Chapter Twenty-Two
G riff comes to not long after Meiji draws in his last breath.
Watching him take in the devastated condition of Meiji’s body is not an easy task, and Griff’s remained silent ever since. I find myself wondering if it's out of grief, or from the heartbreak that accompanies a goodbye-less parting.
With everyone helping, it doesn’t take long to collect and assemble a make-shift pyre. During the process, I spot scattered headless bodies littered across the ground. I count sixteen. Sixteen Abdites. And that’s not even including the Abdite Griff beheaded, Dridus, or Lexamon.
To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge.
It seems like some fictional story the people of Solaya would tell its children before bed.
A band of Abdites, totaling nineteen corrupted wielders, was in a cursed valley, attempting to kidnap their “key”—whatever the hell that even means—but then three wielders were able to make their stand and emerge victorious. If this is what you call victory.
That is perhaps the bit of information I find the hardest to reconcile. That somehow, Gray, Kiran, and Draven were able to defeat them. Three wielders overcoming nineteen Abdites is entirely unheard of.
Which leaves me wondering…
Just how strong are Kiran and Draven?
Because I know Gray is both a strong and competent fighter and wielder, but I also know he’s not of the caliber to accomplish that sort of feat without considerable aid.
Though I guess it's not like they got away unscathed.
They look like they went through hell and back, and without a healer, they have to endure whatever still afflicts their bodies.
I make a silent note to offer to assess their injuries and create some sort of tonic or salve from the plants Gray collected this morning.
This morning .
A jarring realization.
Though perhaps it is more like yesterday morning now that dawn is on the horizon. Regardless, it feels like worlds away—almost like an entirely different life. Perhaps it was. Perhaps leaving that field of flowers behind was like leaving my old self—my old life—behind with it.
Once everything is ready, Draven and Kiran—as delicately as they possibly can—carry Meiji’s deteriorated body onto the pyre.
With heavy eyes and silent mouths, we all watch as fire pours from Kiran’s palms, igniting the wood that will help guide his path to the afterlife.
As the pyre goes up in flames, swallowing the final remains of his existence, the sky awakens with first light, casting the world in a hazy gray.
Strange, really. The way the forming colors of the rising dawn paint such a beautiful backdrop for something so horrific. It reminds me of something. Of a blotted red sky that also boasted behind wicked flames, incinerating the innocence from my veins, leaving me inexplicably empty.
Griff breaks the weighted silence first. “He didn’t deserve this.”
“No,” Kiran agrees, his words sewn with the threads of grief. “He did not.”
I look away from the flames and to Kiran, who stands to my left, then to Gray, who remains on my right. When I glance down, I’m shocked to see Gray holding my hand, quietly offering me comfort.
How had I not felt his touch? Not noticed his fingers intertwined with mine?
Griff, positioned on the other side of Gray, mutters, “Who is going to tell Nuha?”
“I will,” Draven answers in an uncharacteristically soft voice, standing to the left of Kiran.
From the sides of my eyes, I glimpse Kiran rest a hand on Draven’s broad shoulder. “I’ll be there as well. No reason for doing it alone.” I could have imagined it, but the last sentence sounded a bit pointed.
Draven says nothing.
“She’s going to be crushed,” Griff murmurs. “I’ve never seen anyone look at someone the way they looked at each other.”
Kiran’s tender voice drops an octave. “Indeed.” A pause. “Do you know if there were any temples he had hoped to be burned in?”
Griff rubs at the back of his neck. “Nuha would definitely be better suited to answer this, but I believe so, yes. He once spoke of someday venturing to the Elwood Forest to find Araceli’s waters. He also frequently made offerings to Morwenna. So…maybe both were options?”
Both deities do make sense for a healer to align with.
It is also not uncommon for a healer to dream of venturing to find the legendary waters located somewhere deep within the Elwood Forest. It’s rumored the water possesses unparalleled healing properties, and perhaps even more.
But his intrigue with myth probably doesn’t equate to him wanting to be burned in Araceli’s temple.
“If he made offerings to Morwenna, I’d wager his preference was to be burned in the goddess’s temple,” I murmur.
Kiran continues staring at the building flames. “Does anyone know one of Morwenna’s hymns?”
Gray clears his throat. “I—uh…I don’t know the words, but I do have my double-flute with me. I’m familiar with Ballad of the Tide , Morwenna’s favorite song. I can play it, if you like.”
“Please,” Kiran replies through a soft breath. He sounds so tired.
Gray wordlessly unlatches his satchel, rummages through its contents, and then pulls out an instrument featuring two elongated flutes fused side-by-side, carved from pale wood, with staggered finger holes. Ornate carvings line the wood, and leather pieces are strapped around it.
I remember the day he received the instrument. Azalea’s eyes welled with tears, and Gray’s were not far off.
Gray wets his lips, and then the haunting melody echoes through the wind as he plays.
Between the burning pyre, the grief hanging heavy in the air, the streaks of dawn zipping across the horizon, and the lingering notes of the double-flute, it’s as if a hypnotic trance falls over everyone.
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. We just stand and stare.
Some with tears spilling over the rims of their eyes, others with hollowed expressions.
Before I know it, the song is finished, and Gray is putting his double-flute away while Griff swipes tears from his cheeks. Kiran clears his throat, sweeping his emotions aside.
“I suppose I should collect the Abdites' bodies and burn them as well,” he murmurs.
“I’ll help you,” Gray offers.
“Me too.” Griff’s voice is raspy, thick with lingering sadness.
They shuffle in the opposite direction, their movements stiffened and slowed by the night’s events.
Only Draven remains.
My eyes stay glued to the flames. “I understand what you mean now.” I surprise even myself at how hollow I sound.
He is silent for a moment. “About?”
“Training. You told me you train so you can protect anyone. So you’ll never be forced to your knees.
” I finally tear my eyes from the fire and look at him, surprised to find his gaze already pinned on me.
“I’m not only going to best them,” I continue, holding the weight of his stare.
“I’m going to get revenge . On all of them.
On the King of Rivara. On the Abdites. On the nobles who treated me like I was worthless.
I am going to pass the entrance exams into Bathara, refine my magic, and then someday, I am going to make them all cower at my feet. ”
Draven remains quiet, something inscrutable passing through his eyes. Finally, he murmurs, “Revenge isn’t everything, and you shouldn’t get caught up in it.” His brows lower with thought. “What did the Abdites say to you, exactly?”
I huff a sardonic laugh. “You really want to know? They told me I was their ‘key’, and that, ‘the one hunting me won’t rest until I’m theirs.’”
“Does that mean anything to you?”
A heavy curve forms in my brow. “I haven’t the slightest clue what that means.
My magic just manifested a few days ago.
I have no wielder’s mark. I possess no noble heritage.
No qualities or traits worthy of comment.
I’m nothing—a nobody. Why anyone would go through such trouble to kidnap me is beyond my comprehension; I’m not worth it.
” I feel a drop in my chest, followed by a subtle ache, and suddenly, I am so exhausted.
My voice softens. “At one point, I thought King Alastair sent them to indulge his twisted sense of entertainment, but…that wasn’t him. I know it wasn’t.”
Draven watches me closely. “Why would you suspect King Alastair? What does he have to do with any of this?”
I return my gaze to the burning pyre. “You know I plan to compete for a place at Bathara, and I tell you my magic manifested only a few days ago with no mark, yet that’s what you focus on?”
I glimpse his shrug through my peripheral.
“It’s the only thing I find relevant at the moment.
Plus, I already knew something was off with your magic.
Not only from its feel, but by the fact that, even in the face of an Abdite attack, you never once wielded it.
” I glance at him sidelong and see him tilt his head.
“Which, by the way, you really need to get that figured out. You won’t make it through the exams if you can’t even draw on your magic at will. ”
“Naturally,” I mutter, unenthused. A beat of silence. “Wait, you can feel my magic?”
He nods. “Most wielders can. Lakt? senses lakt?. I just happen to be exceptionally good at it.”
I slide him a look, a deep curve in my brow. “Of course you are.”
A low noise hums in the back of his throat, and Draven folds his arms across his chest. “You’re avoiding the question. What does King Alastair have to do with anything?”
I rub at the spot between my brows. Yet I give in, deciding there’s really nothing to lose at this point. I lift my finger, revealing the tiny blood droplet inked into my skin.
Draven steps toward me and leans forward, his face scrunching. “A blood wager.”
“A blood wager,” I repeat dryly.
“Why?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I consider whether or not to tell him— how much to tell him. But it seems my exhaustion from the night’s events has loosened my tongue, because I share almost everything.
“Before my magic manifested,” I begin. “I was a night attendant for the king, blood-sworn to serve him. But I was nothing more than a decoration for his parties. I hated it. Hated him. So, I made a blood wager: if I pass the entrance exams and am offered admittance into Bathara, he’ll release me from his service and grant me my freedom.
But if I fail, I must give him an heir.”
Draven’s brows furrow. “It’s rumored the king is sterile.”
I scoff, the sound bitter. “Those are no rumors. He is.”
He hesitates, his eyes narrowing on me. “And yet if you lose, you’re expected to give him an heir? Not even the best healer is able to do that. Not yet, at least.”
I’m quiet for a long time. “I may or may not have led him to believe otherwise.”
“And he believed you?”
My shoulders rise and fall with a careless shrug. “He had good reason to.”
I can practically feel Draven’s stare boring into me. “And that is?”
I glance at him sidelong. “I’ve already shared enough with you—a complete stranger for all intents and purposes. Forgive me if I don’t feel like sharing anything else.”
Something flickers in his expression, but ultimately, he sighs and turns back toward the pyre. “You know the penalty for breaking a blood wager, right?”
I numbly stare at the glowing flames. “I do, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to lose. I will not let King Alastair win.”
Draven nods. “Good.”