45
She awoke in her bed, nerves frayed, with Malik and an unfamiliar healer at her side, both of them peering down at her curiously. This healer was a woman, but she wore the same rich robes as Healer Das. Though unlike him, she did not have that discomfiting leering light in her eyes.
“Drink this, dear. It’ll settle your stomach,” she said softly, handing her a warm mug. “You’ve been out for a couple hours.”
Valine scented peppermint, ginger, and chamomile so without hesitation she sipped it. It was exactly what she had smelled and she smiled timidly at the healer.
“What happened?” Malik asked uncharacteristically softly. His hand moved towards her, but he seemed to think better of it before he made contact. She stifled the wave of disappointment that washed through her.
“I…I don’t remember,” she lied, eyes flickering over to the healer. The healer, not being an idiot, noticed this and stood without offense.
“I will leave you two alone, but please call for me if you feel unwell. This heat gets to people. I will call for an aethermancer to circulate more air in your suite.”
“Thank you,” Valine said, shamefaced.
The kindly healer left with a small smile and a nod. On slippered feet, she disappeared from the room.
Malik searched her eyes the moment the door shut with a final click. “What happened?”
Valine sighed and leaned back against the pillows, exhausted but telling him everything—apart from the revelation that she was going to be his queen and that he’d already fallen for her. She refused to acknowledge that as truth. By the end of her explanation, her mug was empty, and her nerves had settled. She was peering down into the blue glaze of the pottery mug she held, trying to stare through it so that Malik wouldn’t detect the little untruths she’d peppered in the tale.
“You truly believe this was Nylantia?” Malik asked from his newly standing position beside her, running his hands through his hair.
“I told you—I saw her, Malik. It was really her.”
“Fucking Vitus and Mrithun, shit, and fuck,” he spit, pacing around the room, pulling at his hair. “Valine, this is not good.”
“You think I don’t know this?” she groused from her nest of blankets. The room was fairly warm, but she was chilled to the bone, no doubt from an encounter from the patroness. “And what is Call of the Phoenix supposed to mean?”
Malik froze and looked up at her slowly. “What did she say about that?”
Valine narrowed her brows. “I told you—she said that I needed to find it.”
“You did not,” he said flatly. “You said once you found the call. You didn’t say what call you referred to. Did you leave anything else out?”
Valine swallowed. “Yes.”
“What,” he said curtly. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
Valine set her teeth, looking askance. “It was personal.”
“So, you don’t want to tell me.”
“Not yet,” she whispered.
The air was charged, and the tension in the room was palpable. She refused to meet his eyes, but she could see him in her periphery, his frame seemingly held up by stress and ambition.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Valine startled, watching him draw nearer. She was even more shocked when he sat on the end of her bed, staring at the turquoise bedspread. His fingers traced a line of gold thread, gliding over her covered ankle, and there he began to swirl patterns on her calf.
“So, you don’t know what the Call of the Phoenix is?” Malik asked lowly.
“No, should I?”
“I’m surprised you don’t. It is a tool or a spell to summon a firebird to you, to make it your familiar. I was wondering why it was coming up in conversation more often.”
“That’s impossible,” Valine sputtered. “Phoenixes are only loyal to their own. They do not answer to anyone.”
“Not impossible, but incredibly rare.” Malik continued his swirls. “Phoenixes will only answer to the blood of Seraphina or Mrithun.”
“How does that help us?”
Malik slowly lifted his head, his gold-blue eyes held a wild gleam. “What did Nylantia call you?”
Daughter of Mrithun.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been referred to as such. The arachne that judged her had also called her that.
“You don’t think…” Valine breathed, panic lacing through her blood.
“I think exactly that,” Malik said slowly—cautiously. “I think you are truly a daughter of Mrithun. Not just in the sense of your necromantic abilities but in blood. It would make sense. Why you were able to kill the sand serpents with your magic, a feat no one else has replicated. You are an undiluted line of Mrithun. You are as potent as it gets.”
Valine felt anxiety sliding through her.
“The patrons years past had visited humans and sired heirs. It is not as commonplace now, but surely not impossible. Are there any other necromancers in your family?” he asked, reaching for her hand. He took it as she shook her head. “Did you ever wonder?”
“No,” she breathed. “I’ve always been told I look like my father, that I inherited his temper.”
The more she thought about it, the more she questioned it. Did she truly look like the man who’d half-assed raised her? He had dark eyes like her, yes, but who’s to say that Mrithun didn’t also have dark eyes? And of her temper, surely the lord of death stoked rage now and then? But maybe that fury was all hers since she lived in a kingdom oppressive towards women, designed for the benefit of men. Was it true? Was she truly not the daughter of Dáinn Desdemon?
“I need to get air,” she gasped, leaping from the bed and grabbing a cloak as well as her satchel of menstrual pads. She slipped on a pair of boots—not her thigh-high ones—and made for the door.
“Wait!” Malik grabbed her by her upper arm. They met eyes, and she didn’t see anger there, she saw understanding and conviction. “Please be safe and come back to me.”
“I will,” she said, a sense of déjà vu taking over her. Before she could change her mind, she swept from the room and made for a destination and distraction. She knew what she was going to do—the question was if it would work.