Chapter 13 Meryn
MERYN
I stand at the palace gates, staring at a patch of shadow on the ground and willing it to move.
Stretch. Do something. High-five me.
Anassa stirs from where she’s curled up on my left side. “Is it possible that you are getting worse at this? It appears that you have made backward progress.”
Sighing, I lean against her, my legs aching.
I squint at the road ahead, which leads downhill to the Northern Quarter and the city I so recently called home.
We’re due to greet the Mother Priestess as she arrives at the castle, but apparently the Faceless Goddess doesn’t keep time, because she’s extremely late.
The crown on my head is starting to make my temples throb. Although, everything makes my temples throb these days. I’ve been continually reinforcing the communication wall against Killian and have almost grown used to the near-constant headache.
“No sage advice on wielding this power, then?”
It’s been two weeks of constant practice, and the pack powers have come surprisingly easy—perhaps because of Anassa’s own sheer strength.
It takes little effort to call a shield or throw an impelling blast. I’ve moved past regular rifting and can now pull a mask around a large surface area.
We’re still expanding our ability to use foresight, and I can now see snatches of a day ahead, sometimes two—but as Siegrid cautioned, the glimpses aren’t always clear.
But shadebending? That’s another thing entirely. The shadows still won’t come at my beck and call. I can’t wield them in any cohesive way. And Siegrid gets more frustrated about it by the day.
“When I want to direct something, I growl at it or bare my teeth, and that usually suffices.”
Experimentally, I let out a low growl at the patch of shadow. You never know.
The castle attendant waiting for the Mother Priestess practically jumps in the air at the sound, and I shoot her a conciliatory smile.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s a Bonded thing.”
“Do not tell the poor child lies. You should never attempt that again,” Anassa says with a huff. “You sounded weaker than a pup.”
I’m saved from having to respond as the priestess’s carriage finally rolls up to the inner gates of the castle. It’s flanked by female guards in flowing robes riding handsome dappled horses. Apparently, she’s arriving in ceremony.
The Mother Priestess arrived in Sturmfrost with Siegrid, but she’s been staying at the Sect of the Faceless Goddess in the city.
Now, with my coronation just a week away, she’ll move into a guest suite in the castle.
Matron Alienor had some religious icons brought in from the city to hang on the walls to welcome her.
All of them creepy, if you ask me. But in fairness, it’s probably hard to represent a faceless entity in a noncreepy way.
Preparing for her arrival makes me antsy. It’s important that I show respect so that we can count the goddess-worshippers among my supporters. My family was never particularly observant, though, and I’m worried about offending her somehow.
Anassa stays seated as the delegation pulls up, out of politeness. Horses often startle when confronted by massive wolves who could eat them as a snack.
“You need not be nervous,” Anassa insists. “These are followers of the old ways, so they should be your most devout supporters, intent on seeing the old line of queens returned.”
I settle my shoulders and step forward, conscious of the heavy crown bearing down on my forehead. It feels too formal for the daytime, but Matron Alienor insisted it was appropriate for greeting someone of this stature.
“Mother Priestess,” I say with hopefully the right level of respect.
“Queen,” she says shortly as she steps down from the carriage. At first, she gives the impression of fragility. She’s short and wizened, with crepey, age-spotted hands and long white hair braided elaborately around her head. She moves slowly, as if afraid to fall.
But then she straightens, and I see the fervent light in her green eyes. It sharpens as it drags up my face and locks onto the crown balanced on my head.
No… this woman is anything but fragile.
She moves toward me with surprising speed, and her gnarled hand reaches for the crown.
I stumble backward, nearly tripping over Anassa, who leaps to her paws and lets out a low warning growl in the priestess’s direction.
The Mother Priestess stills, anger flashing across her face so quickly that I could almost believe I imagined it. Then she raises her hands and says, “My apology, Your Highness. I was astonished to see a Tear.”
“Tear?” I ask, confused.
She points to my crown and says, “May I?”
I look to Anassa for guidance. Something about this just feels… wrong.
“If she tries to run with it, I shall snap her in two. It is safe to let her take a look, if you wish.”
Reaching up, I untangle the heavy golden crown from my hair and pass it gently over to the priestess. She rips it out of my hands greedily, a hint of avarice in her gaze. One finger traces the opal at the center of the crown.
“This is a Goddess Tear,” she says reverently. “It was rumored that a Tear was in the crown of old, but I’d thought it had been lost to the Siphons.”
My brow furrows. Does she mean in Astreona? Or did she somehow know that Killian’s family was all Siphons before I revealed that information?
Her eyes land on me again, and I can’t get in any questions. “Tell me, Meryn Sturmfrost. Are you a true believer?” She strokes the crown lovingly.
I flinch internally. At best, I’ve questioned the existence of the Faceless Goddess, denied it at worst. And this prying seems weighty, intentional—like her judgment of me and my rule will depend on my answer.
But surely I shouldn’t lie to the head of the religion?
“I have found comfort in praying to the Faceless Goddess during times of need,” I answer truthfully, hoping it’s enough.
She sees through me at once. “But you were not raised attending temple services? You have not formed a deep personal relationship with the goddess or any of her stewards? You do not let her grace guide your life in all matters?”
My stomach twists. My first interaction with the woman who is supposed to oversee my coronation, and I’m failing a test I didn’t prepare for.
“No,” I say, mouth dry. “But I hope my lack of a past relationship with the Sect of the Faceless Goddess will not impede my future one. I have an open mind.”
“Hmm.” The Mother Priestess’s hands tighten on the crown, and I get the sudden urge to yank it away from her.
Instead, I hold out a palm. She considers it for a moment and then slowly gives it back. I resettle it on my head.
The Mother Priestess brushes past me, walking swiftly toward the castle with her guards trailing after her. The castle attendant gives me a startled look and then trots after her, shouting, “Let me show you to your chambers, Mother Priestess!”
I let out a tense breath. “What the fuck was that?”
“A zealot,” Anassa replies. “One of the most dangerous types of humans to exist. We must keep an eye on her.”
I nod. Turning back to the castle, I ruefully think of the good first impression I was hoping to make.
Are any of the leaders in Nocturna remotely normal?
The next day, Venna and I have an appointment with a contact she’s found in the Bonded City. He’s a collector; someone who might be able to tell us about the bracelet around my wrist.
Siegrid continues to insist that the engagement bracelet is a nonissue. Once Tormun captures Killian, we can get it removed and the strangeness that’s been corrupting the pack magic will go away.
And he’ll no longer be able to reach any of the Bonded through our pack communication—though so far, the mental barrier Anassa and I erected has held strong.
The way she tells it makes it sound so neat and tidy.
Still, I need to do something. I’m barely sleeping, so worried I’ll end up back in that shadow realm, trapped with Killian. Every time my eye catches on the darkened ruby, it reminds me of the ruinous mistakes I made with him.
A painful shard of grief, encased in an exquisite lie.
If we can figure out what the bracelet is—or, better yet, how to get it off immediately—we can ensure that something like this will never be used again.
Venna and I meet in the back courtyard that faces toward the Bonded City. Izabel, Tomison, and Nevah join us. When I realized where we were going, I insisted that everyone come along. It’s been too long since my friends have had a break or seen their families.
It’s a quick ride to the Bonded City. Izabel and Tomison lead the way on their direwolves, bickering in a way that is obviously flirting, like normal. But Asteio and Filikos are standing closely, their tails occasionally swishing together.
And then… Tomison grabs Izabel’s hand, lacing her fingers with his.
Well, that’s not normal.
I look at Venna and Nevah in shock and sign so that I can hide the question from Izabel and Tomison’s ears.
“Are they…” I don’t have the sign language vocabulary for what I want to say. How have I not asked Venna for a crash course in sex terms? “…together now?”
“For at least a week,” Venna signs back, eyebrows raised.
“And they’re being disgusting,” Nevah shouts at their backs.
Izabel’s head whips over her shoulder, a pissy look on her face. “Are you talking about us? You know, you’re being kind of a bitch for someone who kept begging us to ‘just fuck already.’”
Nevah throws her hands in the air. “Yeah, I thought the two of you would get it out of your systems and then move on. But no! It’s Izzy this and Tomtom that and sex everywhere! I am so tired of seeing your tits, Izabel!”
I burst into laughter. “Izzy? Tomtom?”
Tomison grins slyly, although his face is about as red as his hair. He holds out an arm, beckoning her. “Aww, Nev. Sorry if we’ve been making you uncomfortable.”