Chapter Twelve
The world beyond our island is restless. The wind brings grief and rage. The seas churn. I have watched the goddess walk the shores, her eyes fixed on the eastern horizon. Something vast and terrible is coming, and I admit, I am afraid.
The lost journal of High Priestess Tona
The relatively small library near Aleksi’s chamber had been a refuge for Naia. On the nights when borrowed dreams and memories had torn her from sleep, she had made her way here. Of all the rooms in Gwynira’s palace, it was her favorite—close and cozy and safe.
This time, as she left Aleksi and Einar sleeping in their giant bed and crept out of the bedroom and toward the library, she was not in need of solace.
Tonight, she wanted information.
She had idly perused the shelves before, noting that most of the collected volumes seemed to have been brought over from the Empire’s mainland.
But, here and there, scattered amongst the rest, Naia had found books that were different.
They had unique bindings, and their delicate pages were filled with an indecipherable language that had elicited curiosity and longing.
She reached for those books first. Written Rahvekyan was very formal, almost stilted in comparison to the far more relaxed verbal syntax of everyday speech.
It had been reserved mainly for religious texts, official diplomatic missives, and royal decrees, with most people preferring a simpler syllabary, one that represented sounds and more closely matched the patterns of the spoken language.
Was Naia the only person left in the world who could read this?
She tore through the volumes, scanning the pages for any mentions of Theron.
It was the one thing no one in the palace seemed to know, not even in the vaguest terms—what had become of the storm god after Naia’s death?
The servants she’d questioned had all had different stories, legends passed down from their grandparents’ grandparents.
He had stayed on as she had asked, remaining in Rahvekya to help her people.
He had fled, unable to bear the grinding pain of living on the island in her absence.
It was the last story that made her want to fold in on herself in despair: that he had died that day along with her.
Naia’s stomach lurched. She set aside the useless book in her hand and reached for another, then another, then another. But not a single volume possessed the answers she so desperately sought.
The door swung open, admitting a stream of palace staff.
Two men headed for the hearth to stoke the fire, while others placed serving trays on the tables situated near the chairs.
There was a jug of warmed wine, its spicy-sweet scent filling the room, and small bowls of nuts, dried meats, and cheeses.
Another woman draped soft-looking woven blankets across the back of each chair, while another, a short brunette with wide eyes, began to pick up the books that Naia had left scattered about.
“Thank you,” Naia murmured. “I did not take careful notice of where the books were shelved, and then I did not want to put them in the wrong place.”
The young woman paused in her task and turned to pin Naia with a look of shock. “You need not tidy the room, my lady.”
“But I’m the one who dragged out all the books,” she countered. “So I am grateful that you know where they belong.”
The girl blushed. “The categorization system is distinctive, but simple enough once you’ve learned it.”
“Are you an archivist?”
“Goddess, no.” She seemed to realize what she’d said, and stammered, “I—I mean—”
Naia had to rescue her from herself. “What is your name?”
“Tilly, ma’am.”
“Well, Tilly.” Naia passed her the last book, the one she still held in her hands. “You seem like an archivist to me.”
She responded with a shy smile, one that lingered as she placed the book into a void on the shelf. Then she turned and joined the rest of the staff as they clustered near the door.
Waiting for her blessing.
“Thank you all,” she murmured. “The island will not forget what you’ve done for me.”
The words elicited such joy, and that joy no longer confused Naia. These people had been waiting many generations—thousands of years—for some sign that their beliefs were true. That their goddess had not died and left them completely alone. That she would, one day, return to them.
Naia was fiercely glad she could give them this comfort for the cost of only a few words.
They filed out, silently closing the door behind them. Naia bypassed the chairs, sinking instead to the plush rug in front of the fire. She stared into the flames, and tears tracked down her cheeks as she gave in and finally let herself truly feel the frustrations of the night.
“See? I told you,” Aleksi murmured from the doorway. “Here she is.”
Einar edged past him. His brow smoothed at the sight of her, then furrowed again when she hastily dried her cheeks. “Naia?”
She managed a smile and patted the rug next to her. “Would you like some wine?”
Aleksi rubbed Einar’s shoulder, urging him forward. “Sit. I’ll serve it.”
Einar joined her, settling so near that she could feel the warmth of his body. He’d pulled on a shirt but left it unlaced, and she toyed with one of the laces as he pulled her closer. “Were you having trouble sleeping again?”
She reclined against him, resting her elbow on his hard thigh. “Yes.”
“More dreams?” Aleksi asked as he filled one of the metal mugs.
Naia hesitated. Attributing her restlessness to the usual causes would be simple, and they would not question it. But it would be a lie, and she did not want that clouding the warm quiet of the night.
But neither did she want to admit the truth. Confessing that she’d left their bed to frantically search for even a slip of information about a lover she knew to be long dead? How could that not feel like a slight, even if they thought they understood?
In the end, she gave them a different truth. “So much has happened.”
Einar ran a gentle hand over her shoulder and down to her back, rubbing in soothing circles. “It must be overwhelming.”
Naia swallowed the taste of guilt and offered them another half truth.
“I’m the only one left. It shouldn’t matter, should it?
I was alone for so long in the beginning, just me and the island.
But now it seems . . . tragic that there’s no one left who remembers.
Even Petya and Jinevra weren’t born until hundreds of years after . . .” She trailed off, unable to say it.
Aleksi lowered himself to the rug with preternatural grace, not spilling a drop of wine on the rich cream-colored fur. “You feel alone,” he whispered.
“I am alone.”
“Naia—”
“In this, Aleksi.” She took the mug he offered, but caught his hand before he could pull away. “I know that you are here.”
He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “And we’re not going anywhere.”
Einar cradled his own mug and watched her carefully. “Does it hurt to talk about it, or would it help? I think Petya liked to tell me the stories so there would be someone else who remembered, even if I could never truly know them the way she did.”
He had asked before, in the little glade, and here he was, asking again. There was little chance that talking about the past could cheer Naia, but Einar was so hungry for details . . .
And it might help him remember. “What would you like to hear?”
His lips tugged into a self-conscious, almost bashful smile. “Honestly? Everything. Anything you want to share. I’ve heard the stories for so long . . .”
She opened her mouth to tell him something lighthearted and meaningless, something no one else could ever have told him. Something that would light the joy and wonder in his beautiful eyes.
What came out was “I knew I was going to die.”
Einar stilled. “You knew about the war between Sorin and the High Court?”
She shook her head as she placed her mug of wine on the stone floor beyond the perimeter of the rug.
“I wasn’t privy to those events happening across the seas.
I just . . . knew. Someday, there would be a great calamity, and I would give my life to save my people.
” A memory washed over her, dragging a laugh from her aching throat.
“I told one of my priestesses once, and she cried for a solid week. I never made that mistake again.”
Aleksi’s fingers tightened around hers. “That is a terrible knowledge to bear.”
“Is it?” she questioned. “I always considered it a blessing of a sort. Death comes for everyone. At least I had the comfort of knowing my end would serve a purpose.”
Einar set his wine aside untouched and claimed her other hand. “What happened?” he asked softly.
She owed him an answer, even if he later regretted asking. “It started with the rumbling. The earth shook—which was nothing new, of course. This is a volcanic island. But these quakes just kept happening, and they grew more intense every time. Then the seas began to rise.”
If she closed her eyes, she would see it—the confusion on the people’s faces. Not fear, never fear. Even with the world crumbling around them, they had not been afraid. They had trusted her too much for that.
“We evacuated the coasts.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “But by the time the worst of the earthquakes began, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.”
Aleksi shifted, pulling Naia against his chest. It positioned his mouth close to her ear, and he murmured, “You don’t have to say it.”
“Yes, I do.” She met Einar’s gaze. “Theron tried to stop me. He said we could leave until the waves had subsided. Take everyone to the mainland, then come back to rebuild. But there was no time left for a logistical undertaking that massive. Do you understand?”
He stared back at her, and she could practically see Theron’s thoughts, his rationalizations, tumbling through Einar’s head. He and the storm god had lived vastly different lives, but some things would always be immutably true.