Chapter 42
Elara
Elara woke to scratchy grass against her cheek and arm. A pair of beady eyes stared into hers, a forked tongue flicking out of the creature’s mouth with a soft hiss. Get up, Lysandra pleaded. Elara exhaled in relief that the onyx serpent was her familiar.
Where are we? Elara asked silently, too unnerved by the circle of dense forest surrounding them to speak aloud.
The massive trees loomed overhead, tall enough to block out the sky, and groaned around them.
The forest was ancient and alive with a strange humming that she felt in her bones.
The freshness of spring leaves masked the rot hidden beneath.
Step into the mist, Elara. She’s waiting.
Elara tried not to cringe at the unusual feeling of scales against her skin as Lysandra curled around her arm like a gauntlet.
Mist swirled at the base of the largest tree at one edge of the clearing.
It glowed with an odd shimmering blue light.
Elara crawled toward it on hands and knees, her head throbbing as she got closer.
When the pain was so intense that she feared she might faint, she reached out her fingertips as if she could grasp the light.
The forest fell away, and the pain subsided as the mist swallowed Elara. She looked around, seeing nothing but endless softly glowing clouds.
“What do I do now?” Elara asked Lysandra.
Wait. Quiet your mind. She will come.
Elara’s heart pounded against her chest. She counted her breaths, trying to fend off the panic clawing at her the longer she waited.
After what felt like an eternity, the mist began to clear, and Elara found herself surrounded by more unusual trees.
Head back as she gazed skyward to their vast canopy, her mouth fell open.
These loomed over her like palaces, wreathed in gold and silver, fitted with stained glass windows of every color and lit from within.
The jewel-toned leaves glistened in the breeze, sending a shiver down her spine.
She looked around, her dread growing, and felt claustrophobic after staring at an open void for so long.
Lysandra slithered down Elara’s nightgown before shifting into her raven form. The bird hopped a few paces, then flapped up onto a low tree branch. There, she spoke into Elara’s mind.
Elara looked in the direction Lysandra’s beak was pointing. A snow-white deer materialized between two trees and began striding toward them. Elara jumped as something grazed her shoulder.
“Hello, Princess.” A voice as old and deep as time itself sounded directly behind her.
Elara turned away from the deer slowly, finding a slender hand upon her shoulder. A woman wearing a flowing white gown and a veil obscuring her face stood inches away.
“Tell me, child, what brings you here?” the woman asked.
“I’m not sure. Where is here, exactly?” She flinched as the deer’s wet nose brushed her fingertips. The warmth of its breath against her palm comforted her, and it nudged her until she stroked its face.
“My familiar—Della.” The shrouded lady nodded to the deer in introduction.
Lysandra cawed from her perch. Elara said, “Oh, this is Lysandra. I’m—”
“Princess Elara Evensong,” the woman said.
“You know me?”
“I’ve been watching you since you were a babe.” The woman moved her hand from Elara’s shoulder to her cheek, the long sleeve of her gown rippling.
Elara steeled herself against the stranger’s cold touch. Questions flooded her mind, but her lips refused to shape the words, as if she were in a dream, watching herself from just outside her own body.
Is this another vision? she asked Lysandra.
The raven cocked her head and blinked. Yes. You’re safe here, Elara. Calm your mind.
Closing her eyes, Elara focused on one thought and forced her mouth to move. “Tell me what I am.”
The woman sighed and stroked Elara’s cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Elara froze—the motherly gesture wasn’t what she’d expected.
“Come with me, and I will show you what you wish to know. But I warn you, the truth is dangerous.” She placed a hand on either side of Elara’s face, pressing her cheeks firmly. “You must be strong, Elara,” she said, her tone now more serious than somber. “Do not give in to temptation.”
The woman touched her forehead to Elara’s.
A flash of blinding light transported Elara once more, landing her amidst pure chaos.
Black smoke thick enough to shield the rising sun darkened the sky.
Screams of pain washed over muck and piles of writhing bodies—a battleground.
Mercifully, she couldn’t smell the stench of the blood and excrement that had turned the earth to mud beneath her feet.
Familiarity dawned on her. “I’ve seen this before,” Elara said, her voice somehow carrying over the din. “There’s a tapestry in my home’s library.”
She stepped over a body, stooping to examine the filthy uniform. Emerald green. Like Father’s—my—soldiers. The next of the fallen wore forest brown, a house color she was unfamiliar with. The woman’s arms were covered in vine-like markings, reminiscent of Caelan’s sigils but far more extensive.
“Who are they?”
“Your ancestors,” the shrouded lady answered.
“No, the others.” Elara pointed to the woman in brown.
“Your ancestors.”
Elara stared at her, adrenaline racing through her veins.
The shrouded lady pointed to one moment of stillness amongst the chaos of the battle.
A brown-clad medic, denoted by a gray flag on the battlefield, tended to one of the fallen.
The medic pushed the soldier so that he was lying prone, facing the sky.
A wave of nausea overtook Elara as she beheld the gash across his face.
Blood dribbled out of his mouth and over his broad chin.
The cut was bone-deep, running from his forehead to his jaw over a now-empty socket where his eye had once been.
The medic kneeled at his side and wiped her bloodied hands on an already-soiled apron.
She placed her hands on either side of his face with tenderness and sang.
It was a lullaby that Elara recognized—the same that her mother had sung for her and Thalia hundreds of times as children.
When the last sweet note faded into the roar of the ongoing fight, a soft glow emanated from the medic’s hands, soon surrounding both her and the wounded soldier.
Elara leaned forward, disbelief sending a chill down her limbs.
As the light faded and the medic slumped onto her side, exhausted, the soldier gulped in a huge breath and bolted upright.
The gash was nothing more than a white-lined scar on his otherwise handsome face.
Recognition colored his features as he beheld the limp woman at his side and cradled her in his arms, glancing around and preparing to run them both to safety.
His gaze met Elara’s, and though she knew instinctively he couldn’t see her, she shivered.
He had a new eye, as bright blue as a summer sky, while his other was a golden brown.
“How?” Elara asked.
The shrouded lady pressed her palm to Elara’s forehead.
Blinding brightness flashed before her eyes, and then the woman transported Elara again.
Pots of tinctures bubbled on the stove, and a curtain of air-drying herbs hung on the far wall.
This scene was intimately familiar to her—they stood in the infirmary back at the palace.
She watched herself holding a cold rag to Caelan’s forehead, willing him to survive after his father’s assault a few weeks ago.
“You know how,” the woman whispered behind her. “You have done it before.”
Elara watched as her past self’s hand glowed, just as the medic’s had in the last vision, and, as she pressed the rag onto Caelan’s forehead again, the light entered him. She slumped forward, her face pressed to his chest, unconscious. Lysandra, in her feline form, hopped up into her lap.
Elara shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she said in disbelief.
“You have the gift within you. You can call on it at any time to heal others. It is a simple matter of will, as you also have the skill.” The shrouded lady pressed her palm into Elara’s forehead once more. “There is one more thing you must witness.”
Elara closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was standing outside the window of a strange cabin—the dwelling carved into a smaller tree than the gilded ones from her first vision.
A fire roared in the hearth, boiling a cauldron of fragrant, earthy stew, and a little girl played with corn husk dolls at her father’s feet.
The father was unwell—he was too thin, his bones sticking out, visible even under the thick blanket draped over his shoulders.
A woman—his wife—brought him a steaming cup, and he beamed at her.
She smiled, the expression full of sorrow, and stroked his stubbled cheek.
The wife’s grim face, as she turned to tend the fire, unsettled Elara.
“Can’t she heal him?” she asked.
Before the shrouded woman could answer, a cup shattered on the floor.
The girl shrieked, and the wife rushed back to her husband’s side.
His eyes stared ahead, unseeing. Dead. His wife placed her hands on his chest, the light of her healing glow forcing Elara to shield her eyes.
The man came back to life—his black hair now streaked with white—and embraced his wife and daughter.
Before Elara could rejoice with them, another young girl materialized in a doorway off the main room.
She was pale as a ghost, and as quickly as she appeared, she dropped to the floor, lifeless.
The healer and her husband fell to their knees, weeping.
The sound of their despair etched itself into Elara’s mind.
“Only death can pay for life,” said the shrouded lady, bowing her veiled head.
Unable to control her impulse, Elara wrapped her arms around the strange woman.
It was like embracing a statue—the shrouded lady had no warmth, no pulse, no life to her figure.
Still, as the shrouded lady wrapped her arms around Elara’s back, Elara felt a familiar warmth in the connection between them.
“Farewell, Elara, until we meet again. Use your gifts wisely.”
At last, Elara returned to her body in Caelan’s bed, reaching out to his sleeping form beside her. She fitted herself against his chest, his heartbeat soothing her ragged spirit. Lysandra was waiting for her atop the blanket, lifting her feline head in surprise.
What did she show you? she asked inside Elara’s mind. Elara dragged the back of her hand over her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her mind was reeling with the violence, death, and life she’d just witnessed.
I have some difficult decisions to make. I’ll tell you more later, she told Lysandra, hands shaking.
Lysandra blinked at her, then crawled over to her legs and nuzzled her shins. Whenever you are ready.
Elara couldn’t help but smile at her familiar, reaching to stroke her fur with a trembling hand. This changes everything.