Chapter 28
The following morning, the sky cleared just enough to tinge the garden’s drizzle with pale gold. The carriage waited to return them to the Hall of Memories. Aeryn cradled the orb in both hands before sliding it into a velvet pouch.
Khaeric waited on the bottom step. He’d been out here long enough for rain to soak through his formal coat.
He saw her coming and met her halfway; the tension in his jaw eased when he saw she was whole and upright.
The umbrella he’d been using for cover looked comically inadequate above his bulk, so he angled it over her instead, letting the rain darken his already-slick braid.
Upon arrival, Envoy Thalion greeted them at the foot of the steps. “Princess. The Keeper is prepared to receive you.”
The corridor bent left, then right, each turn bringing them deeper into the heart of the Hall.
The architecture changed as they descended: the ceilings grew lower, the lamps farther apart.
Thalion led without pausing for questions, his voice echoing flat and formal through the increasingly narrow passages.
“The Keeper’s sanctum,” he announced over his shoulder as they reached the lowest corridor.
Thalion opened the door but did not cross the threshold. “The Keeper will meet you alone.” His eyes flicked to Khaeric, then returned to Aeryn. “Spouses are permitted.” He stepped back, the doors closing behind them.
The sanctum was nothing like the grand libraries above. The Singing Stones lay just past this space, along with hundreds of thousands of royal memory orbs.
A Keeper of Memories emerged. She studied them as she walked, stopping a few paces away, hands folded just above her waist, regarding Khaeric with open suspicion before turning back to Aeryn. “State your purpose,” the Keeper said.
Aeryn dipped the barest of bows, the formality stiff on her tongue. “Per the Council’s decree, I am here to claim rights of inheritance—and to access the bloodline memories of the Silver Bough, as is the custom upon addition to the lineage.”
The Keeper frowned. “And the Council has not withdrawn its decision?”
“Not as of this morning.” Aeryn offered the letter. The Keeper took it and inspected the blue wax, turning the letter over in her fingers. “Follow me,” she said, returning the letter and turning on her heel.
They trailed the Keeper down a corridor that folded onto itself in pale stone arches. The air cooled as they descended, the passage soon more tunnel than hall, the lamps reduced to pinpricks in the deepening shade.
They entered an antechamber lit with the pearlescent glow of memory orbs that lined the walls. Aeryn recognized the magic immediately; each orb radiated a subtle, bone-deep vibration, like the hum of a tuning fork.
“New entries are to the left,” the Keeper instructed, her chin flicking toward a low arch shrouded in light. “Inheritance orbs for legacy access are kept in the central vault.” She stopped short, turning to Khaeric. “Do you intend to witness, my lord?”
Khaeric inclined his head. “If my mate permits,” he said, glancing at Aeryn. Aeryn tightened her grasp around the velvet pouch as she nodded.
“You are familiar with the ritual?” the Keeper asked.
Aeryn shook her head. She’d seen her mother do it once, long ago: the steps, the stillness, the stone. But she’d never crossed the final threshold herself.
“Place the orb in the center,” the Keeper said, beckoning Aeryn to a low plinth. “Then step into the Songfield. Once the orb is placed within it, the memory will take form in your mind’s eye. You will see what the memory-giver experienced, as though you are living it yourself.”
The Keeper looked to Khaeric. “The experience can be... disorienting for those unaccustomed to memory magic. This is why we rarely permit outsiders to witness.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I shall leave you to your witness.” She spun, silver-fastened braids swinging.
“The orb will dim when the memory completes its cycle. Do not attempt to remove it before then.”
As soon as the Keeper disappeared, the weight of what Aeryn was about to do settled over her. She would see through Serathen’s eyes—experience her ancestor’s memories firsthand.
“Are ye ready?” Khaeric asked.
“Yes.” At the plinth, the subtle vibration of magic grew stronger with each step. The songfield—a circle of shimmering air surrounding the stone platform—rippled like water as she approached.
She loosened the drawstring of the velvet pouch and tipped it forward; the memory orb slid into her palm, its surface cool and smooth. As soon as it touched the plinth, the orb began to glow, and the songfield intensified, the air humming.
“What now?” Khaeric asked quietly.
“We step into the circle together. The memory will flow to anyone within the songfield.” Aeryn reached for him, and together they crossed the threshold of light.
The vibration rose, filling Aeryn’s head. The orb pulsed with light, its glow intensifying until it seemed to contain a small sun.
The world fell away.
The floor dropped. She was falling, spinning—and then she was no longer herself. Colors swirled and re-formed. She inhabited another body—taller, more graceful.
She was Serathen.
Her hands—no, Serathen’s hands—were adorned with silver rings bearing blue stones that caught the morning light. She felt the gentle weight of elaborate braids against her back, the cool brush of silk against her skin.
Serathen stood on the balcony overlooking the valley, watching the sunrise paint the world in gold. Aeryn could feel the cool morning breeze against her skin, could taste the sweet nectar from a silver chalice.
“Ye’re awake early,” came a deep voice from behind her.
Serathen’s heart quickened, a smile spreading across her face before she even turned.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Serathen said warmly. She turned, and her breath caught as Aeryn saw him through her ancestor’s eyes.
Druin stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the warm light of their bedchamber. He was unlike any orc Aeryn had ever seen—or perhaps it was Serathen’s perception that made him appear so.
His slate-gray skin caught the morning light, highlighting the strong planes of his face. His tusks were smaller, more refined than Khaeric’s, and his black hair fell loose around broad shoulders. “Come back to bed,” he said.
Serathen’s smile deepened. “It never grows old, this view.” She gestured toward the valley below, where mist curled between the trees like pale serpents.
When Druin’s arm slid around her waist, Aeryn experienced the sensation as Serathen did—a feeling of rightness, of belonging. The warmth of his arm around her waist moved through Serathen's body.
The scene dissolved like mist in sunlight. The lurch came again, like falling while standing still.
When the world reformed, they were inside a vast stone chamber. Not the polished, graceful architecture of Thiarra, but rough-hewn walls illuminated by torch flame. Aeryn recognized it immediately as Beinn Ork, though nothing like the mountain fortress she knew. This was new and unfinished.
Serathen paced the chamber, her silk robes replaced by practical leather and wool. The silver ornaments remained in her hair, catching the torchlight as she moved. Anxiety thrummed through her body. “They must be wrong.”
She had been poring over the birth records for weeks, tracking every clan, every settlement across the newly established stronghold they’d begun to call Beinn Ork. At first, she’d thought it was a coincidence—a string of male births in the western encampment, then in the northern settlement.
But as the records continued to arrive, carried by messengers with increasingly grim expressions, the pattern had become undeniable. No female orc children had been born in nearly a year. Not one.
Serathen spread the parchments across the rough stone table, her fingers trailing over the neat columns of names and birthdates. Goran, son of Maeve. Torric, son of Brenna. Kell, son of Dorna. Sons. All sons.
The chamber door swung open, and Druin entered. His face was drawn, his eyes dulled with exhaustion. He’d been in council with the clan leaders all day. “The western settlements sent their birth records. All male births there as well.”
Serathen’s knees buckled. She gripped the table’s edge. “It cannot be a coincidence.”
Druin closed the distance between them. Even through the thickness of her woolen garment, she felt the warmth of his touch—a steadying force against the storm of her thoughts. “How many?” he asked.
Serathen gestured to the scattered parchments. “Three hundred and seventeen births since the winter solstice.” She traced the columns with trembling fingers. “All male. Every single one.”
Druin’s breath caught, the sound harsh in the quiet chamber. “That’s impossible.”
“I’ve confirmed it with every midwife, every healer.
” Serathen’s hands shook as she gathered the parchments.
“The pattern began after the exile. At first, only a few settlements reported only male births. I thought it was a statistical chance.” She looked up at Druin, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“But it’s everywhere now. Throughout all the clans. ”
This place was nothing like the grand elven cities they’d left behind, just the beginnings of a refuge, stone and timber shelters clustered against the mountain’s protective embrace.
“Could it be somethin’ here? Somethin’ in the water, the soil?” he asked.
Serathen shook her head. “It’s not the mountain. I’ve checked births among the humans who’ve settled with us. Their daughters come as they always have.” Standing beside him, she rested her hand on his forearm. “This affects only orc women.”
Druin’s jaw tightened. “A curse, then.”
“I believe so.” Serathen had avoided speaking them aloud until now. “The timing is too precise. It began after we left Thiarra.”