Chapter Twenty-Nine
Darrius Nightsong is the son of the god of death.
Two truths that I know unequivocally now: One, he is my soul-fated.
I can fully feel him, since the cuffs are gone.
And two, he is a starsdamned deity, a fact that I cannot seem to come to terms with, no matter how hard I try.
Not just because his father is a colossal prick, but because he’s part fucking god.
“Fero is your father,” I say to Ani for the dozenth time.
“I don’t understand why this is such a point of obsession for you,” she says, tugging on the ends of her hair in frustration and flushing with discomfort. “You’re not exactly mortal, either.”
I stare at her and scowl. “I can still die!”
“So can we.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that you’re a baby-god, too? I thought we were friends.”
She stares, and I lift my brows before she sighs again and capitulates.
“We are friends, and I didn’t tell you because who wants to publicly announce to the first person they actually like being around that their father is a merciless, sociopathic deity?
And baby-gods are not a thing.” She stabs at the open volumes in front of me with a finger—one on runes and one on the history of magic across the realms. “Happy? Now study.”
Somewhat mollified, I direct my attention to the books, but I can’t concentrate on the words.
I can’t help the gnawing hole of dread in the pit of my stomach.
The resurgence of Fero and the perverted abominations he has made of Laleh and Roshan also weigh heavily upon me.
We’re not on the verge of a war between realms—we’re on the verge of a war for life as we know it.
Again. Only this time, he already has an anchor.
Frowning, I chew my lip, my thoughts drifting to the king of Oryndhr. In the moments when I’d seen the true Roshan, I had sensed him in there, buried under the rot that is Fero. Is there a chance to save him before he’s lost forever?
And the question that haunts me: How long has he been under Fero’s influence?
I think back to the moments when he’d been distant and callous, those purple flickers of flame the only sign that he’d become an ancient god’s puppet.
I think of how cruelly he’d betrayed me, forcing my own magic against me, and my heart feels like it’s fracturing in my chest.
Because I know it wasn’t him.
It was never him, which somehow makes everything better and worse at the same time. I’d seen glimpses of him—a gentle stare, a softened smile, those brown eyes that saw right to the heart of me—like sunlight through a stormy sky.
Gods, could I have done more? Seen signs of it earlier? Helped him somehow? Had I failed him before he failed me?
My throat feels tight as helpless emotions barrel through me. The thoughts are gutting, a marrow-deep sense of grief swirling through me at everything we’d built and lost through no fault of our own.
I never wanted to hurt you, my starling.
I’m always with you, Sura.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the wetness on my cheek.
Hurriedly, I swipe it away before Ani can see it.
I don’t want her pity—she won’t understand.
I can feel my magic rising to comfort me, my simurgh’s presence like a soothing balm to my jagged-edged sorrow.
Without the bracers, I can feel her presence fully.
I hadn’t realized how suppressed and subdued she had become.
Frowning, I rub my bare wrists together.
It’s a relief to finally have the cuffs off, but at the same time, I’m also fearful that my magic will do something I can’t control.
It’s like relearning to use an injured limb when you’ve taught yourself to exist without it.
Everything is thrown out of balance in a terrifying way.
That’s the reason Ani and I are starting slow with the most basic runes.
My magic feels like an enormous reservoir inside of me, with my reborn, formidable simurgh waiting for the chance to flex her wings.
I sense her more keenly now, like she’s a true extension of my consciousness—part of me as she’s always been, but also her own wholly sentient self.
It’s as though we’ve evolved into some ascendant version of ourselves.
What’s more frightening, however, is just how much power we have . . . and the fact that my magic level—one known as sidereal—is above sovran, above the king himself, who is the only recorded sovran magi in Everlea. Though he’s not technically a magi . . .
Secret starsdamned deities.
He, too, had been closemouthed about Fero.
It’s clear there’s no love lost between his father and him, but I’m hopeful that when he returns from his palaver with the Aspa?anā, he will be more willing to open up.
He has been gone for the past week to manage the growing tensions after exposing Masi?ta’s treachery.
And there’s still the matter of the traitor behind the theft of the azdaha eggs and the arrangement with the Aspa?anā: the oracle, whom, now that I have my memories back, I remember as the mastermind of treachery in Oryndhr as well.
I glance up. “Ani?”
Her pencil stops scratching across the parchment. She’s engrossed in translating yet another book from a language I don’t recognize. “If it’s not about history or practical magic, I don’t want to hear it. And there’s no such thing as baby-gods. Let it go.”
I snort at her deadpan expression. “It is practical. Technically,” I say, and she waves a hand for me to continue. “If a person was . . . contaminated . . . by a dark spirit, could it be expelled? Or is that person lost for good?”
“Is this about Laleh?” she asks, blue eyes sharpening.
It’s not, but I’m interested in what she has to say, so I nod.
“Necromancy is powered by corpus magic and a blood enchantment. If the magic is removed, then her mortal body would decay.” Her brow wrinkles when I flinch at the bluntness of her delivery. “Does that answer your question?”
“I suppose. I just can’t get my mind around how real she seemed.” I could see how people who had lost loved ones might be attracted by the idea of keeping them, but they’re not who they were. “It was Fero’s doing, I gather,” I whisper, and wrap my arms around my middle.
“Or a powerful corpus magi.” Ani tilts her head. “As Starkeeper, you could.”
“I could never do anything like that.”
She nods. “Good. Because the cost of sanguimancy is a little bit of your soul each time. It’s like a drug: the more you use it, the more dependent you become on it.
” She purses her lips, looking perturbed.
“We only have a few registered dominant corpus magi. It could have been any one of them. Necromancy takes a lot of power and skill.”
“How do you just know all this?”
She rolls her eyes. “I like to read. So should you.”
Oh, right. I stare sightlessly at the text in front of me. I make it a handful of minutes before I push back in my chair and clear my throat, earning myself a belabored groan from her.
“What now, for the love of Zora?”
“Could someone be saved if they’ve been taken over by the remnant of a god?”
“You’re referring to the Oryndhrian king, I presume?” Ani asks, and when I nod, she frowns. “Why do you care? He’s the one who bound you and tried to use your magic as a weapon. You should be happy that he’s suffering.”
I gape at her. “I don’t think I can be happy that anyone’s suffering, especially someone who didn’t consent to be used. Yes, he’s made mistakes and I’ve been hurt in the process, but he wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t coerced.”
“How do you know?” Ani asks curiously. “People do unspeakable things for power.”
I understand that more than anyone, and I would stake my life on the fact that the man I once loved—might still love—would never damn his people to an eternity of servitude and horror.
“I just do. The Roshan I know would never welcome that. He fought against the crown for his people for years in hiding and . . . he died to save me. He’s still there. I can feel it.”
Ani’s gaze is sharp, her eyes flicking away and then back to me, a blush forming on her cheeks. “Do you still love him? The king of Oryndhr?”
My breath shudders to a stop, that raw, unhealed wound tearing open again. It wouldn’t hurt so much if I didn’t still care. “I don’t know,” I say slowly.
“You don’t know if you have feelings for him?” my friend prods.
I lick dry lips. “I . . . Maybe. It’s not that simple.”
The clatter of a helm falling onto the marble makes me swing around. Darrius is standing there, the fleeting look of hurt on his face making my stomach swoop. Stars. Did he overhear me? I push out of the chair and glare at Ani, who could have easily warned me he was there.
“Darrius,” I say, trying to read his inscrutable expression. “You’re back.”
“Yes.” His beautiful face is tired, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he smells of horses and leather like he hasn’t had a proper bath in days, but the bond doesn’t care.
Light travels down my arms in stardust spirals to mingle with his shadows.
As always, I feel a sense of awe seeing my natural magic in action.
The cuffs had smothered so much. He watches their dance with a certain dispassion, as if oddly resentful that our magic is happy to see each other.
“How are the clans?” I ask.
“Chaotic.”
I bend down to grab the fallen helm. “Any news on Masi?ta?”
“No.”
“Is there a new rais?”
“Zahre.”
His one-word answers grate. I glance over my shoulder, but Ani has made herself scarce.
“Are you angry with me? If it’s what you overheard before, I’m very confused about a lot of things since I got my memories and magic back.
But my residual feelings for Roshan, even if they are real, have nothing to do with you and me. ”
His throat works. “Don’t they?”
“Darrius,” I say, placing a hand on his armored chest. “We are soul-fated. Our path is written in the stars.”
He clenches his jaw. “We are still unbonded.”