29. Kiera
Chapter 29
Kiera
T here are wars that no one sees. Battles that no one knows anything about. Battles of the mind and wars of the soul. Ophelia used to tell me that only those who fight know what it means to be truly peaceful. Pacifism is a beautiful ideal, but it is a death sentence in a world where few would hesitate to cleave your head from your body to get what they desire.
I lie awake well into the night thinking of this even as the shadows of Ortus dance around me. Spiders creep through the walls, the sounds of their little feet like soothing music to lull me into a sense of safety. I don’t let them.
When the moon is high in the night sky, the thin beams shining in through my bedroom window, I toss back the covers and get up. It’s late, but there’s no use in sleeping when there is much to be done.
I put on my boots, tying the laces tight to my ankles and calves as I gather every weapon I’d managed to bring with me. Two daggers at my back, a vial of poison on a string around my neck, and little else. The door to my room creaks open and then shuts on rusty hinges. I pause for a moment with my back to the wall as I wait to see if the Darkhavens will wake to follow me. When nothing happens, no doors open, I start walking. Down the hall and across the next. I vaguely remember the direction that Niall had been taken before, where all of the Terra seem to disappear to at the end of the days, and I follow it.
The further I get from the dorm residences for Mortal Gods, the worse the upkeep of Ortus seems. More cobwebs, long claw marks dragged down the sides of stone walls—as if great beasts had once been dragged through these corridors. I reach behind me and check to make sure my daggers are still in place as I blend into the shadows.
They become me and I become them. Letting my mind drift into the dark, I gather them to my body and wrap myself in their cool embrace. The sense of allowing the darkness to sink into my skin is something else entirely. My hands shake, though, with the effort it takes. Over the last few weeks, it’s been easier to sense the underlying buzz of power I’ve always held, but now it feels as if I’m back in my childhood. As if the brimstone in my nape is forcing down all of my abilities and after being freed for such a limited time, they are chafing at the constraints.
Sweat beads upon my brow. My breaths come in soft but silent pants. Still, I walk on, moving with wraith-like efficiency through corridor after corridor until finally, I hear a disruption to the unnatural silence. Stopping, I turn and let my body meld into the wall, the shadows swirling around me concealing me from view as two sets of booted feet echo in the near distance. The possessors of said feet come into my line of sight a moment later.
Zalika and Nubo. I narrow my gaze on them as they walk together, side by side, their heads tilted towards each other as they speak in low voices.
“—Gods are expecting a great celebration following the hunt,” Zalika says, her tone sharper than I remember. Gone is the imitation of devotion and kindness in her voice. It’s been replaced by what I suspect is her actual self. Cold. Authoritative.
When they pass me, neither glance in my direction and I can’t hold back the stretch of a smile across my lips. Pivoting, I trail after them, listening to the strings of their conversation as the shadows move under me, smoothing my way and silencing any sound my footfalls might make in their wake.
“The God King will desire a throne,” Zalika continues.
“It will be done,” Nubo replies.
I catch onto the shadows as they connect together through the dimly lit corridor and float in front of them to see their faces as they talk. Unlike Zalika, Nubo's voice hasn’t changed at all and his facial expression remains as even and unemotional as ever. The two look like the twins of a moon. One side dark and secretive and the other pale and impassive.
Between them both, though Zalika’s power and taciturn manner puts me on edge, it is the lack of … anything that I get from Nubo that truly concerns me.
One can tell a lot about how a person fights based on how they act, but Nubo has no impression in his tone. None in his face. None in his movements. He’s like a corpse given life.
Regis had claimed that Carcel had attacked him with dead men. That he was working with some unnamed God that gave him the ability, but who would have that power? Could Nubo have a connection?
Despite my desire to head towards the Terra rooms and find Niall, catching these two discussing matters concerning the Gods is a stroke of luck that we’ve needed. So, I follow them. All through the halls as they discuss a grand celebration that will come after the Hunt—the Venatus Ceremony, Ruen had given as its true name.
Three ceremonial rites. Three ways to lessen our powers and steal from their own offspring. Shadows slip through my fingers and around my legs and arms, licking at my flesh, stroking as if to calm me.
The tendrils of black power curve around me, holding me, comforting me. It calms the racing of my heart and lets me return to my current mission: finding out everything that Zalika and Nubo have planned for the Gods.
At an intersection of two longer corridors, the two Mortal God Terra stop. “One last thing,” Zalika murmurs.
Swirling them, consumed by the shadows, my skin rises into little bumps along my arms and legs beneath my clothes. I ignore the silent warning as I drift ever closer, needing to hear more.
Zalika’s voice drops to a whisper. “Make sure that your man on the mainland gets rid of the rising mortal army.”
Mortal army? There is no mortal army. A shiver chases down my arm, another warning as sweat drips from my temple. The shadows curling around me loosen their grip and I feel stone underneath my feet. Dragging them back with effort, I lean against the wall and hold my breath.
“Once the ceremonies are complete, the Gods will have the means to end it themselves, but until then, I want to make sure that they have nothing to worry about.”
Nubo bobs his head, the glint of a nearby torch hanging from the wall shining over his bald scalp. Blinking, I jerk my gaze to it as the shadow of something like a skeleton’s outline shines through. Not just a head covered in flesh but a true skull. Sunken in eyes, an invisible nose that is nothing but twin slits, and the white of bone.
Nubo isn’t a Mortal God. He’s an undead creature. A dead man. Regis. Puzzle pieces click together. Carcel. Nubo’s man on the mainland. The mortal army. Regis and Ophelia are raising an army. That must be what they’re talking about.
I stumble back and would have fallen were it not for the shadows that catch me and heft me back up. The back of my tunic is drenched in sweat that forces the fabric to cling to my spine, chilling me all over.
The Gods are losing power. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but if they can’t even stop whatever army Regis and Ophelia are cobbling together, then that must mean that Caedmon’s predictions are correct. We do have a chance. I can kill him and if I can kill him … we can be free. Truly free.
Nubo and Zalika separate, each going their own way, and as soon as they’re around corners, I release a long breath. My shadows disintegrate in an instant. With a shaky hand, I push a strand of silver hair out of my face and plant my other on the wall to steady my trembling body. For some reason, maintaining my shadows for so long has left me feeling as though I’ve run nonstop for several days and nights. My thighs shake as I take a step back the way I’d come only to come up short when I realize exactly where I am.
Turning my head as cool air sucks down one of the four corridors—a darkened one that I know leads to a fake dead end. The prison entrance. I consider going there, taking the stairs that lead down, and coming face to face with the woman trapped below.
Ariadne. Goddess of Darkness and Shadows. My mother. My God parent.
I close my eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. Not since I was a veritable child barely into my adolescence have I felt this depleted by expending so much power. Even if I wanted to face my God parent right now, my legs don’t have the energy to make the trek.
My throat catches and I gag, hunching over as I take another step away from the corridor. The bones in my legs seize, refusing to move as I come to a standstill with my side pressed to the cold stone as more sweat drips down my back and face. Panting, my joints protest as my hair falls back into my face and I lift an arm to push it away again.
The gray walls of the corridor pivot and turn, twisting into an unending spiral. Bile burns up my insides, pushing harder to get into my throat and out of my mouth. I clench my teeth together, feeling the quiet whistle of air in and out.
No, I silently command. I am the one in control of my body and I decide when and where I can succumb to my own deficiencies. Now is not that time.
As if to prove that to myself, I grind down against the hard floor under me, making sure it’s still there and not over my head like my eyes are telling me. I lift it to take another step forward and it disappears completely out from under me.
My hand leaves the wall to catch myself as I fall, but it’s too late. The ground rushes up and the darkness of oblivion descends. I barely have a moment before my head cracks into the stone below to realize that the shadows haven’t abandoned me at all, they hover just out of reach—slithering up and down the air around me as if trying to breach an invisible barrier.
Arms sweep me up, slender and soft. The scent of sunshine and summer invades my nostrils. I inhale deeply, trying to place the scent as weights drag my eyelids down, refusing me entry to the visible world.
“Shhhh.” A gentle feminine voice whispers to me. “You are safe, Neptis. You are safe now.”
The woman’s voice is as tender as her arms are strong. For the first time in a long time, I actually believe her. If she says I’m safe then, maybe, I finally am.