23. Chapter 23 #3
Trisda’s gaze sharpens. “The end of days is upon us, child. The veil between Heaven and Hell is falling. The gods, the dragons, and the wraiths are arriving on the undertow of Doomsday’s inevitable wrath, preparing for the second reckoning.
” She studies me with such scolding intensity that I fear her cinder stare will burn a hole straight through my heart.
“The raven is coming,” she adds, like it’s a matter of fact.
“I believe that she is already here, walking amongst us, as inconspicuous as a shadow on the wall, unaware of who she even is. They say the Goddess of Whispers has returned in anticipation of the war ahead.”
Silence flutters between us. It gobbles up my questions before I have time to spit them out. What if Trisda is the Goddess of Whispers in disguise? What if she’s feeding me with her lies in an attempt to plump up my mind, so that she can eat me later, in her lair beneath the tide?
“I should probably get back to the castle,” I say, swallowing down what feels like shards of glass, each one tearing up my esophagus. “My friends must be worried sick.”
“They celebrate your escape as we speak.” Her voice is like an omen diluted with sleep, as though she’s tirelessly working to summon up the effort to care about such petty things as friendships and loyalty.
“How do you know that?” I demand.
“I am a Truthseer, child.” She waves me off. “I know many things.”
“But…”
“You will see them again soon, do not fret.”
I want to ask her when I will see my friends again, and where, but something much heavier is weighing on my mind, leaving an empty void in my chest where my heart once resided.
The raven is coming…
Or perhaps she is already here…
Unaware of who she even is…
“Bearing the silver blood of the wraiths,” I recall from the prophecy.
“What does that even mean?” I curl my fingers into my palms as desperation sinks its teeth in, clawing at the possibilities of what…
I… am. An abomination, perhaps? The catalyst to the end of the world?
Or just a regular girl who’s been swept up by a torrent of nonsense? The latter would make the most sense.
Trisda stands. She whisks a pot of mulligan soup off the stove with her oven mitts, then sets it on the table between us.
I watch in silence as its frothy steam wafts up in curls, emitting hints of rosemary and thyme into my nostrils.
“Your stomach is roaring louder than the dragon outside,” she observes.
“You must eat to reserve your strength.”
I stare at the sloshing liquid and wonder whether or not it’s poisoned. Meanwhile, Trisda slides an empty bowl in my direction and fills it with some of the soupy concoction.
“You inquired about the silver blood of the wraiths,” she continues.
“Ah yes, let’s see…” Her eyes linger on the ceiling.
“There was once a formidable wraith king named King Hadziel Shadowborne, Lord of the Shadow Halls. He ruled over Hell, the wraiths, and all things demonic. He was a tyrant beloved by his people, until he did something deplorable. He fell in love. Not with just anyone, but with the dragon queen herself, Queen Absinthe of Skaldrathia, who became pregnant.” She sips her tea thoughtfully.
“The wraith-child was born from silver blood and fire magic, sired by a father of darkness and a mother of light. She grew up to become known as the Raven Queen, the woman who wielded the Sentinel Key during the War of the Wraiths. She would have brought the dragons to victory, had she not chosen love instead, just like her father.” She tuts something inaudible under her breath before adding, “And ultimately, she met her death.”
I gnaw on my bottom lip. “That sounds tragic.”
Trisda cocks a wispy brow, her eyes twinkling for the first time since we’ve met. “You would know all about silver blood, wouldn’t you, Shadow?”
Instinctively, I reach for my wrist to conceal my spellmark, only to realize that it’s already hidden by my sleeve.
“Eat,” she reminds me, her eyes darkening like a raccoon.
“You must reserve your strength. One day, you will be given a choice. To join the darkness, or to remain in the light. What you decide shall change the world.”
I spit out my soup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Trisda leans forward. “You are the raven that they seek, are you not?” Her gaze falls on my forearm, like she can see straight through my sleeve.
“I am no one but a shadow,” I protest.
“You underestimate the power of the shadows, girl.” She glowers at my bowl of soup, then goes to rinse out her own bowl in the sink.
The faucet sounds like a screeching pipe organ, but it’s still better than her voice as she sings, “From an endless lake, she shall draw forth a key of rebirth and destruction. With it, she shall halt Doomsday’s inevitable wrath, or else the realm shall fall into forever darkness. ”
I slam my fists on the table. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I came here to find the Mother of Chaos. Not be swept up by some ridiculous Doomsday prophecy. This was a mistake.”
“Your greatest truth harbors deep within you, waiting to be unveiled.” Trisda’s eyes turn into foggy ovals as she snaps her head my way. “But be warned child, revealing the Mother of Chaos shall shift the sands of fate and time, and from that, the prophecy shall come to light.”
“Thanks for the free food.” My stomach heaves as I stand up and turn to leave. I can only handle so much prophetic scripture before I burst into smithereens.
Trisda returns to the table, stuffs her deck of cards into a pretty velvet bag with frills, and clasps it shut. “The dragon is gone. But he is coming,” she warns, setting the bag aside.
“Who is coming?”
“The dragon has transformed into a man,” she explains quickly. “And within these walls, a man is much more of a threat to you than a dragon is. You must leave this place at once.” She reaches under the table and unveils a nimble sword.
I stare at the weapon in silence, paying special attention to its beautiful hilt, which is wrapped in black, rich leather perfection, and is almost as magnificent as the sleek curvature of its steel is. It’s weightless yet lethal, like a haunting whisper of death.
“I’m not a fighter,” I rasp, even though every atom in my body is buzzing in protest.
“Something tells me that’s a lie,” Trisda says, angling her head a bit too far to the right.
“Fine,” I grit out. “I was a fighter once, but I’ve since vowed never to take up a weapon again.
” My breath comes to a standstill as the weapon calls out to me again.
Trisda must sense my draw to it, because she smiles, steps around the table, and opens my crammed-up fist. Then she peels back my fingers one by one before stuffing the sword’s handle into my grip.
Upon closer inspection, I notice a phrase engraved into its blade.
Eskuti ascari mar tasunni. Whatever that means.
“You were not abandoned like you think you were, Little Bird,” she says, eyeing me wearily. “You were set free to take flight.”
I stare at the sword in shock, the immense weight of her words rolling off my shoulders and settling into my hands. “What did you just call me?”
“You are the raven,” she says, reaching back under the table and withdrawing a sheathe this time. She helps slip the sheathe onto my back and then adds, “Fighting is in your blood. Now you must go, before he comes.” She jerks her chin toward the door, signaling that this conversation is over.
“Before who comes?” I ask, sheathing my new sword onto my back just as the door flies open. A screaming gust of wind shrieks through the hut. Trisda scurries away into a shadowy corner as an intruder barges in, his body so enormous that it blocks the wind from howling at us.
I shield my eyes and stare at him, mouth agape.
He’s clad in white leather armor, looking like a washed-out angel devoid of color, aside from those pensive-blue eyes and that dragon-hide bandolier draped across his broad chest, which is brimming with weapons.
He nods in my direction as he slams the door shut, his voice as deep and as menacing as the dragon’s roar outside was.
“You.” One syllable, yet the words feel like a million meteorites colliding into my heart at once.
Me? I glance helplessly over at Trisda, who makes no move to intervene. I suppose that the only assistance the crazy old bat could offer me anyway would be to throw what remains of her lukewarm soup into the intruder’s objectively handsome face.
“You’re coming with me,” he says as he sweeps across the room, his hair an avalanche of ice, framing a set of very narrow, very intense eyes.
I look to the rune stones cluttering the windowsills and imagine Trisda using one to clobber him upside the head—only to learn that the back door is propped open, and she’s gone.
That cowardly wench.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” I say as I unsheathe my new blade, which feels right in my grasp, like I’ve grown another limb. “I’ve already made this fact very clear to all the men who have ever looked at me like that, some of whom are no longer alive, I might add.”
“Do you often kill unsuspecting men after you seduce them?” the intruder asks point blank. It’s hard to fathom that only moments ago, he was a formidable fire-breathing dragon with wings.
“Am I seducing you?” I ask, sarcasm dripping off my tongue. Perhaps if I kiss him, he’ll become so intoxicated by the venom in my voice that he’ll drop dead. Then I’d be able to say that I slayed a dragon.
The stranger takes a step forward. “I’m here by the royal decree of my father, King Sylas Skornborn, Veilbreaker, first of his name, leader of the Ice Clan, and ruler of Skaldrathia. Will you come with me willingly, or will you force me to make you my hostage?”
My eyes narrow as I grip the hilt of my sword tighter. “I thought the dragons were supposed to be dead.”