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The rest of the morning went by at a crawl; the afternoon was even longer.
Kiera did what she could to fill it: sorting through their newfound belongings, making a list of things that had been left behind. Making a longer list, a more intimidating one, of the things they might need to take with them on the journey. Canteens for hiking, tonics for snakebite, flint for striking the night’s fire. It felt strange, making such a compilation on her own. Most days, the fae would be doing it himself. It felt stranger still, when she started to add in other things.
Coin, to pay the fishermen. Knives, and hatchets, and swords.
How long until the fighting starts? she wondered, standing in a patch of sunlight by the window with her hands frozen absently over a bag. How long until we march upon the enemy?
At this point, she didn’t know who exactly the enemy was going to be. She’d eliminated all the usual suspects with a flaming wave of her hand. The mercenaries and pirate chiefs had all burned to ash, along with the clansmen and mountain hordes that might replace them. There would be sorcerers, and a spattering of warlocks—that much could be counted upon. The Carpathians, surely, would choose to join the fight. But what of the others? Who would swell to bolster the ranks?
She had asked the question only once—she and Jesse both, lifting their eyes in confusion and turning to the immortals. The answer they’d received was hardly satisfactory. Quite the contrary, it sent a racketing chill down her spine. Beasts—that was the short answer. Spirits, and demons, and creatures of some kind. The fae had used the term loosely, but she’d known him long enough to see the slight hardening of his eyes. It was those whispered terrors, they would be meeting on the battlefield. All those nameless horrors that kept children up at night.
And what if the fae don’t allow it? What if they send us back to our homes?
It was the question none of them had been asking, but the more she thought of it, the more it seemed like the only one that mattered. There had been a mild uproar at the idea when it was cast in the ivory citadel. Some of the fair folk were merely skeptical. Others were downright enraged.
Even the kindly ones, like Julias, who had dined with them in the tavern, saw little hope in such things. They were helping already, he’d said. Why do you think so many died?
In a burst of excess adrenaline, she put down the cloak she’d been holding and swept suddenly from the room—finding Jesse in a tall-backed chair, polishing his sword across his knees.
“I’m going out,” she said briskly. “I won’t be long.”
He glanced up in surprise, an oiled rag hovering over the blade. “Is everything all right? Would you like me to come with you?”
She shook her head once, forced a smile. “Everything’s fine. I feel as if I’ve just been packing for hours, and want to clear my head. You said there was a garden on the other side of the smithy?”
He nodded.
“I’ll probably head there.”
He bobbled his head again and watched as she left, giving a parting wave as the door swung shut between them. She had no intention of going to the garden, or coming back in a timely manner. The world had crashed down upon their shoulders, and she wouldn’t stay cooped up in that tiny room.
That’s better.
The second she was through the door, she pulled in a deep breath of air, filling her lungs as some of the cobwebs cleared from her mind—those clouding shadows that felt so much worse from the other side of the windowpane. It was late in the day, and the sun cast a golden hue over the city, throwing the distant rooftops into silhouette and spilling brilliantly over the water. She paused on the bank and stared for a moment, dazzled at the blinding waves, then she started walking.
And walking, and walking.
It didn’t take long for her to pick up momentum, for the troubles of the world to fall away, as she got lost in the churn of the crowd. Her feet pounded the hard-packed earth, and slipped over the cobblestones. There was a pulsing against her chest, another in the sole of her shoe.
She stomped that foot even harder, like it was a candle she might snuff out. For months, as she’d carried the wizard’s stone, it had been like a dead thing. Dark and flat and ordinary, though surprisingly heavy. She hadn’t thought twice when Eden suggested cramming it into her shoe, as there was little point to it otherwise. The only reason she’d taken it was to keep it from more dangerous hands. For months, she’d scarcely given it a thought—having nearly forgotten it was there. But lately, there had been troubling reminders. Little tugs, little flickers. The kind of thing that would have been infinitely easier to ignore, if they weren’t immediately countered with a blaze at her neck.
My pet rocks are fighting, she thought wryly, shoving her way through the crowd. A sea of oblivious faces streamed around her, and she drew a shuddering breath. I sound insane.
It wasn’t long until she was in an unfamiliar part of town, a quieter neighborhood she’d yet to explore—shaded by the peaks of the distant mountains. She paused for the first time in what felt like hours, looking around her and gathering her breath, before lifting her eyes to a massive structure looming in front of her. It felt like madness, she wouldn’t have seen it before. Aside from the great tower itself, it had to have been one of the largest buildings in the city. But while most of those had been crafted of wood, and the tower itself was carved from a tree, this one was pale stone. Fitted and stacked and intricately worked together, decorated with delicate carvings in a language she didn’t understand. She took a step closer, unsurprised to discover it was in fae. Fae and something else, even older. The door swung open and she peeked inside, realizing suddenly what they meant.
It’s a library.
The second the word entered her mind, she was walking again—striding up the stone steps and through the arched doorway before she’d made the decision to move. The air was cool, and smelled of dust and parchment. Bright shafts of sunlight poured from the windows, pooling in rectangular patterns on the floor. She paused in the entryway, gazing up in a kind of awe.
Most children in the village where she grew up dreamed of visiting the seashore, or crossing to the other side of the mountains. But she had always wanted to see exactly such a place. It was better than she could have imagined, and bigger as well. A hollowed tower that stretched upwards in a series of steps and ladders, blanketed in a reverent kind of silence, with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
She drifted to the closest rack, touching her fingertips to the faded scrolls. They were soft as petals, yellowed with age. Each one was neatly labeled, tied with a piece of looping twine.
I’m never leaving this place. They will find me here, an old maid.
An involuntary smile crept up her face as she turned in a slow circle, wondering if she could smuggle in a blanket, how long it would take before someone asked her to leave. She had just made up her mind to do so, when something caught her eye a few stories up, a familiar glint of hair.
You must be joking.
She left the rack behind and headed to the nearest ladder, climbing as quietly as she could manage, before stepping onto the landing. The shelves were not the only features of the library; some of the levels had chairs, others had tables. A solitary man was sitting at one of these, the rest of the story was deserted. With his chin cupped in his hand and bright hair spilling down his shoulders, he looked the picture of enchantment. The golden sun clung around his body in a kind of halo. The table in front of him was cluttered with open books.
“Eden?”
He jumped in his skin and looked over his shoulder—lips parting in shock when he spotted her standing there. “Did you...?” He trailed away in bewilderment. “How did you find me here?”
She sidled up behind him with a self-satisfied smile; it wasn’t often she managed to catch the fae off guard. “I wasn’t looking,” she admitted, resting both arms on his shoulders. “I didn’t really notice where I was going, until I looked up and saw the library. I couldn’t resist going inside.”
He considered this a moment, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Of course you find it—drawn like a moth to the flame. I should warn you, Kiera, these places are full of texts that are meant to remain. You can’t go slipping things into your bag.”
She rolled her eyes with disdain. “Like I would even consider it.”
I wonder if they’d check.
Without another word, she perched in the chair beside him—running her eyes over the small mountain in front of him, rolls of parchment and piles of ancient texts. Many of them had been opened to a certain page, others had already been discarded. The fae appeared to have been looking for something, though she couldn’t for the life of her imagine what.
“Why did you come here?” she asked curiously. “What’s all this?”
He drew in a breath, looking almost weary. “Our talk of Garathon stirred old memories,” he admitted, running his fingers over a random page. “I wished to read more about it, remember the old names.”
The answer surprised her, drawing her eyes to the nearest book.
“Did you know him?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.
He laughed shortly, throwing her a look. “I am not old as that.”
You are ancient.
She ignored this and pulled the book a little closer, tracing her eyes down the columns of writing on the page. The letters were beautiful, written in an elegant looping hand. She couldn’t understand a word of it; there were very few books written in the common tongue. Yet only a moment later, she realized, she didn’t need to. It wasn’t a story, but a genealogy. List upon list of descending names. Some of them stood without partner, others were tied with a line.
Miriel...Onessa...Lyretes...
Her eyes caught upon something familiar.
Sindriel.
A jolt shook through her, and she glanced up in surprise. “Some light reading?”
Eden shrugged and looked to the window, while she pulled the book closer still, crimson hair spilling over the sides. The name was the joining of two columns, the second one much longer; it was connected to another, tethered with a thin line.
Astaria.
She touched it with her fingertip, lifting her eyes. “Your mother?” she asked softly.
The fae glanced back, then nodded, his eyes following hers to the page. All the months they had travelled, all the times they’d spoken of parents...she’d never known the woman’s name.
Because in all that time, he never spoke of her. Perhaps twice.
“Astaria,” she murmured with a smile, “that is beautiful.” It sounded like the name of some far-flung constellation. A windswept princess staring from clifftop upon her glittering isle.
He smiled in spite of himself, nodding again. “Light of the heavens, that is what it means. They say the morning she was born, the stars refused to give way to the sun, shimmering above the hilltops in a clear blue sky. The astronomers had never seen the like; when it came time to name her, three different people suggested it. There was something about her, I really cannot describe it. She was beyond radiant, almost...?”
Kiera stared at him, that golden light haloed around his face.
“Incandescent?” she guessed.
He brightened with a smile. “Yes, that’s it exactly.” His eyes dropped back to the book, tracing over her name. “Even as a child, I can remember it striking me. Sitting on her lap, playing with the tresses of her hair. Some people are taught to be good. In some, it grows from within. Like a seed, well-tended. She was such a woman.” He paused, glanced to the side. “You are such a woman as well.”
She looked up in surprise, thinking it might be a jest. Her heart thudded unevenly, and she floundered when she saw that it was not. She handled it stupidly, though he didn’t seem to mind.
“Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me: evil only grows where it’s planted, yet it’s often planted where it can easily grow?” She ignored her flushing cheeks, catching his gaze with a teasing smile. “I only ask, because you often say it after I’ve cooked something.”
He bowed his head with a grin, a hand still resting on the side of the book. “Yes, that’s true.”
She scooted her chair closer, scanning up and down the lists. It was a long book, spanning centuries, and he had flipped to almost the very end. Some of the names had been written in regular ink, yet some were dusted with silver. His mother’s name was one of these. Her brow creased with a frown, and she was about to ask what it was, when the answer suddenly revealed itself.
His beautiful mother was dead. So were many others.
Her shoulders fell with a slow breath, it seemed her body had been weighted with stone. It had never occurred to her, not until that very moment, what a melancholy thing such records must be. When each of these people was born to immortality, yet their light was snuffed out all the same.
She glanced at the man beside her, a living picture of this grief. There was nothing on his face to betray it. He was calm and lovely, if a little nostalgic. But the look in his eyes was quiet halls and empty cradles. His breath had nearly stopped. His fingers never left the page.
She lifted a tentative hand, resting it on his back. “What do you think she would have thought of all this?” she asked lightly, trying to steer the conversation to easier things. “Of the journey we’ve taken, the places we’ve gone. What would she make of our great plan to—”
“—to save the world?” he interrupted, turning to meet her gaze.
She had expected that grief to follow him, but his eyes were twinkling, locked knowingly onto hers. Her cheeks flamed, and she felt suddenly foolish. She lowered her hand slowly. What was it doing, resting on his back? His face softened, like he could pick the words right out of her head. A moment passed before he turned back to the text, considering her question—the same question he’d asked many times himself. His face went still, then thoughtful. Then a bit distant.
“What she knew of me then...” He trailed off, looking as if he was standing on the brink of some great precipice. His lips parted as the answer rose to his tongue, like a cresting wave, reaching towards the sky. It held a moment, before fading just as quickly, curving into a gentle smile. “She probably would have thought it was quite far past my bedtime.”
Kiera blinked in surprise, then laughed—letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He smiled again, and the moment was forgotten. Not forgotten, but tucked away in some secret corner. Later, when the moon was high, the two would revisit it many times again.
The sun slipped lower, and poured in great shafts through the western windows. It was why the fae had chosen the table, she realized, watching the glint of a million specks of dust floating on the still air. Hours might have passed, and she would not have noticed. It wasn’t until he moved beside her, shifting in his chair, that she left him to his reading and reached for another book of her own.
“What about Ereastos?” she asked suddenly, flipping towards the front of this one, thinking it the likely place that particular name would be written. “Did he sire any children?”
Eden blinked in surprise, like he was trying to reconcile two things that were not quite connected. He glanced at the book, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
“Who’s to say?” he answered lightly. “The man was alive since the dawn of time—son of a god, apparently. Grandson,” he amended, thinking of that circle of stone. They hadn’t spoken much of their encounter with Ciro—each time they tried it had felt overwhelming, as if some part of them was trapped there still. “It would stand to reason, he might have done. But I doubt there would be any record,” he added, nodding at the book. “It was before the creation of such things.”
She considered this silently, biting at her lip. It was a stark change from her usual chatter, and after a while, he glanced over with a hint of irritation, like at the buzzing of a fly.
“Why do you ask?”
She released her lip, matching his gaze. “I’m sorry—was my quiet too loud for you?”
“It was brimming,” he answered dryly, “poised to break. You have found me here,” he continued, gesturing to the shelves, “destroyed my happy solitude. Why do you ask of him?”
His tone was playful, a brotherly mocking. But there was a genuine curiosity hidden at the core. She dropped her eyes to the book, seeing no trace of the man. The fae was right. He would likely have been born many thousands of years before.
“Like you said,” she answered pensively, “it would stand to reason. He was here a long time, and Sorne certainly did.” She almost regretted saying the name; it seemed to have no place amongst the ancient parchment and glittering dust. But if there was someone they spoke of less than Ciro, it was the young wizard they had met in the mountains—trapped in a bubble of time alongside his suffering mother, glowering over a twisting power he never wished to possess. “His brother did the same—Ereastos is proof. Might he not have gathered a few children along the way?”
By now, Eden was almost smiling. It was impossible not to—one had only to see that vacant look come over her, to listen to her rambling train of thought. He’d observed such rabid detachment many times before. He often used the opportunity to steal sips from her tea.
“He may have done,” he said again. “Why would it matter?”
“Do you not see?” She broke from her reverie, turning to face him. “If the god was able to pawn his stone off onto a descendant, there must be some way I can do the same. We could seek the poor soul out—drape this chain around their neck and dust our hands. Problem solved.”
Home in time for supper.
He stared at her in amazement, unable to find the breath to speak. Then without any warning, he let out a burst of sparkling laughter—so loud and long, there were pointed shushes from other parts of the library, chiding him into silence. He came to it in his own time, still smiling.
“I am...so very happy you came here.”
She smiled as well, smoothing the parchment beneath her fingers. Like all the texts, it had been kept in pristine condition. But there was still a delicacy to the paper, an inevitable result of age.
In truth, she’d only been half-joking. Perhaps this kind of thing was meant to be passed through bloodlines. Perhaps it was never supposed to be her burden in the first place, and the exchange in the hollow and everything after, had been the culmination of a single mistake.
A part of her would like to think so. It could be remedied by a single trip to the library and a well-sent raven. It was the same part that had frozen in terror upon seeing the poster with her name.
Hundreds of posters, all over the city. And I am supposed to—
“Kiera?”
She turned in surprise to see Eden still watching her. It wasn’t just his tone that caught her off guard, but the look on his face. There was no smiling now, no remnant of laughter. Only a few seconds had passed, but it seemed the farthest thing from his mind.
He didn’t ask the question. He didn’t need to.
The answer came spilling from her lips.
“I am frightened,” she said in a whisper, staring into those sun-bright eyes. The chain hung heavy around her neck, gleaming in the light. “What if this was never supposed to be mine?”
A look spasmed across his face, as though he’d been doused in cold water. Fast as he was, it took a moment to recover. By that time he did, she was already on a roll.
“Wouldn’t it stand to reason?” she said quickly, feeling a strange sense of panic. Like if she didn’t find a way to convince him, she might be stuck with it forever. Like if she didn’t find a way to do it quickly, she might never get another chance. “I am a barmaid from a mountain village, with an uncanny knack of not getting eaten alive. Most of that has less to do with me, and more with you. I am not trying to be self-deprecating, but wouldn’t it stand to reason...” Her eyes flicked down to the book, still open on the table. “That someone else was meant to do this, instead of me?”
He stared back at her in silence, frozen and unable to speak. Or in hindsight, perhaps she didn’t let him. Perhaps she was terrified of what he might say.
“When we got back from the café the other night, Jesse was all apologies,” she continued, rambling now, but unable to stop. “He said he’d been wrong to sign my name without permission, that he should have asked me...he said he was just very proud.” Her mouth twisted on the word, like it was something sour. “That everyone in the assembly was talking, and that man at the bar the other night was talking, and I keep feeling like people are looking at me, and it’s all just very...” She shook her head, coming to the end of her breath. “Eden, it could all just be a terrible mistake.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d had the conversation, it wasn’t the second. But no matter how settled she’d felt afterwards, no matter how much comfort she’d taken in the fae’s lovely eyes, the question—when it was placed before her—had always survived.
She was meant to do this? She was meant to have this?
The stone pulsed against her chest, but she took no comfort. In fact, the longer she thought about it, the more she was struck with a sinking sense of dread.
It can’t be me...I would feel differently about it.
“I am not eager,” she concluded quietly. “I am not speaking at the assembly or putting up posters. I am not capable, I am not even proud. I am just...terrified that with the fate of the realm hanging in the balance, this wretched thing has been placed around my neck.”
She shook her head, a tear spilling down her cheek. “It shouldn’t be me, Eden. It shouldn’t be mine.”
The fae had followed every movement, but the rest of him had gone very still. As she came at last to the end, his eyes flickered once more to the stone. They were dilated with intensity, raw with an aching sympathy. So dark, they had become. She could scarcely see any of the blue.
“Do you really believe that?” he asked softly. “That it should belong to someone else?”
She shook her head helplessly, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“It shouldn’t belong to anyone,” she breathed, trying to keep hold of herself. “It’s too much power for one person to have. How am I supposed to carry it? To be infallible? When I think of these last few months, of how much I have changed...?” She shook her head, feeling that panic rise up in her again. “My opinions are like sand, Eden. On a beach that is windy. I cannot...I cannot be trusted with something like this. I cannot be expected to carry such a flame.”
He had been watching her with fixed attention, an unreadable emotion on his face. But the moment she said the words, his expression suddenly lightened—like a stone had been lifted, and it had become easier to breathe. He reached for her hand, holding it gently in his own.
“You had me so worried there. Like I was standing on a cliff.”
She shook her head, dumb with confusion. “What are you—”
“Of course, it is too much power for a single person to hold. Of course, you are frightened of having it. And, my love, I can tell you with absolute assurance, no one on this earth expects you to be infallible.” She started to speak again, but he lifted a finger to her lips. “Do you know what a comfort it is to me that the person given the stone would ask these questions? Would doubt herself, and even feel an instinctual fear of having her identity known? Do you know how frightening things would be with a person who expected it—who thought themselves worthy?”
He shook his head slowly, looking deep into her eyes. “Things have not always been easy between me and the gods. I have been angry, I have had doubts. But in this one thing, I cannot fault them. You think it strange, a barmaid from the mountains would be chosen for such an honor?”
He shook his head again, a little twinkle in his eyes. “I think they had to go all the way to the mountains to look.”
A flickering hope stirred somewhere deep within her, and she bit down on her lip to hold back a sob. The fae had a special way of telling when someone was being honest, but sometimes, she would swear it worked the other way around. The best man she knew, the one whose council she would seek above any other, and when asked to measure her worth, he was nothing but sincere.
“It was given to you not with the expectation you would always be able to withstand the weight of it,” he continued softly, “but with the knowledge that somewhere inside, there is a part of you that can. It would not be given to you otherwise. The gods do not allow such things to be dealt with idle hands. Evander talks of faith.” His lips twitched in a wry smile, like it was a personal torment. “We have argued about it many times. But on this point alone, I do not disagree.”
His fingers tightened, gripped around her own.
“You were meant to have this. The stone itself is the proof.”
She pulled in a shuddering breath, unwilling to give up so easily. Yes, the fae had cast some of that eternal light her way, and yes, she was able to see the shore. But it was the same conclusion she had reached a hundred times before. There was hope...but the burden itself remained.
Her face screwed up in accusation, though she didn’t release his hands.
“Whose side are you on?” she demanded.
“Yours,” he replied with a grin, “now and always. But it will do you no favors to avoid the question. It is something that must be looked at square on. I say the fates have given you that stone, and you alone are the one who must wield it. The truth, Kiera: do you disagree?”
No, she couldn’t say she disagreed. The stone had guided her up hills and mountains, taken her to a god, dragged her screaming into a desert nest only to be doused in dragon fire.
She frowned as she considered this last one.
Maybe it’s not always on my side.
“Then why do I not always feel it?” she asked earnestly, thinking it a silly question but asking all the same. “There are times it feels right, when I feel there is no one else in the realm who should wear it. But then there is...there is still some damned part of me that thinks it was nothing but a series of random coincidences that led me to having the stone. That it could have been anyone. That anyone else would have done a better job. And we are staking much upon it, Eden,” she added with a trace of that same desperation. “Of all the times to be certain...this is not a time to be wrong.”
The fae nodded slowly, regarding her with unending patience. No matter what she said, he did not act like they were silly questions, but considered each one thoughtfully before he replied.
“These other people,” he began, “would they have journeyed as far as you did?”
She stared at him blankly. “What?”
“And the dragon,” he prodded gently. “Would they have survived the dragon as well?”
“Come on, don’t do that.”
“Two dragons,” he remarked, “though, I suppose there’s scarcely reason to boast, after surviving just the one. You wander out of your village at the precise moment of its destruction, you are set aflame in the heart of the desert, and walk away unharmed. You are found miraculously intact beneath the snows of an avalanche, weather shipwrecks and maulings. You convince a savage child to willingly hand you a sacred stone. Of course, you have already been given another by a man as old as time.” He tilted his head with a little smile, catching her eyes. “Will it take more to convince you?”
She froze in breathless silence. It was impossible to argue with a fae.
“Why do you not always feel it?” he asked gently. “Because faith is not easy. It is not a lesson we finish learning, but one that follows with us as we grow. It is meant to feel that way, sweetheart.”
He looked her up and down, eyes softening with a tender smile.
“And there is no one I know who is better at feeling than you.”
The sun drifted lower outside the window, the people of the settlement hurried back and forth on the street. Their bustle did not reach inside the library. It was quiet still; as if time stopped within that arched doorway, as if the place was a world unto itself.
She threw her arms around his neck, not trying to be careful, launching thoughtlessly from her chair onto his. He caught her by instinct, gasping in surprise, then circled his arms slowly around her back. A second later, he was breathing deeply, clasping her tightly against his chest.
She hadn’t known, until that moment, why she’d come to the library. It felt like she’d been drowning in questions, and the sky had gone dark. But perhaps the gods were speaking after all.
Perhaps she’d simply followed her feet.
She clung to him for a long time, much longer than she realized. Her eyes fluttered shut and she rested her cheek on his tunic, lulled by the faint, steady rhythm of his heart. It wasn’t until the sky began to noticeably darken, she pulled back suddenly, looking away and wiping at her eyes.
“I will leave you to your reading,” she said briskly, pushing to her feet. The chair scraped loudly behind her. “There shouldn’t be this much talking in a library.”
“Did you notice that?” he asked innocently. “Did you notice from all the angry voices?”
“They are angry with you, not me.”
They shared a parting smile, and she headed back towards the ladder. Her chest felt strangely hollow, as if the river breezes had swept it clean. The wooden steps descended at a gentle slope, and she had already wrapped her fingers around the post, when she came to a sudden pause.
“Eden?” she called quietly.
He glanced up from the table.
“I’ve never been a mother, I’ve never even come close. But as a woman, as a friend, as someone who cares for you very much...there is no way on earth, she would not have been proud.”
He froze where he was sitting, one hand still gripped on the table. There was such a charge about him, that for a moment, she almost thought he might be angry. But he merely held her gaze across the room, those sky-blue eyes drawing an invisible line. A moment passed in silence.
“I have lived beside you and Jesse for many months,” he answered slowly. “You have come close. And Kiera, heaven forbid you bear that man’s pups.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m leaving now.”
“Sleep poorly.”
Love you.
It wasn’t until she swung her leg over the ladder and turned back around, she saw the fae still sitting at the table, staring at the same place on the book. It was then, she realized what he must have realized himself long before—what had likely driven him to the library in the first place, pouring through lists of names, tracing his fingers down the pages of book after ancient book.
Those names would stop with Eden. That lengthy column would end with him. Evander’s name would never be etched beside it, stamped into history and tethered with a line.
Those names had spanned for centuries, but with his, they were finished.
The bloodline would be finished, lost to the annals of time.
