Chapter 15
AMAIA
The curse—whatever wretched curse this was—felt like a tangle of disease.
Like a decaying forest, vines hanging, grasping for any form of life to consume.
I felt like I was walking through it, and yet every step was like treading through thick sludge.
The vines got tangled in my hair, one wrapping around my limbs and then my throat, until it was difficult to breathe.
But just as panic set in, I felt a surge from Alaryk’s magic, as if he could feel when I needed him most.
I gasped.
His magic felt like a warm current in a nearly frozen river, giving me some semblance of life as I felt the threads of it intertwine with my own. I imagined it splitting the darkness of the forest, a glowing river winding through, and I raced toward it.
I sank into it, desperate.
It was a lifeline he was throwing to me, pulling me through the muck until I could feel blood rush to my limbs again. From a river to a rope…I tied his magic to me so I could let it guide me home. He took the pain, so much of it that I could actually try to make sense of what was hurting Samryn.
I could see it all. An intricate woven mess…
and I just had to untangle it. And quickly.
It was a vast undertaking. And the more time I wasted, the more the curse would bind, weaving itself through Samryn’s veins and sinew.
Even now, I could feel it moving. Crawling like a worm through him.
And to reach its center, I had to heal everything that shrouded it from my view.
I didn’t know how long I lasted this time.
It felt like I’d been lost in that dark place for weeks, counting each moment by my labored breath, wishing it could be over and fearing the possibility that it could be endless.
I’d never felt a curse before. But for the first time, I wondered if it could ensnare me too. If I meddled and poked too much.
“Let me in, Amaia,” I heard Alaryk’s gritted command. “You’re resisting.”
Fear and panic swelled. He sounded so far away, and I felt his magic going slippery. The tighter I tried to hold on to it, the more it evaporated in my grasp like a mist.
“I…can’t,” I breathed. The mutated forest in my imaginings seemed to amplify in its power, looming over me until it was just a black wall of endless decay. Growing. Growing.
It would crush me. It would swallow me whole—
I was ripped from the curse, and it felt like a tearing of my very soul. And then I remembered nothing at all.
When I woke, I was flying. The wind was whipping my hair, but I pressed my cheek into the heat at my front.
A hand was supporting my back. I was cradled in Alaryk’s arms, on the back of Samryn. My eyelids felt so heavy, my body numb. I could taste the acrid bitterness of the curse on my tongue. It was inside me. But I could heal myself. I had to trust that.
My tongue felt heavy when I said, “The hatchery.”
Alaryk’s hand tightened on my back.
“I felt you,” I whispered. “I felt you there. Thank you. Kakkira vor.”
“Rest, Amaia,” he commanded, his voice gentle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he sounded worried.
“Kakkira vor.”
I succumbed to the relief of sleep again.
For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. For a moment, I thought maybe I was home. I had been dreaming of my family, I thought, could very nearly smell my mother’s wrissan stew bubbling in the hearth.
For a moment, I was relieved, all my worries gone. Ryak, my brother, Samryn’s curse, the pain…Alaryk.
But it was only my dream crossing into reality for a brief second. I blinked my blurry gaze, salted tears having crusted around the corners of my eyes, and I knew I was in my room at the hatchery.
At first I thought it was dawn, pink light from the sun stretching against the room. But then I realized it was sunset, given the orientation. I hoped I’d only slept the day and not two. My body wasn’t as stiff as it’d been when I’d woken in Alaryk’s bed.
But my belly rumbled in hunger.
I sat up with a wince and a groan, my head pounding as the room spun. There was a bitterness on my tongue as I swung my legs gingerly over my bed. Someone had placed my mattress back up on the frame.
The cool stone beneath my bare feet felt nice. I let it center me before I rose, my legs a little shaky but growing stronger with every step.
The smell was coming from the kitchens, and I heard the rattle of dishware and the low murmuring of voices when I crept out into the deserted hallway.
Moak, Ulin, Syris, Tarkosh, and I were the only ones who lived in the hatchery—at least during this offseason.
Syris told me during the hatching season, the rooms were usually filled, more apprentices having traveled from Grym.
Ulin was someone I rarely saw, a quiet male who lived two doors down from me and often had the nests cleaned out before I even woke.
They were all in the kitchen when I leaned against the frame of the entrance. Tarkosh saw me first, her expression one of careful observation.
“There you are,” she said, which made the others look at her in confusion before they followed her gaze to me. “You must be hungry.”
“Amaia,” Syris said, jumping up from her seat. “On Muron’s blood, I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m all right,” I assured her, but I gladly took her arm as she guided me to the long table where the rest of them were sitting.
“Up for some stew? The farmer sent over a fine cut of meat,” Syris said. “I made it myself. I think it turned out well.”
“It did,” Moak chimed in. “Very well.”
He flashed a charming grin at my friend, who flushed but was already scurrying over to the pot.
“What’s been up with you?” Moak asked pointedly, pinning those eyes on me. “You look horrible.” His nostrils flared. “And smell horrible.”
“Thanks, Moak,” I murmured. I slid my gaze over to Tarkosh. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Two days,” she murmured. “We have another hatchling.”
A stab of regret and frustration went through me. Two days. Lost again. Tarkosh must’ve thought I was a flake. I’d wanted to prove that I should be here. Instead I’d barely been showing my face this last week.
It looked bad.
“A Rythback?” I asked.
She inclined her head just as Syris slid a heaping bowl of stew in front of me, steam rising from the top. I was hungry, but I also felt vaguely nauseous.
“Go slowly,” Tarkosh murmured. “Moak, Ulin, out with you since you’re done. Leave her in peace. Moak, you don’t smell so great yourself. Go bathe while the washroom is free.”
Syris sat across from me, taking Moak’s place after he got up with a grumble. They left the kitchen, but Tarkosh lingered.
“I feel…I feel like I should explain,” I murmured, even though my throat was clogging up with fear.
It was so imprinted on me that heartstone magic was something to be hidden.
My mother had worried so much when I’d been growing up.
She’d thought I’d let it slip accidentally and I’d be taken.
I remembered her fearful whispers with my father late into the night, the timbre of his voice reverberating through my bedroom door in assurance.
Alaryk had told me that heartstone magic wasn’t persecuted here. I knew that. Logically, it didn’t make sense for me to be so concerned with shielding it.
Then again…there were Dakkari here. Dakkari with connections to the throne. And while the priestesses’ power had been snipped when the Heartstone Accords had been made last year, those with magic were still wary to show themselves.
“The Karath brought you here in the middle of the night,” Syris told me, her voice edged in hesitation. “When I saw you, I thought you were…dead.”
“Eat a bite first,” Tarkosh ordered me quietly. “I spoke with Alaryk. But I would like to hear whatever you wish to tell me. Syris…perhaps you should—”
“She can stay,” I said quietly as I picked up my spoon and dipped it into the stew.
It tasted like ash on my tongue, combining with the lingering bitterness.
But at least it was hot. I felt it warm my frozen bones.
And my second and third bites were much better, the flavor smoky. “It’s good, Syris. Thank you.”
She nibbled on her lip.
I sighed, replacing my spoon in the bowl and looking at both of them sitting across from me.
“What did Alaryk say?” I wondered.
I wanted to know exactly what he had revealed about Samryn, about what I was doing.
Tarkosh’s gaze darted to Syris, but she was too busy peering at me in worry to notice.
“That there is a Grymian Elthika who’s been sick. And that you are helping to heal him,” Tarkosh finished. I had a feeling she knew which Elthika it was, which would explain Alaryk’s presence in all of this. But she likely didn’t want to betray her Karath’s trust.
“That’s right,” I said quietly. I looked over at Syris. “I…I possess heartstone magic.” My friend blinked, straightening in surprise. “I can help to heal creatures. I can draw out sickness and pain, so they can recover.”
A flash of surprise crossed Tarkosh’s face, and I realized that Alaryk hadn’t told her everything. I didn’t know why that comforted me. Because…perhaps he had been respecting my privacy to keep my trust?
“You can?” Syris breathed. “But that’s wonderful!”
I didn’t tell them that it worked on people too.
I preferred to downplay the extent of my ability.
There was a reason I had used it in secret, mostly on pyrokis.
My mrikro—the pyroki master I’d apprenticed under—had had his own suspicions, I knew.
But he’d never said a word, and I knew he never would.
But I’d apprenticed under Halna for nearly a decade.
I’d known Tarkosh and Syris for not even two weeks.
And while I knew no one here in the Arsadia would capture me in the middle of the night to ship me off to the priestesses for experiments…
there was still a good reason for me to worry with Ryak and Nevin roaming around, who both had close ties with the Dothikkar.