CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Charity given for personal gain is a
nightmare striking in the middle of the day.
A waking horror best left to be met
again in sleep.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
Your body deflates as you close the viewing portal showing the streets of Rosira. Behind you, Nikora and Cayro breathe loudly, panting like possums, leaving hot breath on your neck. You have half a mind to silence them forever. Daydreams of tearing the life away from their flaccid bags of flesh bring a smile to your face. After the triumph witnessed through the portal, you fear your face may split.
“Why did you stop the attack?” Nikora demands.
You turn toward her. Having her at your back in the first place was foolish. “Strategy.”
She narrows her eyes and grins slyly. “Are you certain you were not stymied by the arrival of your sister?”
Your lips snap shut, annoyance clawing at you. She is just grasping at straws, she has no idea of what she speaks. “My sister is of no concern. It is better to leave them fumbling and badly damaged. I have proven that a larger attack will yield consequences. Our final strike will give us what we want.”
“Don’t you mean give you what you want? While these blitzes are entertaining, you promised me that your use of Dahlia’s precious flesh would be for more than pursuing a petty grievance.”
You flinch at the use of the term “petty.” There is nothing petty about your need for revenge and supremacy, but listing several lifetimes’ worth of injustice perpetrated by the Elsirans is not a productive use of time.
“I shall not allow this to continue,” Nikora says. “You’ve proven control of the wraiths, and I have lost no further men. But how has this brought me closer to my goal? I have given—” A commotion at the door interrupts her diatribe.
A servant enters with one of the Wailers behind him, the man’s blank face slack and addlepated. His hands clutch a length of chain. Two silent, vacant-eyed wraiths shuffle behind him, hands and feet shackled by the chain. They are meek as babes, which is exactly how you’ve instructed them to be. Nikora’s eyes widen.
“So you see,” you say proudly. “I have provided you with not one but two docile spirits to question. Ask them whatever you wish, if you think they will answer.” You mumble the last under your breath.
Cayro’s lips curl in disgust, but Nikora’s eyes shine with glee. That should keep the both of them busy for at least a little while. “I will begin questioning them immediately,” she says.
They leave to do exactly that, while you reflect on the battle. The presence of the Nethersingers was certainly unexpected. As was the resistance from the Raunian brutes. But neither group truly worries you. There are far more dead than living, after all.
After these exercises—proofs of concept really—you have finally mastered complete control over the spirits. The meager preparations and attempts at defense by the Elsirans and their allies might as well be a shield made of smoke. The sharp spear you wield will have no trouble slicing through such an insubstantial obstacle.
You will not be stopped. You hold the advantage over your sister, her people, and your so-called captors. Only one last piece to the puzzle is needed—Nikora’s spell still binds you, and your manipulation of her can only go so far. She must be taken care of before you can enact your final plan.
Then you will return to your rightful home and deal with your wayward remaining family. You imagine the look on her face when she is forced to submit to your conquest. Your cheeks will soon hurt from smiling so hard.
Oola’s face haunted Mooriah. She had never met her mother in person. She’d been cut from Her womb after the woman’s spirit was already gone, trapped in the World Between after Eero’s betrayal.
Her father, Yllis, had been solely focused on finding a way to bring Oola back. When he realized his daughter was a Nethersinger, he’d sent the baby off to live among the Cavefolk, where she couldn’t accidentally murder anyone, and where both she and those around her were protected.
He’d come to visit, infrequently, and she’d gotten to know him after a fashion, but they had never been close. And then he’d gone off to fight her uncle Eero and never returned.
She hadn’t known what to expect, seeing him again for the first time in five hundred years. That first glimpse she’d gotten in the meeting room when he’d arrived at the strategy meeting had been a shock. She’d been so agitated, she left quickly and had been avoiding him ever since, trying not to be in the places she thought he might be. As far as she knew, he hadn’t sought her out, either, which assuaged any guilt she might have had about her actions. So the reunion, when it took place, occurred by chance.
She happened upon him in a palace corridor, she at one end, he at the other. Across the distance he looked the same—still almost a stranger, a man whose love she’d never been sure she had. A man who’d always seen her mother when he looked upon her.
His silver hair was unchanged, the thick coils gathered neatly at his nape and stretching down his back. The hair of an old man on an unlined face—ageless and as unemotional as ever, she’d wager. A wave of sadness and love swept her, freezing her in place. But just as quickly and volatilely came the anger. The abandonment. The betrayal.
He was a wraith, as she was, and a sliver of strange magic inside her recognized him as such. Muscles tense, pulse racing, caught in the red haze of rage, Mooriah lashed out. He’d always called her temper fiery, usually with an air of chastisement in his voice. She’d show him fiery.
A pulse of Nether blasted from within her, severing her father’s connection to the body he inhabited. It crumpled to the floor, the Void taking over, while his spirit form hovered in the air above it.
Her fury now satiated, remorse crept in. Yllis’s spirit circled the body once, then twice, as if waiting for something, then dove back in. She didn’t even get a good look at the poor man acting as the unwitting host.
But a realization struck her that her Song, eager as it had been to cause mischief, had not been the source of the outburst. Wraith magic had expelled her father. Wraiths—even if they weren’t Nethersingers—could force out other wraiths. She had not realized that before and tucked it away for the future.
The still body transformed, taking on her father’s face and form before rising. She was too far away to see his expression. She considered turning around, escaping down the hall in the opposite direction, but she was no coward. Her emotions were quiet now, and she supposed she owed him an apology for her outburst. Still, she remained motionless until he took a step toward her. Then they both moved forward, stopping an arm’s length apart.
“Father.” She cleared her throat. “I apologize. That was not well done of me.”
He grunted. She supposed that was all the acknowledgement she would get. “Why did you not go into the Flame, my daughter?” His voice was both familiar and strange.
She swallowed, tucking away her disappointment. This was the first thing he wanted to know? “I had no desire to have my soul stripped clean, to be recycled into some other life. I had a reason to retain my memories. The prophecy—Murmur never came out and told me that I should avoid the Flame, but he’d hinted that I would be needed again. And he was right.”
In the World After, spirits were meant to join the Eternal Flame. They could stay out of it for a time, getting glimpses into the Living World and saying their silent good-byes to their loved ones and the lives they’d once had, but the Flame was a constant lure.
Resisting it had been difficult, often painful, but she’d had a purpose. And she’d carried it out.
Yllis sighed deeply. “I suppose it only makes sense that our family be here to see this through, we did start it after all.”
Mooriah didn’t start anything—she had not asked to be born a Nethersinger—but she kept that thought to herself. Instead she said, “Have you seen Her?”
A well of pain opened inside his eyes. “No,” he whispered.
“She must know we’re both here.”
“She knows. She has Her own reasons for ignoring us.”
After all the time her father had spent searching for her mother, now they were finally in the same place and it was Oola who’d disappeared. “You must have some idea where She is.”
He blinked slowly before meeting her gaze. He did not voice his agreement, but she saw the truth there.
“So you are avoiding Her, too?” Mooriah shook her head. “It’s time. I need to meet Her.”
She thought he might deny her, but instead, he surprised her by reaching for her hand. He had never been demonstrative, never been the type of father who hugged or kissed. The rough feel of his palm was novel, callused and scarred from many blood spells. Hers were the same.
Hand in hand, father and daughter left the building. There might have been a hundred eyes on them but Mooriah didn’t notice. They crossed a garden, the dying grass crisp beneath their feet. Behind the palace rose a rocky ridge, the peak of the ancient volcano on which Rosira had been built.
“How do you know where She is?” she asked.
“I can feel Her. I’ve always been able to, we are connected.”
Her shoulders sank. She’d never had reason to hate her Nethersong the way others had, but there were times like these when she wondered what Earthsong would be like.
Yllis squeezed her hand. “It isn’t Earthsong that binds us, it is something deeper. If you search yourself, you’ll realize that you can feel Her, too. She’s inside of us.”
Mooriah wasn’t convinced. They climbed the rocks, which only rose a short distance above their heads. There was no true path, but she did sense something familiar in the route they took. The sensation pulsed within, though she’d never been here before.
They turned a corner and could go no farther. Before them, seated upon a boulder, looking out toward the sea, was her mother, the Goddess Awoken.
Oola rose slowly, so slowly, and turned to face them. Her face was expressionless. Dark eyes glimmered and Her white dress fluttered in a gust of wind. The shapes of their faces were similar. Mooriah saw pieces of herself in her mother, but the woman was a stranger.
No one spoke for a long time. Mooriah could not think of what to say, she just stared at this cold woman before her. Oola’s gaze went from Mooriah to Yllis, back and forth until, finally, tears spilled down Her cheeks. The sudden and unexpected display of emotion caused the dam inside of Mooriah to crack. Her feelings broke through the protective barrier she’d had in place for so long and her body doubled over on a sob.
She tried in vain to hold it back, shaking and heaving, clutching her arms around her. Her father’s hand rubbed her back for a moment and then she was wrapped in warmth. Strong arms squeezed her and the scent of jasmine and electricity enveloped her.
“Don’t cry, my daughter,” her mother whispered. “There will be time for crying later.”
Mooriah wasn’t sure that was true. Her heart was so full and so empty at the same time. She couldn’t put into words what she was feeling. Duty and love and pain and abandonment warred inside of her.
Her mother pulled back and cupped Mooriah’s cheeks in Her palms. Her father’s steady hand still ran slow circles on her back.
“Mama,” Mooriah whispered. And then her mother smiled.