Chapter 11
Kyrja had never been down the corridor her father led them along, and the farther they walked, the more she questioned that the palace even extended so far in this direction.
Windows had given way to solid obsidian walls, and the last view she’d seen from them said they were underground now. Within Mt. Helviti.
She’d known the palace was built into the base of the mountain, but…into the mountain? How had she lived here all her life and never known this?
Because she’d never been allowed much beyond the residential wing, not unless it was for a specific purpose and with a chaperone.
Well, her father was right about one thing.
There was much she didn’t know about the working of Fjordlandi.
Her father’s court. The Two Councils. And every new bit she learned in the last month with and for Nik made the ice fracture in her veins and the Song from the Grand Kyrka hum through her mind.
This was not right. This was not what the Giver wanted for them. This was not justice.
A month now, she’d been trying to learn.
Trying to discern what the Giver wanted from her, why he’d sent his anointing through those crystal channels.
She hadn’t dared go back to the Grand Kyrka, not after her midnight return to the palace after visiting Raf had nearly seen her caught.
But she’d found a ready teacher in Nik, and his eyes, when he looked at her, didn’t burn with that same weight of demand that the dominie’s had.
A month. A single month, but everything in her world had shifted.
She should have been preparing for her big Blessing Day celebration today, which Mamma and Freya had spent months planning.
She should have been donning a gown right now and having her hair done, after a full two days of mineral baths and pampering and laughing with the other girls in her family—even Krystiana would have put aside her foul temper for the occasion. Probably.
But of course, that celebration had been canceled in light of the attack.
So instead, Kyrja had spent the last twenty-four hours poring over every book and data crystal she could find on legal procedures to remind her of what she’d been learning, refreshing herself on her rights and duties as the Heir, the warden, a de facto head of the High Council.
Anything she could find that would help her help Nik.
He’d looked so resigned in the High Council chamber. So horrified when Fodur had drawn that stone blade over his finger and felt the rising of his mark.
She remembered her own ceremony, when they’d Awakened her Blessing.
She’d only been five, but she remembered with startling clarity.
The barely-felt kiss of the blade. The surge of heat, so intense it was pain, in her palm.
The sting when Einar’s blood touched her veins.
The race of power through her little body, the sudden opening of a sense she’d never had before.
Awareness of water surging up, like an awareness of light on her skin or thirst on her tongue or sound in her ears.
But this…Curse, as Fodur called it? She didn’t know what to make of that. Something deep inside, where the Song still hummed, said it wasn’t what her father tried to make it sound like. It wasn’t evidence of evil.
Until Perla had declared it a half-finished Awakening though, Kyrja hadn’t connected the dots. Now she did, and her mind raced.
Fire magic—that was what the woman whose arm linked with hers had called it. And she hadn’t seemed surprised, exactly. More…expectant. And eager. Eager to take this magic to her own country.
That meant it was powerful, desired—and not known there. Which meant it was something new, something given to them, to Fjordlandi, like wind magic had been given to Daryatla a hundred and fifty years ago.
Which begged the very question Perla had put to Fodur: Why would he want to destroy it rather than harness it?
It made no sense. None. It wasn’t just illogical, it was in opposition to everything her father ever acted on. He was not one to destroy what could give him more power. He was one to claim it.
Unless he deemed it harmful to his goals. Beyond his control.
It was a mess, all of it, and Kyrja had no idea what she could do to stop it.
Legally, her hands were tied. The only role the Heir could play in the execution of justice was to verify it was done according to the rules.
And though Fodur had bent them, he’d given lip service enough that if she argued, she could be held in contempt and stripped of her honorary seat on the High Council.
She could do no good to Nik or the rest of their people if she was locked in her room. She could do precious little now.
They reached what looked to be a dead end, a wall ahead of them to match the ones on either side.
Fodur waved a hand though, and she sensed channels of ice inside the obsidian that thawed, flowed, and released a lock.
Another command from him and the flow of water split the wall into two perfect halves, both of which slid away to reveal…
A cave?
Heat blasted up, rolled out, and the sting of sulfur clawed at her nose.
Volcano—they’d made their way into the heart of Mt. Helviti, and the ledge Fodur led their group out onto overlooked the mountain’s fiery throat. He pushed the heat back with a wall of ice, though she could feel the effort it took, the constant replenishing.
As they passed into the dark with its ominous red-orange glow coming up from below, Perla leaned close. “I’m going to create a distraction. If you want this man to live, then at my mark, cut your finger, his, and give him your blood. Do you understand?”
Her blood to his would finish the Awakening—it was usually done with water as a conduit, but wound-to-wound would do the same work, just without the instant cleansing and healing. And if he had fire magic, then…what? Would that save him from the heat of the volcano?
Because her father’s words suddenly rang with new clarity.
May the flame be your judge and the lava your executor, if it finds you worthy of death.
Kyrja nodded, throat too tight even for a whisper.
The twelve members of the High Council arrayed themselves in a line, six on either side of Fodur, who stood before a rocky outcropping that stretched several feet over the glowing abyss, several yards away from where Kyrja, Perla, and Nik stopped just inside the door that slid closed again behind them.
When the visiting princess released Kyrja’s arm and took a step forward into that empty space, Kyrja closed the sudden gap between her and Nik and called water from the air, into her hand. Froze it into a blade of ice.
Wind roared, whipped, bursting through Fodur’s wall of ice, capturing noxious clouds of yellow fumes and pulling them toward the Council. They all shrieked, coughed, spun to avoid the gas. Kyrja sliced her finger, reached for Nik’s, opened a cut where the first Blade had bit him.
Nik tried to pull his hand away—instinct, no doubt—but she held it fast and caught his gaze. “Trust me,” she said. Then she let the ice melt in the blasting heat and pressed her bleeding finger to his.
He stopped fighting the moment she asked for his trust—a gift, one she’d asked for so many times with children in the clinic. Trust me. I won’t hurt you. Trust me, I want to help. Trust me. Joy had always filled her when a little one stopped squirming and let her ease their pain.
It was something even brighter, even weightier when Nik locked his gaze to hers and went still.
Then, fire. It streaked through her hand, up her arm, straight to her heart, which pounded like the guard’s drums.
Not like her own Awakening. Because Einar’s magic was the same as her own? Because it was fire in Nik’s blood, not ice? Or was it something else, something more? Something that made her draw in a sharp breath and look at this man who’d become a friend in a way she’d never done before.
Made her see the green of his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the breadth of his shoulders in a new light.
In the crowds of the streets, he’d just been a rare brunette thane. In the chaos of the bombing, he’d been strong arms to aid those who needed him. In the dark of the prison, he’d been a keen mind and a quick smile.
Now? Now she realized he was beautiful. Always had been—but now she saw, and she realized what it meant.
The beauty of the Awakened.
How? Where did it come from? Fodur’s words, about angels and daemons, made no sense—not coming from him. He didn’t even believe in creatures of spirit. He couldn’t possibly think they’d taken on corporeal form and created unions with mankind.
As for her own fledgling beliefs, she didn’t know. And would have to sort it out later, because Perla was already clearing the air and turning back to them with a smirk, her gaze dropping to their red-smeared fingers. She met Kyrja’s gaze. “It worked?”
Kyrja dropped Nik’s hand, veins still buzzing, skin still prickling all up and down her arms. She pulled more water from a spring to stop the bleeding of her finger. “It worked.”
“What worked?” Nik sounded breathless, as dazed as he’d looked after the mark appeared on his palm. “What was that?”
“Your salvation, if I’m right.” Perla took his left hand with one of hers, placed the opposite palm against his cheek. “Do not fear. The Triada is with you.”
Snow whipped around them, turning to rain before it could even sting Kyrja’s skin. Fodur, for all his endless lecturing about the dangers of emotion, looked locked in cold fury as he glared at Perla. “Your Highness, interfering with our legal—”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Perla spun back to face him, curtsying low. “Please, forgive my loss of control. I have never been so near a volcano before, to know how to regulate the winds and gases rising in the cone. Is everyone all right? I subdued them again as soon as I could.”