26
Valen
Kopic finds me on the way back to my room, not long after Tania went to check on Suria.
“Has there been anything new on the Omen prophecy?” I ask. I already know the answer, though. If they’d found something, I would have been told.
He frowns.
“Fuck. What am I missing?”
“Is it possible she said what she said just to throw you off?” Kopic asks. “Possibly to make you doubt yourself?”
I don’t need Aphelian’s help for that. “No. She was giving us something—probably because she thought we’d never figure it out.” Which, so far, she’s been right about.
He stiffens his spine, the perfect soldier, and clasps his hands behind his back. “What do you want to do?”
“Someone, somewhere, has to know something. Finding out what it is could mean the difference between winning and losing. Canvass the newcomers. Vet everyone in the village and send riders to the other towns. Even the smallest bit of information could be vital.”
“Spoken like a true leader.”
“Spoken like someone who has no other choice,” I correct.
He stops walking and grabs my arm. “There’s always another choice, Valen. Liani had a choice. She chose to do the things she did. She chose to hurt and manipulate people. You are choosing to help them.”
He’s right, but the praise just doesn’t sit well right now. Not with everything going on. The situation in the Winter Lands is my fault. I’m the one who offered my court up on a platter to Aphelian. I don’t regret my decision. It saved Tania’s life. But that still doesn’t exonerate me.
I’m not a savior. I’m a villain. If I were the hero he’s trying to make me out to be, I would have sacrificed Tania for the good of my people. Even now, I would still choose to freeze the world for her over anyone— everyone —else. If we fail at what we’re attempting to do, countless lives will be lost… Oceans of blood will stain my hands.
And I hate myself because I have no regrets.
I’ve really missed Kopic. Sound advice and unparalleled loyalty. “It’s really good to have you back, old friend.”
“Let’s see if you still feel that way the first time I call you on your bullshit.”
I throw an arm around his shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”
…
The next day at noon, we all gather again—except Tania. This time, the mood is different. Everyone is nervous, but there’s an odd kind of excitement in the air. Hope…
“This is history in the making.” Gensted smiles. “Despite my stance on magic, I’m honored to be here.”
“It’s a historic occasion,” Delkin agrees. “Unfortunately, it’s also a solemn one.”
“Aphelian almost took our heads off. I commend you for offering your people protection here, Valen.” Wren squares her shoulders. There’s a gleam of respect in her eyes.
“It wasn’t a hard decision to make,” I say. “I can ensure their safety here. I can’t out there.”
“It was foolish, if you ask me.” Suveo yawns. “All these extra Fae milling about. Everywhere you turn, someone is underfoot.”
No one responds—which I think pisses him off. I doubt Suveo is used to being ignored. The Summer monarch mumbles something else, too low to hear, then turns away from the group.
Zana moves to the center of the room, and everyone quiets. “I’ll start by saying that I could only find one occasion in recorded history when this has been done. Several decades before the Great Drain, a Winter Fae royal was born without magic, which was rare back then. The process worked, but it was…messy. It took almost a week for her magic to manifest.”
“That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Gensted says with a snort.
“It’s not meant to be.” Zana smiles, but it’s more tooth than lip. She holds his gaze for a moment before turning to address the rest of the room. “Consider it more…an advisory. I believe I can perform the same transfer ritual to grant you magic, but I can’t assure you there won’t be risks.”
“What kind of risks?” Wren leans forward, elbows on the table.
“The girl’s father, the one who supplied the power, was weakened horribly for quite a while.” She glances at me, then back to the others. “And with only one trial on record, it’s not enough to guarantee none of you will have adverse side effects.”
“That’s not ideal,” I say. With Aphelian looming at our door, I can’t afford to be hampered for more than a day. “But I’m still in.”
Gensted shakes his head slowly. “I’m still not convinced it’s worth the risk… But I owe you. You’ve proven yourself a friend to me, and I stand by my friends. Count me in.”
Zana nods and turns to Wren. Her gaze flickers to me. “Wren, you are an entirely different issue.”
“I am?”
“When Valen came to find you and presented the offer, I didn’t think about the possibility of him finding a ruler with a different family line. The offer was made in good faith, but—”
“But I’m not of royal blood.” Wren’s face falls as Zana’s meaning sinks in.
It makes sense. Magic in the Fae royal lines is different. More potent. It’s rumored that this was how the original monarchs claimed their power. She’s telling Wren we have no way of knowing if magic from a royal line would take root in someone outside of it. It never occurred to me…
“It won’t work for me?” Wren asks, her voice softer now.
“I don’t know that for sure,” Zana says. “It could manifest and not be as powerful—or it might not manifest at all. There’s no way to know until we try. But I can’t, in good conscience, let you continue here without being honest.”
“The Spring court isn’t in shambles, but things are not easy,” Wren says. “You don’t know the half of what I had to do to keep them from becoming monsters. With magic, I believe the Spring Fae can be saved—but nothing short of a miracle will do.” She straightens, and her gaze hardens, determined. “I believe they are worth saving. I need that power.”
That’s two out of three still with us. “Suveo?” I ask. “Are you—”
“If I was no longer in agreement, I would have left already,” he says dismissively.
Zana nods. “Then let’s begin. Please, if you’d all take out the stones I gave you yesterday…”
Everyone pulls out their stones, and Zana ushers them to the center of the room.
“You said it took a week to manifest in the girl.” Gensted quirks a brow as Zana positions him next to Suveo, the others standing in a half circle with me in the center. “Is there any way to speed it up?”
“I don’t think so, no.” Zana sighs. She steps back to address all of us. “As I said, there’s a lot of unknown here. Is there a chance it could happen faster than a week? Yes. But my best guess is, if it happens at all, it will take between twenty-four hours and two weeks.”
“Is that going to be enough time for us to learn control before we have to face Aphelian?” Gensted asks. “We have scarcely over a month.”
“Let’s hope so.” Zana comes to stand behind me. “Now, let’s begin. Place the stone in your right hand, gripped tightly between your thumb and pointer finger. Valen? Hand me yours.”
The moment it leaves my hand, I’m emptier. It’s like the stone stole something from me. Something vital. How could something so small make such an impact?
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind kneeling?”
I do as she asks and don’t miss the way Suveo rolls his eyes. No doubt he feels a monarch should kneel to no one.
Zana places her hands on my shoulders and begins to chant. I don’t understand her words, but considering this is something done back in the days before the Great Drain, I assume it’s Old Fae.
At first, nothing happens. At least that’s how it feels. I keep my eyes closed for several moments, but when I open them, Gensted, Wren, and Suveo are also on the floor. Not kneeling like me, but hunched over, twisted and writhing.
Zana’s grip on my shoulder tightens. “Ashem dedorai Arduea!”
“What—” It’s like someone is reaching inside me, trying to pull out my heart. My soul. “Gods!”
“Shh.” Zana continues to chant, and the intensity, the pressure, grows worse.
I struggle to breathe, falling forward and inadvertently clawing at the ground. My back spasms, and every muscle in my body aches. Air is impossible. There’s something blocking my throat. I try to swallow it back, but it won’t budge, so I try forcing it out, wrenching and heaving so that maybe—just maybe—I can get a single gulp of lifesaving air.
The room is watery, but I can make out my father’s expression. Stricken and pained. His entire body is tense, coiled and fighting hard to remain where he is, on the sidelines. I should have insisted he wait outside. It’s not fair for him to see this. Not after knowing the anguish he felt when he discovered I’d been subjected to panashere.
Panashere… It was a nightmare. Enduring that pain over and over, having it feel like my very soul was being sucked out—I thought it was the worst pain I’d ever feel.
I was wrong. So very wrong.
Something snaps. A series of sickening cracks and crunches, followed by another round of heaving. This time, whatever is lodged in my throat breaks free. I expel the blockage, and it’s… “I— Fuck!”
Thick blue…mist? No. It’s far too thick for that. Sludge? I have no idea what it is, but it pours from my mouth, my nose. It swirls around, then breaks away, creeping toward the others. Gensted, Wren, Suveo—they scream in unison as the sludge forces its way into their mouths, their noses…their eyes and ears.
My muscles, my bones—it’s like they’ve been sucked out right along with everything else. I collapse, unable to hold my own weight. I manage to tilt my head up, though, to see the others. Gensted’s eyes are wide, his mouth open. He’s clawing at his throat with a look of terror in his eyes I sympathize with. The fear is so out of place on him. A warrior in the truest sense—a Fae like him is most alive when they’re fighting. But this foe? This is his nightmare come to life. A poison he hoped to never touch.
Wren’s expression is the opposite. Her arms are spread and welcoming, her eyes glittering with pure, unadulterated greed. She welcomes the sludge. She’s ravenous for it. Where Gensted’s transfer is violent and painful, hers is smooth and almost…pleasurable. It flows into her, even and quick, and she swallows it down like a starving animal, desperate for as much of it as she can get.
Suveo’s head is tilted back, his mouth open. He’s not fearful like Gensted, but neither is he welcoming like Wren. His entire body is stiff, one arm clutching his chest while the other holds him upright. The blue muck invades his mouth, but the transfer is jerky and stuttered, in some ways more violent than Gensted’s. It starts and stops, advancing and receding until he’s gagging.
Slowly, the blue fades. There’s a series of violent coughs, some gasping, and then quiet chatter. I can draw air again, taking in a long, deep breath and letting it wash over me like a comforting snow. Someone calls my name—I think it’s Delkin? But I’m hollow. I don’t answer. I’m no longer Valen. No longer Fae.
No longer cold…