Chapter 54 #2
It took her far too long to sift through the wreckage of her heart and mind to register the words. “A month?” It was a wonder she didn’t scream.
Magnus’s sigh was like a weighted breeze, pressing down on her even as it fluttered the wispy hairs clinging to her clammy skin. “Aye.”
Brand had been taken four weeks ago. Four weeks. Four…
Fuck. No. No, no, no.
Lunara scrambled to throw the blanket from herself. She couldn’t lay here for another second. Had to get up and—
“Where do you think you’re blimmin’ going?”
She’d heard that rasping tone exactly once in her life, in the most unlikely of places.
Fern.
A verdant streak, just like she’d seen before tumbling into her unnatural sleep, and the Fae was perched at the end of her bed.
Awake. She was awake.
“Shite.” Magnus cleared his throat. “About that…”
“So, you see, we have to keep her hidden. Only those closest have been allowed into your chamber, and only after she’s had a good look at them to tell me how they make her… feel.”
Magnus had sent everyone away, refusing to tell her anything until they were alone. Fern had looked on throughout, correcting him when he’d made some perceived error, her pride shining through the feigned boredom.
“She’s not left your room, and only the family and Lyriat know she’s awake. We have yet to discover who the culprit is, but at least those who matter most have been cleared of guilt.”
Lunara zig-zagged back and forth, gathering everything she could possibly need in her search and sending it into the ether for later, cataloguing all of the new information as she went.
The biggest relief was that her mistrust of Vann had been misplaced. At least, so far as him being any sort of murderous villain. There was no question he was hiding something, but it was one of those problems for another day.
“Concealing her will be easy, but we’ll need to make everyone else believe she’s still here,” she said, stuffing random clothes into a pack and magicking the mass away.
Brand’s dagger stared at her from its perch on the mantle, still stuck through the belt he’d slung around her waist that night.
Stay with her, he’d said—and it had, somehow.
Choosing to leave it behind was one of the hardest decisions she’d ever made, but if the worst happened and she lost that piece of him—
No. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Concealed or not, I won’t be leaving you. My life is yours until my debt is paid.”
Lunara straightened and looked at Fern, shaking her head. “There’s no debt, I already told you that.”
Approximately a thousand times, but who’s counting?
Before Magnus had delved into the whole story, she’d tried to grapple with the wall in Fern’s mind again, to see what had gone wrong.
All she could surmise was that the opening she’d made was too small for more of Fern’s self to come through.
Fortunately or unfortunately, she’d refused further treatment, citing—once more—that Lunara had done enough and there were more pressing matters.
Her language had been somewhat more colorful, though. In fact, she was maybe taking her amnesia too well, all things considered.
“Fuck off,” Fern said, waving her hand. “You’ve saved me twice, and you clearly need help. What are you going to do with those, eh?”
Lunara looked down at the dirty gardening gloves in her hand. “Um…”
“Exactly. Take a breath. You’re all over the twigging place.”
There wasn’t fucking time to take a breath. She had to find Brand.
“I don’t need help. I need to leave.” For some asinine reason, she sent the gloves to the ether, refusing to look at either Magnus or Fern as she did it. “Hedda and Faldir aren’t coming. They, along with Baldrir and Nyri, can pretend they’re still guarding her to keep appearances.”
“Fuck.”
Lunara stilled at his tone, goosebumps crawling over her skin. “What is it?”
Magnus stood and crossed the room, stopping in front of her. “There are still… We haven’t… Fuck.” His hands scrubbed over his face and into his matted hair.
“What?”
“We’ve been searching the rubble, but it’s a lot even for the Demons and their power. Everyone is exhausted and…”
“Spit it out, Magnus,” she hissed.
“The night of the attack, a group was lost. Nyri, along with Bal and about a dozen others, have yet to be found in the wreckage.”
“No, that’s not possible.”
Isn’t it, though? Think about it.
There wasn’t a creature in all of Bordoroth with enough power to stop Nyriadne when she wanted something, and the young Demon would have fought horn and fist to be allowed in to see her.
Except, Lunara hadn’t laid eyes on her since waking.
Fury, hot and swift, slammed into her. “Why was she down there?!” Her palms smacked into Magnus’s chest. “Who let her go? Who let that happen?” Again. “She’s barely more than a child!”
A sweet, innocent being. A perfect friend. This couldn’t be happening. Not Nyri, too. Not Baldrir.
Lunara was utterly out of control. Couldn’t breathe. It was too much.
“Aye,” Magnus growled, gripping her wrists to stop the blows. “I’m of a mind to agree with you, so stop bleeding hitting me.”
Too much. Too much. Another dream.
No. A waking nightmare. A cruel reality.
“You think you’re the only one who’s pissed? We all have vengeance in our veins, witchling.” Magnus released her with a sigh. “I know everything seems lost right now, and I know you want to find them, but one step at a time. We’ve got choices to make, and I’d prefer they weren’t shite ones.”
Something pulled at the back of her mind, her ears ringing. “What did you just say?”
He gave her a funny look as he repeated himself, another voice layering over his.
The Voice. All of her words—at home, here in Straelon, in the cave…
Pressure, swift and pounding, filled her skull.
“This is the moment they planned for. It’s time. But still, there’s a split—a moth-shaped divide. Tell me, Sorcerit, will your answer be right? Or will you consign us to doom-colored night?”
Lunara found herself flitting through the air again, apart from her body and taking in the scene from above as the Oracle spoke into her mind with hushed intensity, fervent delight in every syllable.
“When all is dark and the ground swims beneath you…”
A vision of the Realm Rivers crashing down below, when she’d discovered she was the Keeper and tried to end herself.
“When the waves crash and the world thunders…”
A vision of Brand springing from the bed, when the dreadbeasts attacked the Horned City. When she’d been powerless to stop that insidious creature from taking her mate.
“When red mist lands and the wrong hands free you…”
A vision of the sienna dust falling to her skin, when she’d awoken in the crumbled tower and Magnus had rescued her.
“When everything is lost and there’s only one way left to find it…’”
A vision of Nyri’s grinning face at every turn. Of Baldrir, whole and hale, jogging behind her onto the practice field. Of Demons celebrating their Occurrence with glorious abandon.
Of Brand wrapped around her, his lips whispering over her skin.
Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Her mate. Her friends. Even her fucking sanity was hanging by a thread.
“You must remember—only poor choices shaped the others, and you are not the same. You will need your fear to find your fate.”
Fear. Fate.
Brand was her fate. His love. His light. The teeming life he offered. Certainty filled her, eradicating any possible doubt as she flew lower, ghosting over her own frozen form.
But her fear…
“Find power in patience, have patience with power. Hold both within you and wield vengeance that blinds. With fangs and mist, balance and majesty, a moth spreads its wings with bonded ferocity.”
Power. That was her greatest fear. Being hunted for it, used for it, oppressed for it. So, she’d run. Buried her head in the sand. Rejected her status as an Elder. And when she’d realized what she really was, she’d been more willing to end it all than to face it.
“Do not fear the rising ruin, do not fear the light it brings. Triumph rests there, in the palm of twilight’s acceptance.”
Her acceptance.
If Brand was her fate, then she would need her power to find him.
The power of a Keeper.
She came back to her body just in time to watch the moth she’d freed before the Occurrence landing on the sill, the window cracked open behind it.
It seemed to stare back at her, its viridescent wings fanning and contracting before it took off into the night beyond, the Voice—the Oracle—leaving with her.
“I know what to do.” Lunara heard herself say the words, hardly believing they were leaving her lips.
She hadn’t before. Not really. Her only plan had been to slip away from whoever insisted on accompanying her so she could go blindly bumbling into the chasms one-by-one without endangering anyone.
She didn’t need to do that anymore. Not when all of the answers were right there, inside of her.
Magnus stepped closer, head dropping so he could meet her eyes. “Anything, witchling, and I will help you. We’ll all help you.”
“I am the Evesong’s cursed blessing.” Lunara looked up at him. “And I am ready.”
Ready to claim Illamiata.
Ready to wield that blinding vengeance.
Ready… for Brand.