Chapter 19
I f his missing limb wasn’t enough to cripple Eldridge, his pride surely would. Again and again, he strikes with his right arm, and again and again, Sin disarms him in a matter of seconds.
“Your entire focus is on the left side of your body. Stop fixating on your weak side, and start honing your strong one,” Sin advises for the hundredth time, coaxing another disgruntled rumble from Eldridge’s chest.
He clambers to his feet, shoving his shoulder into Sin’s chest as he pushes past him. “Again,” is all he says.
A subtle sigh. That’s all Sin gives before executing another masterful maneuver that has him notching his blade at Eldridge’s ribs, who then swings his weight around to protect his lame side. Inadvertently bringing him closer to Sin.
His weapon falls, and Eldridge’s face deepens to the color of beets. “Tell me how I’m supposed to focus on my good side when you go for my bad one every fucking time. Godsdamned prick,” he spits.
“I’m striking you where our enemies will. You are not helpless because your one side is vulnerable; it just means your other half needs to be that much fucking better.”
I clear my throat. “Tell me again why you’re not just shifting to fight?”
Eldridge’s head whips towards me. “I’m still crippled as a wolf, sweetheart.”
I bare my teeth at him. Cathal used to call me that, and Eldridge knows it.
“Aren’t three legs better than two?” I bite out.
“I need to be able to fight as a man.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re betrothed made it illegal for me to bite anyone,” he answers with a mocking smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten his laws already. Should probably freshen up on them, given you’re about to be his queen and all that.” Eldridge’s tone drips with malice, and my teeth slice into my tongue.
“There are new laws,” Sin growls.
Ileana approaches on my right. Her forehead is shiny from sweat, her long, curly hair piled on top of her head. Her leathers are as creased and worn-in as mine, both of us sparring daily, as we were this morning before stopping for a quick rest. While training does leave me winded, I really just wanted an excuse to make sure the two most temperamental men I’ve ever met weren’t about to actually kill each other in their practice.
“Are we planning on winning wars by arguing our enemies to death, then? Surely that must be our approach, since that’s all I ever see the two of you doing,” Ileana scolds, popping one delicate hip to the side and folding her arms across her chest.
“Why are we so focused on hand-to-hand combat at all?” I press. “Baelliarah is mundane—shouldn’t we be leveraging the one thing we have that they don’t?”
“Because that worked so well for us before, sweethe—” Eldridge slams his mouth shut, closing his eyes for a moment before exhaling sharply. “Magic did nothing for us when they forced us farther into a burning forest with iron-fucking-catapults.”
“He’s right,” Sin agrees, shaking out his arm as if his repeated strikes against Eldridge have exhausted the muscles there. “We cannot underestimate Torin. His soldiers will be well trained and well equipped to combat magic-wielders. Should they push through our defenses, our magicked will find themselves royally fucked against men suited in iron and wielding weapons of the same. If Wren, a fucking bloodwitch , struggled one-on-one, imagine how common mages will fare.”
My fingers glide absently across my collar at the memory of how those iron gauntlets had nearly been my undoing. I remember how hot the soldier’s breath was against my face as he promised my fate.
Just as I remember how hot his blood was between my lips when I sealed his.
“Actually, Wren liquified his face,” I chirp. My tongue darts out, remembering the taste of the liquid lipstick I wore that afternoon. The darker the soul , the sweeter the blood .
Sin turns towards me but something gives him pause, his eyes dropping to linger on the wicked tilt of my smirk. His darkening expression plants a fever deep inside me, at his approval of my creature’s perverse appetite.
Ileana clears her throat pointedly. “We should use the wolves to our advantage.”
“Not all of them are wolves,” I amend, holding Sin’s stare as I reflect on his comments from before, about how he would tell me more about our Bonding and the Hunt after we survived the battle of Blackreach.
He’s keeping something from me still, and the first opportunity I have, I’m demanding he tell me all. And he will. Because despite how deeply he once betrayed me, there is nothing the Black Art prioritizes more than trust. Not with me. Not since he shattered whatever fragment of credence I shared with him, and we nearly killed each other in the aftermath of what he had done.
“They all have teeth ,” Ileana purrs. “If iron is their defense, they better have a lot of it to keep down an entire army of beasts. The transcendents tore through this city when you returned.” She angles herself towards Eldridge, now speaking directly to him. “Take your anger and fucking use it to turn yourself into a ruthless beast. Any soldier can learn to swing a sword or a hammer, but someone who can brave an injury like you did and get back up and use it to their advantage… that is a warrior. I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but I never once perceived you for a meek bitch.”
A low grumble vibrates in Eldridge’s chest, and slowly, he steps towards the Hand. “You know nothing of me, female.”
Ileana shifts her shoulders back, lengthening her delicate neck. “I know you’re being childish. Are you even certain which side you’re on? Because all I ever see is you arguing with your leader, and everyone else for that matter, and?—”
“He is not my leader,” Eldridge barks.
She moves so quickly, I don’t see her close the distance until she’s suddenly at his chest, steering her chin up to his. “You do not need to like it, but he is your sovereign, and you should respect him. But more importantly, I am also your superior, and you will respect me, male.”
Eldridge has the nerve to let out a huff of laughter, his gray eyes dipping to take their time traveling up and down her frame before he brings them back to hers. “I can’t tell if you’re ignorant, or if you just have nerves of steel.”
“Neither. I’m just a bitch.” She spits the words at him, and for a long moment, Eldridge watches her with that glower plastered on his face, neither of them daring to speak. Until laughter suddenly tears through him, his cheeks deepening to a healthy blush, and a wolfish grin settling on his lips. Ileana doesn’t dare allow her mask to slip, crossing her arms and squaring her shoulders.
Eldridge licks his lips and runs his hand down the length of his braided beard. “Alright, female. Fine ,” he concedes. “You want me to get down on all fours— threes ,” he corrects, “and wag my tail for you, I’ll do it.”
“Good. You can get started now.”
“One condition,” he says.
She cocks an eyebrow so high I don’t know how it doesn’t split her hairline.
Eldridge’s answering smile is a natural, toothy thing. “You’re going to stop being so godsdamned mean to me.”
That pulls the tiniest smirk from her. “I’ll consider it.”
Vox is late.
Training ended an hour ago, and after cleaning myself up, I came straight to the castle’s library and haven’t heard a peep from a certain fair-haired elf.
I don’t hate the privacy, though. The two-story library is impressive with rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound tomes. Buttery-soft chairs and small tables are placed in alcoves around the room, the entire space bathed in warm firelight. There is a large arching window that spans both stories, and from my perch on the second floor, I can just make out the rooftops of the barracks in the distance, and the jagged silhouette of the Spiritwood forest beyond them.
I inhale deeply, breathing in the crisp parchment, broken-in leather, and sweet florals from the arrangements tucked away in many of the alcoves.
Beneath me, the heavy doors groan as they swing inward. I walk to the railing, draping my arms across it as I lean over to glimpse the commander. “Military strategy you may excel in, punctuality… you do not.”
His dark eyes find my perch immediately. “Duty called,” he says simply. “But I am here now, am I not?” His expression is reserved, but there is a ghost of a smirk on his mouth. He heads for the wide staircase, and from his profile, I notice his braids have been freshly plaited against the sides of his head. He wears a deep brown leather tunic with an assortment of straps and buckles that cinch across his chest and waist, and dark pants that cling to his long legs. It seems I wasn’t the only one that cleaned up before coming here, which makes me reconsider what duty kept him late.
“How did you occupy yourself in my absence? Practicing your ancient Elvish, I hope,” he says, reaching the final step and heading towards me.
I push off the railing. “Indeed. I’m practically fluent now, actually. Your presence is hardly needed.”
He meets me where I stand. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
I smirk. “We may have our differences, Commander, but I don’t wish for you to spend your night miserable and alone. Where should we start?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to where the heap of volumes tower over us.
“Yes, because whatever did an elven officer do with his nights before a blood mage has graced him with her generosity in sparing the miserable bastard a night of her company. And depends. Where do your interests lie?”
I chuckle to myself at the sharpness of his retort. “I’d like to know more about the origin of both our magics.” It’s not a lie. I am interested in learning more about my ancestry and how my magic relates to Source, but more so, I need to know how Aeverie used elven magic to bind Sin’s power to that dagger. And if I get Vox on the topic of magic, maybe I can bait him into divulging his knowledge on the art of seering.
Vox gestures with his chin to the alcove in the corner. “Then I suggest you settle in, because for that, we must go far back in history.”
I sit in one of the twin leather chairs, tucking my skirts under my legs while Vox combs through the shelves, yanking books out with a carelessness that would surely give his priestess an aneurysm—if elves were susceptible to such an ailment.
He returns a moment later, dropping a stack of books onto the table, and sits in the chair opposite me. “Well, blood mage, did you bring anything to take notes with, or are you just going to ogle me while I read to you?”
I shrug. “I’m a decent listener, and I retain information well.”
Vox holds my stare for a moment, a tight smile stretching his lips. “Very well.” He reaches for the tome on top and flips through the pages, the parchment whirring as he thumbs over them. I reach for one of the others and spread it open across my lap, running the tips of my fingers over the strange symbols inked into the yellowing page.
“Elves are born with strength in their legs and steel in their hearts, but nothing is more steadfast than the will of their minds,” he begins, then clears his throat before continuing. “Some of this doesn’t translate precisely, so forgive my discrepancies in phrasing.”
“I’ll try to keep up,” I say, glancing up at him before returning my attention to the sprawl of foreign text across my lap.
He gives a quick nod. “Not all elves will feel the call to magic. Some will be drawn to metals, alchemy. Others to foliage. Some will hear the whispers of those that have returned to Spirit. Fret not. Source is inside all of us, and the magic merely knows who is best suited for which caste.
“It is dishonorable to challenge your class. To do so is to question Source itself, a distasteful deed. The magic lies within the heart of every elf, regardless of caste, regardless of station.”
Vox flips through the thick book, the pages crinkling under his fair hands as he scans for the next section he searches for. He makes a sound of approval when he finds it. “The blood mage is a sacred vessel,” he reads, and I sit up straighter. “Source festers in their veins, a furious magic. A representation of the sacrifice our earth must endure harvest after harvest. When the drought season reigns, and the soil dries, the land becomes parched. It is a test for us, to endure the times of ruinous crops, to bloom when all else wilts, for the sweetest of berries always sprout after the most arid of seasons.”
I gnaw on my bottom lip, my head nearly aching from how intensely I strain to absorb his every word. Vox wets his lips and turns the page.
“Source knows no mercy, nor does it know cruelty. It is a secular magic, and with all things relating to earth, there must be balance. The blood mage is the beacon for the darkest of nights, the rainstorm in the withered lands. Their tether to Source is the tautest, but it is also the strongest. This rigidity will challenge them, beckon their beast with unyielding craving. Indulge in that yearning, and they will experience pleasure unknown to any other creature. Blood will become their antidote to all else. You getting all this, blood mage?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s asked me a question. “Y—yes. Sort of,” I amend.
“Some turn to whiskey to numb pain, others religion. Your kind…”
“Turn to blood,” I finish for him.
“Precisely.”
“It’s an illusion?” I query, desperate to make sense of his long-winded words.
The elf shrugs, the leather there whispering with the movement. “It feels real to you, doesn’t it? If the craving is real, if your appetite is real… then it’s real.”
“Alright, you win. I don’t understand,” I concede.
A ghost of a laugh escapes him. “Do you know how elves determine which caste they will be assigned?”
I purse my lips. “Some elves look better in fighting leathers than others?”
“I do look good in leathers but no. When we are young and prepubescent, the magic in us is tested. We do this by taking the Numen staff into our hands. Those that can hold it without tremendous suffering are trained in the art of Source-wielding. Those who nearly collapse when they touch it, are sent to the training camps. There, they are combat tested and divided further, hence why we have those devoted to gardening, low priestesses, cooks, and so forth.”
“This staff… is it?—”
“The very one,” he answers, knowing what I was asking. “Though it didn’t belong to Aeverie then. She didn’t Ascend until a few years after my Placement.”
“Explains why everyone always stares at her staff like it’s a rabid dog about to bite them.”
Vox chortles and slides his hands down his face, smearing the amusement. “Well, if you felt the torment it causes to those it touches, you’d not let it out of your sight either.”
“So that’s how you knew you were a warrior, then? You couldn’t hold the staff?”
“I could hold the staff. I did,” he says blankly.
“Oh.”
“You must have questions.”
“A few.”
“When I grasped it, it was like lightning entering my body. Every part of me was desperate to let it go, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not drop it. My hand refused to open. My mother—she was alive then—I remember her screaming. It’s all I could hear, and I wanted to drop it just to ease her fear, but I could not. It took my father and several others to hold her back, insisting she could not interfere. And at some point, my hand relaxed, and I dropped the wretched thing. Erm”—he clears his throat—“the staff . Kindly don’t inform the priestess I referred to it as such.”
I snap my book closed and place it back on the table, leaning forward as if being closer to the commander will somehow allow me to see through his eyes more clearly. “What happened next?”
“Everyone stared at me. Revered me as if I were some god and not the same young elf I was before I touched the staff. Everyone except Aeverie. I barely knew her at the time. She was centuries my senior. I knew of her, but we had never spoken directly before. It startled me how she was staring at me, like she knew something, saw something that no one else did. And that was before she lost the pigment in her eyes. She was training under the previous high priestess with the other magistras.
“I was sent to train directly under Veara, the high priestess then, despite my lineage that would have me train to take my role as commander. I spent many decades as her apprentice. Worst years of my life. None of it came easy to me. I could only muster the tiniest sparks of magic, nothing substantial enough to actually do anything, or serve any real use. As soon as she would dismiss me from my studies each day, I would find myself in the training camps, sparring and learning their trades. That is what called to my spirit. That was where Source wanted me to be, but Veara wouldn’t hear of it. Not after what she witnessed during my Placement.”
“Sounds miserable.”
Vox runs a hand along the underside of his angular jaw, his eyes suddenly seeing something far away, his expression hardening. “It was. But being stuck trying to hone a craft I wasn’t designed for was the least of my worries back then.”
“The food was abominable before my sister was here to help in the kitchens?” I tease, trying to ease some of the tension that’s sculpting his face into the dark elf I’ve only glimpsed a few times.
“Veara was a monster. I will not honor her by even giving voice to her memory.” The venom in which he spits those words gives me pause, and I immediately lose the smirk. I remain quiet for a moment, allowing him time to collect his thoughts and rein in the maelstrom I sense is ripping through him just beneath his polished surface.
It’s in this moment, a thought becomes startlingly clear. This Veara has hurt the commander. Deeply… and cruelly. “So how did you weasel yourself out from being her apprentice?”
His onyx eyes flash to mine, and I know for certain he’s not going to tell me. “I apologize for getting us off track. I began that story to try to make the point that even though I felt Source that day, I was not born with veins equipped to channel it. If that power had been true, I’d have perished that afternoon. The magic was an illusion, or so Aeverie tells me, but I assure you, blood mage, it was very real to me.”
My mouth parts slightly as the meaning of his story finally clicks into place, and warmth spiderwebs across my chest. I sit back in my chair, granting him some space, but he denies it by leaning forward in his.
“I appreciate you reading to me.”
“I enjoy the old texts. I won’t turn down the opportunity to crack them open and brush up on my ancient Elvish.”
“I can understand your apprehension of enchanted items now, particularly that staff.”
Vox shakes his head slowly, as if he has a thought that amuses him darkly. “Ironic that it is always I that must babysit them, is it not?”
I cock an eyebrow.
“You’ll never catch Madam Priestess without her staff during these times of peril, but there are instances in which she will travel without it, for… reasons. Since I am the only one able to touch it should the need arise, safeguarding it is a responsibility I inherited.”
Interesting. “You don’t wield Source at all now, then?”
“Only what is imbued in my armors, like the rest of us, but that hardly suffices as wielding. But I believe we met so you may learn of your origins, blood mage, not mine.”
“I am interested in all of it,” I clarify.
He tents his fingertips and locks my stare over them. After a brief pause, he responds. “If you truly desire to know more, I will consider sharing, but not tonight. It’s been a long day, and translating is tiring. Consider me out of practice.” He rises from his chair and waits expectantly for me to do the same.
I stand, patting out the wrinkles in my skirts. “Is there anything in these old books about seer magic?” I ask.
Surprise flits across his face, but it only lingers for a moment. “Mountains of it,” he answers, heading for the staircase. I follow after him, my legs taking twice as many steps to keep up with his longer ones. “Our Ascended are masters of it, after all.”
“Aeverie’s Sight is the same as seering?” We round onto the stairs and begin our descent, my steps clacking loudly against them while Vox’s are predatorily silent.
“Yes, and no, but don’t let the priestess hear you referring to her as a seer. Elves aren’t without their own prejudices. The term seering comes with certain connotations the priestess does not care for. It is considered ‘dirty magic’ by some, and between us, Aeverie is far too proud to use such a term for herself.”
“Have all the Ascended priestesses had her Sight?”
“No—that is unique to her. But to claim her gift is founded in the dark art would be blasphemous. The priestess was born with her Sight; she did not delve into ruinous magics to hone it. If I may offer a piece of advice between… friends ,” he hesitates on the word, “don’t go asking her about it.”
We stop at the library doors, both of us pausing without opening them. “Are we friends, Commander? Friendship requires trust, something both of us seem wary to bestow for unique reasons.”
Vox takes one step towards me, leaving only a few inches between us as he stares down his slender nose at me. “Unique reasons, yes, but I imagine the heart of our mistrust is the same. We are not so unalike, blood mage. We both inherited prestigious ancestries, whether we wanted to or not, and we have both been scorned because of them. Are we friends, you ask.” The elf licks his thin lips and pauses, as if considering the question for himself. “In another life, Wren, I think we may have been many things.”
My breath catches, and I regret it immediately, knowing his elven ears wouldn’t have missed it. “I will leave you. Shall we meet again tomorrow, or have I bored you to tears?”
I clear my throat. “Tomorrow is good.”
He nods, then slips through the double doors without another word. When he’s gone, I suck in a deep breath and blow it out, relieving my lungs from how tightly they were forced to breathe after the elf let a certain detail slip.
…safeguarding it is a responsibility I inherited.
I can’t fathom Aeverie keeping the dagger in her possession, not when it would jeopardize the safety of the weapon to keep it in the most obvious place.
But if Vox has been trusted with her belongings in the past…
Intuition gnaws at my gut, and I remind myself I need to be subtle. I can’t ask him about it and risk tipping him off, but something tells me the commander knows exactly where that dagger is.
And knowing Vox, he is keeping it right under his nose.
I blow out another sharp breath. I need to get eyes on that dagger. It would be a mistake for Sin and I to trust anyone here until we’re more confident in where our allies’ loyalties lie, which means we certainly cannot trust Vox. But I need to see that dagger. If the elves do betray us, it could be a fatal mistake leaving the Black Art’s power in their possession, and if I just knew where it was, it may help relieve some of the anxiety sinking in my gut like heavy stones.
However, I think I might need to get very close to the commander if I have a chance in hell of locating it.
It seems Vox isn’t the only one that has inherited unwelcome responsibilities.