge House Corbois a fortune for the cleaning.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said, reaching for my shoes.

My mother snatched them up before I could grab them. “You go ahead, Luther. Diem and I will be there soon.”

The offer sounded more like an order. My mother flashed him a smile that managed to be warm and yet impenetrable as iron—a clear sign that she’d made up her mind to speak with me alone, and not even the Queen of Emarion would overrule her.

Luther’s lips hooked upward with amusement. “I’ll leave you ladies to it.”

I reached for my godhood, intending to shoot him a scathing order with Umbros magic not to leave me behind, only to find . . . nothing. Not a suffocating wall, like when I’d taken flameroot, or an empty well, like when

my energy was drained.

Nothing.

Relentless, immeasurable nothing.

Dread grew as I watched him leave, and not entirely because my mother and I were now alone. “I should really go help him,” I insisted, rubbing my wrist.

She nudged me back to my seat, then knelt to slip on my shoes. “If anyone needs help, it will be Aemonn.”

I scoffed. “Aemonn doesn’t deserve any help.”

“That’s quite harsh.”

My cheeks turned hot at the disappointment in her tone. “Our loyalty is to Taran. We’re his family now, not Aemonn.”

She stood and rifled through the items on my vanity. “It’s interesting that he went to see Garath this morning.”

“I wish he’d talked to us first. We could have warned him it wouldn’t end well.”

She chose a pot of rouge and pressed her finger in, then turned to sweep it on my cheeks. “It is the hardest thing in the world, to watch someone you love keep going back to someone you know will only hurt them. The harder you try to pull them away, the harder they hold on. There are some bonds even the most grievous sins cannot erase.” She sighed, adding quietly, “Much as we may wish they did.”

I mulled over her words as she took more rouge and tapped it on the center of my lips. I knew how difficult it could be for the mistreated to let their abusers go. I’d lectured Taran on it myself once, urging him to give his brother a chance. But Aemonn had been given so many chances—and he had not just stayed by Garath’s side, he’d adopted his father’s hateful ways.

“At least Taran sees Garath’s cruelty for what it is,” I said. “Aemonn doesn’t think their father did anything wrong.”

She clicked her tongue. “I doubt that very much.”

“Why else would he be so loyal?”

“Same as any child. Love . . . or pity.” She paused. “You know, when I first met Vance, he was a good man. Devoted to his wife and their three little girls. He took great pride in providing for them and keeping them safe.

And when he couldn’t . . .” She looked pained. “What happened to his family opened a hole in him that only violence could fill.”

I stood, my temper growing. “Now you’re making excuses for Vance?”

“Every villain has their reasons, Diem.”

“They’re still villains. No reason is good enough to justify how many

people they’ve hurt.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“Even if Aemonn does love Garath—or pity him—he has to face what his father has done.” My voice got louder, sharper. “He can’t look away from the truth just because it’s hard to watch.”

She gazed at me with a sad, inscrutable look.

“And he can’t use the ways he was hurt to justify the ways he is doing the hurting.” I pointed angrily toward the terrace. “He has to be stopped.”

She stood, nodding. “For the good of everyone else.”

“Yes!”

“No matter how difficult it may be.”

“No matter what.”

“Even if you have to lead the army against him yourself?”

“Yes,” I snapped. “Even if I—”

I stopped abruptly, awareness colliding against me like someone following too close behind. We were no longer talking about Garath, or Aemonn, or Taran, or Vance. Perhaps we hadn’t been in a while.

Suddenly, my dress was too tight. The air was too thin.

“He’s . . . he’s dead,” I whispered. “Luther killed him.”

She clutched at her chest as if her heart were breaking. “Never in my life have I prayed harder for something to be true.” Love, pity—both were written all over her face. “The day I stabbed him on the island, I checked his pulse. His eyes didn’t close. His chest didn’t rise. He was dead that day, too.” She paused. “Ophiucae is not a normal Descended, is he?”

I let out a long, shuddering breath and shook my head.

“Do you believe he’s dead?” she asked.

A flock of angry gryverns couldn’t have torn the answer from my throat.

I could not bear to breathe life into the possibility that the happiness everyone had accepted, the unifying victory everyone so dearly needed, was

just a ticking clock.

A lit fuse.

She turned me to the mirror and stood behind me, setting her chin on my shoulder. With her face beside mine, the relation between us was vivid.

There was something about seeing the matching slopes and curves of our features that made me feel closer to her.

In her, I saw the woman I might become, in time. The creases of a smile, whittled by decades of laughter with family and friends. The way her strong personality had softened with age, its hardest edges sanded smooth by maturity and experience, though her heart never changed. The shadow of grief from those lost, but also her confidence, the certainty of purpose that only a long life, well-lived, can give.

In our differences, it was Ophiucae I saw. There were pieces of me that felt like his and mine alone. Not just my eyes or my magic—my quickness to anger, a drive for justice that could easily lead me astray when tainted by revenge.

We were dangerous, he and I. To others, but especially to ourselves.

There were parts of me that belonged to Andrei, too. The scars that littered my body, the strength that steeled my soul. Even my posture, from years of his scolding: Diem—back straight, chin high. The example of leadership he had set for me weighed on every decision I made.

Three people.

Three lives who’d molded mine.

“Mother,” I said, “if Ophiucae is alive . . .”

My brother’s grumbles wafted in from the parlor, complaining about his suit as Lily reassured him with effusive compliments.

My mother glanced toward the door. “Teller never complains about clothes. He must be nervous.” She shot me a knowing smile. “Perhaps it has something to do with the pretty girl he’s taking as his date.”

I suspected it had more to do with the grudge he was holding against me, though I kept that thought to myself as they appeared at the door. “Isn’t he handsome?” Lily asked, nodding frantically in a plea for us to agree.

“Very handsome,” my mother echoed. “A fine suit.”

Teller held out his arms to show off the design—golden, scripted handwriting swirling in an elaborate maze over sunset-hued jacquard. “It’s the text of a book,” he said. “Zalaric won’t tell me which one. Something about war, I think.”

“Maybe if you look a little closer, you can figure it out,” Lily suggested, a conspiratorial excitement to her tone. Her eyes shot to me. “Perhaps you two could help him?”

My mother walked to Teller’s back and squinted at the design. “It looks like a description of a battle.”

Teller gave up reading and dropped his arms. “Why would he choose that for me? And where’s the phoenix?”

Lily looked at Teller’s chest, then back at me. Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. She looked his chest again, then at me, and they flew even higher.

I walked closer, ignoring the way Teller’s jaw tensed at my presence. I traced a finger over a spiral of text just below his shoulder. “If Taran was involved, it might be better if we never know,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. “It’s probably something obscene, like a—”

My breath caught as my finger stopped on two words, embroidered just

above his heart.

Andrei Bellator.

My mother came around to see what had captured my focus, and when she saw it, a wounded cry broke free. Teller frowned down at his chest, then his face went slack. “Is that . . . ?”

“Your father,” Lily said triumphantly. “It’s an account of his career. It was in a book of famous mortals that Zalaric found in the Umbros markets.

He wanted to find a way for Andrei to be here. He even stitched a little pocket inside with some soil from your family’s home.”

Our mother began to weep. Teller and I stared at each other in matching heart-struck surprise.

Lily looked at him. “Get it? You’re the phoenix, because your father lives on through you.” She beamed. “It’s a metaphor!” She paused, cocking her head. “Wait.” Her eyes jumped to my bodice—“Oh.”—then to my mother’s sleeves—“Oh.” She squinted down at her dress, which featured a delicate diamond phoenix at the center of a sun whose jeweled rays spread from hem to hem. “You know what, I think they’re all metaphors, actually . . .”

Teller’s face was awash with pain, but also a reverent sense of honor.

Our mother let out another sob, and he put an arm around her, folding her into his chest. I moved closer and wrapped another arm over her quivering shoulders. Teller’s hand found mine and squeezed. Lily placed a gentle touch on Teller’s arm, then quietly left the room.

“I miss him so much,” Mother whispered, her voice broken and weak.

I laid my head on Teller’s shoulder, the Crown atop it feeling suddenly too heavy to bear. “So do I.”

He let out a soft sigh, then leaned his head to mine. “Gods, so do I.”

Mother tried to wipe away her tears, though more were quick to take their place. “I’m sorry. You both went through so much, and I wasn’t there.

I have no right to cry.”

“That’s why you weren’t grieving?” Teller asked. “I was so angry with you because I never saw you mourn him. You acted like you were perfectly fine. I thought . . .” He grimaced. “I thought you were relieved he was gone

so you could focus on the Guardians.”

“Teller!” I cried.

“I know,” he said, looking ashamed. “I was angry. You both were so busy, and I had nothing. I felt completely alone.”

“I should have been more open with you,” Mother admitted. “I was worried that sharing my feelings would add to your burden.”

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Mother,” I said.

Teller caught my gaze. “Neither do you, you know. Not for us.” His eyes flicked toward the terrace and the bustling sounds of camp and the gathering wedding guests. “Not for them, either.”

I gave a faint smile. “Does that mean you forgive me for sparing Henri?”

“It’s not just about Henri. You let Vance go in Sophos. You let the Crowns go after they trapped you on the island. And Ophiucae . . .” The stare he leveled at me was sharp. “Some people are going to have to die before this ends. You know that, right?”

Our mother glanced between us, her brows rising at my silence. “That’s it. Tomorrow evening, we’re going home to the marsh. No arguing—we’ve put it off for long enough. It’s time to say goodbye to Andrei as a family.”

My insides knotted, but I didn’t protest. We all needed closure, however painful it might be. I nodded, then Teller did, too.

She dabbed at her face with her sleeve and gave a watery smile. “Shall we put this behind us for tonight? Your new brother is waiting, and he deserves our joy.”

Teller nodded again, and he managed a smile that, for the first time in a while, did not look like it had fought its way to freedom through a gauntlet of pain. “Let’s go,” he agreed. “I promised Taran that if he killed Aemonn, I’d help him hide the body.”

He started for the door, and our mother moved to follow. I hesitated, tugging on her hand.

“What I said before,” I started, “about Ophiucae . . .”

“Let’s discuss it tomorrow,” she said.

“If he is alive, we have to prepare.”

“We’re as prepared as we can be. Your army is ready. All we need is an enemy. Until we know where to find one, the only thing we can do is wait.”

She gently squeezed my hand. “The truth will reveal itself in time. Let’s go celebrate today.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” She looked as if she might argue, so I forced out a smile. “I just need to find a pin for my hair.”

My brother called for us to hurry up, and my mother relented, walking away. I crossed the room to my wardrobe and rustled through the drawers for something to keep my hair in place to conceal my mark in front of Luther. As I searched, I thought on my mother’s words.

Your army is ready. All we need is an enemy.

I paused, internally reaching for the Forging magic. After Sophos, it had taken me days to work up the courage to seek Ophiucae out this way, knowing that the last two times I tried, he nearly killed me for it. When I finally did, and every time since, I’d found the same confusing result: a strange, crackling warmth.

I scratched my wrist, hating the phantom shackle that felt permanently fused to my skin. Months ago, I’d made a bonded bargain with Doriel to kill Ophiucae in exchange for their vote to pardon my mother. When I made the choice not to kill him in Sophos, the bargain broke, taking my magic as payment—but it shouldn’t have taken the Forging magic, too.

It didn’t feel the same as my missing magic, either. My godhood had been carved out of me with a scalpel and an expert hand, leaving no trace behind. I could still sense the Forging magic’s presence inside me, it simply felt . . . different. Almost as if something was standing in its way.

I opened a drawer overflowing with combs and clips encrusted with gems of every hue, grabbed one at random, then slammed the drawer closed. The wardrobe rattled, and a metal sphere tumbled from the edge of the uppermost shelf and clanged to the stone floor at my feet.

I recognized it instantly: the Orb of Answering, Doriel’s gift at my Ascension Ball. My thoughts whirled—could I use this to find Ophiucae and Vance? It was spelled to respond to three questions, and I’d only used two.

I cupped the sphere in my hands, its golden surface strangely warm against my skin. “Where is Ophiucae?”

The orb’s smooth surface gave way to a shifting design of lines and swirls that I recognized now as the Kindred’s native language. The elegant script skittered over the gold at increasing speed, though no answer

appeared.

I asked again: “Where is Ophiucae?”

The design continued to morph. Still, no answer came.

Maybe there was no answer to give because he was dead. At that thought, my stomach gave a heavy flip. Was that the outcome I wanted?

“Where is Vance?” I asked instead.

The scrollwork spun on, unaffected.

“What about Vance’s army, where are they?”

No change. No answer.

I frowned. Surely they weren’t all dead.

Shouting arose from outside, Taran’s voice loudest among them, and I paused. “Where is Taran?”

The endless whorls spun on, though Taran’s yelling continued. That was answer enough: they weren’t dead any more than he was. Emotions whipped through me—frustration tinged with anger, dread with a tiny, shameful burst of relief.

I shook the orb. “Why aren’t you answering? Where is Vance’s army?

Where are they headed? What are their plans?” I smacked it hard against my palm. “Come on. What happened in Umbros? Is Ophiucae even alive?”

Inside my fist, the moving scrollwork stopped.

It had been so long since I’d learned the Orb of Answering’s rules, I’d remembered too late that its spell had a key limitation. It could only give two answers: a yes or a no.

I’d just asked my third and final question: Is Ophiucae alive?

And now I had my answer.

Yes.

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