Chapter 3 Emory #2
She didn’t finish her thought, eyes darting to an unsuspecting Elín with profound sadness. Emory understood. Orfeyi clearly hadn’t defeated the Soulless One.
“Did Orfeyi have a mark like this?” she asked, showing Inga the spiral scar on her wrist.
Inga’s eyes went wide. “Yes. That—you are Godstouched too?”
“Sort of. We’re not exactly from around here.”
Virgil choked on a laugh. “That’s a subtle way of saying we’re from another world.”
Emory shot him a look. But Inga didn’t seem fazed by this in the slightest.
She gave them a sly smile. “I know where you’re from.
Travelers from other worlds. The Veiled Atlas.
” She pointed to Vera, then Vivyan—who both had a Veiled Atlas compass hanging from their neck.
Inga produced her own identical compass.
“This was passed down from elder to elder, each of us tasked with watching over the door that leads into our world, waiting for the travelers we knew would one day come and help us stop the Soulless One.”
Emory put the pieces together in her mind. If Orfeyi had the mark and, supposedly, a power unlike anyone else, he had to be this world’s key, called to the sea of ash to bring back the Celestials—Atheia—the same way all the other keys had been called there too.
A realization struck her. The Soulless One that Inga described…
if it wasn’t Sidraeus—couldn’t possibly be—then it had to be Clover.
He must have stepped into the Soulless One’s shoes, so to speak; made himself into the villain of these people’s mythology.
Taken Sidraeus’s place and twisted his role into something entirely evil.
Clover had wormed his way into the sea of ash, absorbed all the power from the original keys, then from the gods’ fountain itself, growing into this monstrous thing he now was.
Then, unable to reopen the doors back to other worlds, he must have found a way to at least keep the Godsgate open between the sea of ash and this world that was so intricately connected to it.
An extension of his prison, which he’d then lorded over for years as the Soulless One.
The original Soulless One, the real Sidraeus, was never feared here.
When he and Atheia disappeared—he, imprisoned in the sleeping realm, and she, splintered across worlds—the magic in this world remained in the Songless, with their ability to wield lightning bolts, and in those who sang to the skies, calling on the magic of whom they believed to be the Celestials.
The same way people from Emory’s world still had magic from the Tides and the Shadow, even after the deities had left their shores.
The same way witches were blessed by the Sculptress, and some, like Bryony, were hellwraiths touched by a netherdemon, the dark rival of the Sculptress.
The same way the draconic knights were given hearts of gold made of dragon flame, this gift created by their Forger, and the Night Bringer’s eldritch beasts still roamed the Heartland.
Sidraeus and Atheia’s magics lived on in these worlds without them. A legacy unbroken.
Until Clover.
Because now that the worlds were dying, now that magic was on the verge of extinction, that legacy would fade. There would be nothing left but Clover and his reign of terror.
Unless they found a way to stop him.
“We’re trying to get to the Godsgate,” Emory said. “To stop the Soulless One from making himself into something even more evil. If he succeeds… Orfeyi will die. Along with three of our friends who’ve been taken captive with him.”
Inga went pale but gave a resolute nod. “We will send our best rangers to guide you to the foot of the mountains. But only those who are Godstouched can go up the mountains themselves. You will have to go the rest of the way alone.”
They talked of preparations and logistics, deciding they would stay the night to get properly warm and rested for the first time since they’d arrived in this world. In the morning, they would leave.
“One last thing,” Inga said. “Orfeyi has with him a golden lyre. The instrument is ancient, hailing from the era when our pantheon of gods still ruled the skies. Back then, there was a myriad of such instruments, each one tied to a different Celestial, all lost or broken now like the temples they were forged in. But this lyre is something we have kept safe for centuries. It is rumored to have been the original instrument with which the Celestials gave life to the universe. We believe it to have many powers, one of them being the ability to bring back the Celestials and ask for their favor in healing our world. In the hands of someone like Orfeyi, it has the potential to do wonders. But in the hands of the Soulless One…” Her face was ashen. “It could spell the end of everything.”
“This lyre,” Nisha said, “it sounds like the one the guardian has in the book.”
The beginning of an idea formed in Emory’s mind. “Are there other such instruments? One that might have been tied to the Soulless One as he once was?”
When Inga hesitated, Emory told the elder her theory. That the one terrorizing their world now wasn’t the Soulless One of old, but Clover, someone from her own world. That the real Soulless One was gone, just as the Celestials were.
Inga sat with this information for a few minutes.
Slowly, she said, “There are rumors of a great number of powerful instruments hidden in the ruins of old temples to the gods like the one you found up there. Most of these temples are high in the mountains you will travel through to reach the Godsgate. If what you say is true… well, there are stories of a syrinx.”
“Did she say a syringe?” Virgil whispered in Vera’s ear. She swatted him with an annoyed shh.
“A syrinx is a pan flute,” Inga said with an indulgent smile. “It is said to be made entirely of glass, formed by lightning striking sand. According to legend, it once was able to tame even the most destructive storms and quell all chaos.”
Lightning. Storms. Chaos. This had to be tied to the Soulless One.
The elder peered at Emory. “Be careful in the temples. The Songless have been drawn to them of late, as you witnessed firsthand. We do not know what power resides in these ruins. Evil loves to fill the empty spaces left by divinity.”
Emory understood that better than Inga knew.
She thought of what the Selenic Order had believed about whoever managed to bring back the Tides.
That they would earn the Tides’ favor, be able to use it for whatever they desired.
If the people in this world believed something similar about the Celestials, that whoever brought them back might earn their favor…
What if it was all true? What if, by bringing Atheia back, Clover would have control over her?
And by bringing Sidraeus back, he’d have control over him, too.
Over both deities, who would then be powerless against him as he used them to make himself into a god.
Unless someone else brought Sidraeus back first—earned his favor.
And wielded it against Clover.
Emory found the crowned umbra in the sleepscape again.
The dream was the same as last time. Dovermere. The hourglass. The tree trapped inside. Glass shattering, Sidraeus appearing in his shadow form. And again, they were in that empty space surrounded by the chilling presence of a thousand invisible eyes.
This time, at least, Sidraeus did not attack her.
Back so soon? his voice crooned. Can I take this to mean you’re ready to repay your debt?
Emory hugged her arms to ward against the cold and the unsettling feeling of being watched. “You keep talking about this debt I owe you,” she said, “but what about yours?”
Mine? came his baffled reply.
“All those Tidecallers you sacrificed.”
The ones whose blood had been spilled to seal the doors between worlds—Sidraeus’s own creations, whom the gods had viewed as such a threat to their godhood, they’d been ready to burn down their realms and rebuild them from scratch just to ensure such a power never saw the light of day.
“Saving my life doesn’t make up for what you did to them.”
Emory regretted saying anything at all as the swirling shadows around Sidraeus thickened dangerously, those fathomless eyes of his sucking her in like black holes.
I’ve already told you their sacrifice was inevitable, he said, low and threatening. And this isn’t about them. This is about what you can do for me.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” she asked, if only to defuse the tension, indulge him for a second.
The shadows seemed to retract a bit. I would have asked that you bring a body into the sleeping realm so that I might possess it as I did Keiran, Sidraeus said. But I suspect you’re too far from the door to reach me in time.
“Is there no other way to reunite you with your true form? Without Atheia being brought back first, I mean.” Or her friends having to die.
If there was, do you really think I’d still be wasting away here?
“The people in this world believe there are ancient instruments able to summon their gods,” Emory pushed, watching for his reaction. “A lyre that might bring back the Celestials and earn their favor. A pan flute that could do the same for the Soulless One. They call it the syrinx.”
Ghostly voices rose in an incoherent cacophony, as if summoned by the name. Emory had the distinct impression they were trying to tell her something, but her focus remained on Sidraeus—and the cold fury that emanated from him as shadows thickened around his form.
The syrinx, he repeated, is said to be lost.
He didn’t deny the potential it had to summon him, and Emory latched onto this wild hope dawning inside her. “What if I find it? If I bring you back with it and—”
No. If you find that cursed instrument, you must destroy it.
There was something hiding beneath the strain of his voice that she hadn’t expected. Fear, she thought. From the ruler of nightmares himself.
“Why?” she asked.
Because if it were to fall in Clover’s hands, he would use it to bind me to his will, rendering me powerless. But break the syrinx, and I will help you defeat him once I regain my true form.
Emory shook her head. “It’ll be too late by then.”
His voice lashed out in exasperated anger. Your friends will die, Tidecaller. The sooner you accept that you cannot save them, the better.
“I can’t do that.”
Then you condemn us both to die too.
He spoke it as incontestable fact, but Emory knew it to be a lie. The fear in his voice at her mention of the syrinx, the ghosts’ agitated whispers in the dark—they were proof of this instrument’s power, of what she now knew with utter certainty she must do with it.
“No one has to die if I find the syrinx,” she told Sidraeus. “Not to break it, but to use it as you say Clover would.”
To bind Sidraeus to her own will.
As the weight of her words settled between them, Emory willed her subconscious to wake, leaving the dream and him behind before the angry, swirling shadows that lashed out of him could reach her.