Chapter 51
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
LEINA
I land hard, flat on my ass on the hard rock.
I’m not surprised to find myself back on the same outcropping of stone where I first stepped into the Veil. That part, at least, is reliable. No matter what chaos I wade through on the other side, the Veil always returns me to where I began. It’s the one constant I can count on.
Well—that, and the exhaustion. It’s a kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than swinging your scythe all day, reaping wheat. Or swinging your scythe all day, reaping death. It drags at me, makes me beg for oblivion.
But this? This is different. I rub my chest where my heart hurts, and Vaeloria nuzzles her snout against my chest, like she’s trying to ease the hurt, too. Sweet Serephelle, I saw Leo .
The Elder taps his charcoal against the paper, his brow crinkled in concentration. I think I’m one of the only people in the Synod who gets to see him like this, unguarded, human, and terribly brilliant.
“Well, you did not make it to the rock,” he confirms. As an afterthought, I look dazedly at the rock I’ve missed by a length no longer than my leg.
But I saw Leo.
The Elder doesn’t look up from his scratching notes. “Where did you go?”
I clear my throat. I’ve not lied to him before, but I’m also not ready to tell him this. “I’m not sure,” I say. Not quite a lie.
But not the truth either. The charcoal scratches against the paper, he stops writing so quickly. He knows.
The discomfort hangs between us, but I don’t change my answer and he doesn’t push me for more.
“I think you need to rest,” he says finally, nodding firmly. “Yes. You need a break from the Veil.”
Relief wars with a need to keep going. What if I could go to Seb, next?
“I don’t have time to rest,” I tell him, sitting up and crossing my legs. He tosses me a carafe, and I drain it.
“Time spent in rest is not lost. It is the foundation upon which strength is built.”
“Oh, my gods,” I say, water spewing out of my mouth with my laughter. “You have to stop with those.”
The Elder gifts me a full grin, and it’s a tapestry of movement.
His eyes crinkle up into little crescents, made more prominent by the wrinkles across his forehead and the exaggerated crow’s feet at his eyes.
The wrinkles around his mouth deepen, tracing the history of the countless smiles that came before.
It lingers as he slides his book closed.
“Go rest, Ward Leina of Stormriven. That’s an order. Tomorrow, I want you to join Ryot again. You haven’t had enough time in flight maneuvers and weapons training. We’ll break from Veilwork for a time.”
My heart slams against my chest. Ryot. No matter how hard I’ve tried to find him in the Veil, tried to dream of him since he’s been gone, there’s been nothing. “He’s back from Selencia?”
“Yes.”
That hurts, more than I want it to. He didn’t come looking for me? I jump to my feet.
“What was his report on Selencia?”
“He hasn’t given it.”
I clench my hands against my sides, nails biting into my palms. “When will he give it?” I ask through clenched teeth.
The Elder doesn’t even look at me as he scans his notes.
“When all the players are in place to hear it.”
I take deep breaths, trying to leash the panic clawing its way up my throat. Because I know exactly what Ryot—and Princess Rissa, who demanded to go with him—would have seen in Selencia. The question is, what is the Synod going to do about it?
But if there’s one thing, I’ve learned about the Elder these last few months, it’s that he doesn’t have a sense of urgency. He won’t be rushed.
“How long will we break from Veil training?”
The Elder raises his nose to the air, like he’s sniffing for snow or rain. “Spring should be upon us in another two or three weeks. And then I’m sure the attacks will resume, as they do each year. As to when we resume your Veil training …” He trails off. “Let’s wait and see how your recovery goes.”
Which is Elder-speak for “you’re barely holding it together, and I’d rather not scrape your soul off the Veil’s floor today.”
Since Solmire, the rest of my training—blades, close-quarters combat, survival drills, even aerial maneuvers—has been sparse at best, scattered between long stretches in the Veil. The Elder’s more concerned I’ll vanish into the Veil and never return.
I force myself upright, every movement a quiet war against the pounding in my skull. The headache is vicious—though by now, it’s as familiar to me as my own shadow.
I’m barely steady on my feet when someone crashes into our clearing, their footfalls sharp and deliberate, brimming with fury.
I squint into the gathering dusk, trying to make out the figure weaving through the trees, but the dim light and dense forest blur their edges.
I take a step closer to the Elder. Sigurd and Vaeloria stir uneasily, ears twitching, feathers ruffling, both unsettled by the storm of fury bleeding into our quiet clearing.
They drift to our side, drawn not by command but instinct.
I’m stunned when it’s Ryot who emerges from the cover of the trees.
Sweet Serephelle . Even angry, he’s appealing in a way that makes my knees wobble.
His wounds from Solmire are long gone, and the lighter burdens of winter have treated him exceptionally well.
His skin is tanned from weeks of scouting.
His tunic stretches over broad shoulders, his leather trousers mold to his legs.
Strength rolls beneath the fabric with every furious step.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. I will not be swayed by cheekbones and biceps. Not this time.
“What are you—” I start to ask, but he cuts me off, slamming a heavy book down onto the Elder’s makeshift stone desk with enough force to echo through the trees.
I gasp and lunge forward, snatching up the book.
“What in the hells are you doing?” I shriek, cradling the book protectively. “You can’t treat books like this—do you have any idea how old this is? Look! You’ve torn the spine!” I hold it up for inspection, horrified.
But Ryot doesn’t even glance at me. His gaze is locked on the Elder, eyes blazing.
“Did you know?” he whispers, but it might as well have been a shout for the way it carries.
My mouth falls open. I don’t know which is more shocking—his treatment of the book or the fact that he’s yelling at the Elder. Either offense could get him whipped.
The Elder doesn’t move, but Sigurd surges forward a step, wings flexing, ears pinned, every muscle taut with warning. The Elder raises one hand, calm and deliberate. The great beast halts but doesn’t retreat. He snorts, low and threatening, eyes fixed on Ryot.
“Know what, Ryot?” I ask, looking down at the tome, trying to piece together whatever madness has sent him into this spiral.
There’s no title. The cover is bare. The pages are brittle, crinkling beneath my touch like they might dissolve into dust. Gods above.
This volume is ancient. It never should have been pulled from the shelves.
“Of course you know! You train her every godsdamn day.” Ryot is fuming. I’ve never seen him like this.
Sigurd snorts a warning.
“Know what, Ryot?”
He swings around on me. “That you leave your body behind when you enter the Veil. That your body is left out here,” he gestures around, hands in the air, circling wildly, “completely vulnerable to man or beast while your soul is traipsing around in the godsdamn Veil.”
I squint my eyes at him. He’s gone mad.
“No, it doesn’t,” I counter. That can’t be true—not with the way Vaeloria and I were covered with ash from Solmire. I turn to the Elder for confirmation. “Vaeloria and I—we both go into the Veil. Don’t we?”
The Elder nods his head, but there’s a question in his eyes as he stares at the book I’ve clutched to my chest. “Where did you get that?”
He’s speaking to Ryot. The cold gnaws at my cheeks as I tighten my grip on the book, the battered leather stiff against my frozen fingers. Breath curls from Ryot’s mouth in angry plumes. Even Sigurd’s breath hangs heavy in the air. He can sense the wrongness between us.
“Elandors Veil,” Ryot says, quiet and defiant.
“You stole it.”
It’s not a question. The priests don’t allow anyone else into the temple, not even the Elder.
I shift on my feet, the snow crunching beneath my boots.
A sharp knot of fear twists low in my gut.
My fingers dig deeper into the crumbling book, as if I could somehow erase what’s already been done.
Gods, Ryot. What have you gotten yourself into?
Ryot squares his shoulders, defiant.
The Elder steps closer, his voice dropping even lower, colder, like the icicles that hang from the trees.
“You broke your oath?”
Ryot’s hands clench into fists at his sides.
His face flushes, a spot of furious color against the stark whiteness of the world.
His voice quakes—not with fear, but with fury barely kept in check.
“I didn't break my oath. Our oath was never to obedience. It’s to protection, to saving the world from death. I broke rules—rules meant to keep us blind and obedient.”
My heart twists painfully as I watch Ryot stand his ground.
There’s no hesitation in him, no apology.
And Veil help me, something inside me soars.
I close the gap between us, coming to stand in between him and the Elder.
I hold the mystery book to my chest, not caring nearly so much about its contents as I do about Ryot.
The Elder stands very still, his expression unreadable. Snowflakes cling to the folds of his cloak, to the lines at the corners of his eyes. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, I expect punishment to fall, but it doesn't come.
Instead, the Elder exhales, his breath curling in the air. Something flashes across his face—too fast for me to name it. Not approval, exactly. But not anger either.
“What’s the book, Ryot?”