Chapter 6 #2
Noelani, because she resembles me with unnerving exactness: the same opalescent hair, willowy frame and oval face with upturned nose and over-thin lips.
She, too, bore her brand on the wrist: left to my right.
She’s my mirror image in all particulars save for her eyes, which are a deeper purple, her skin, which sparkles like diamonds to my dull shimmer, and the thick streak of grey staining her hair.
Izarius taught me all the Elemagi bore this Shadow Mark, the toll for invoking the Dusk Sister’s dark magic through their blood rite.
Arden Incenzo draws my focus for another reason.
Her face has been sliced from the canvas – a powerful, gilded body all that remains of her.
Arden’s likeness was expunged from Estelia long before my father’s purges of all other images and texts with links to brandmagic or the enemy realms. I have no idea what the monster who destroyed Arcelia actually looked like, only the grotesque image my imagination has filled in.
The effect of the decapitation is as haunting now as it was all those sunrings ago.
As a child, and before Izarius’ gift of context, the decision to sever Arden so absolutely from the composition, and from history, seemed a senseless, savage act.
Now I wish they’d cut her traitorous body from the painting too.
Pinpricks of light dapple the portrait.
Orthriel is coming.
I scramble to yank the curtain closed, my vision still clouded, but iridescent flames and the waxy scent of night-lilies announce my Guardian’s arrival before I can hide the portrait.
The cold flames slowly resolve into a translucent approximation of a body, one that wavers at its edges, amorphous, androgynous, and swathed in a prismatic halo.
Orthriel has decided to materialise for the ceremonies.
I stare up at the sharp planes of my Guardian’s face.
Their eyes, deep pools of silver, at once ancient and ageless, are hawk-like in intensity.
Even after all this time, the angular perfection of Orthriel’s features, their fierce beauty, still knocks the breath from my body.
‘Congratulations on reaching your majority.’ Orthriel’s voice reverberates in the vaulted interior like a great bell. It sounds different outside the confines of my head, deeper, more sonorous. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.’
It’s true I expected Orthriel much earlier than this.
Though we’ve never discussed it at length, and I can’t yet peruse my Guardian’s thoughts as they can mine, I know making the journey from the cielsylphs’ floating-island home of Nimbi drains Orthriel’s Aether reserves more than they care to admit.
I glance at my Guardian’s chest. Yes, the glimmer of their heartcrystal is fainter than usual…
This explains why the bridging connection between our minds keeps cutting out, why I’ve barely heard from them since my failed escape bid.
As Guardians, beings of pure Aether, the cielsylphs feel the effects of the Sickening before the mortal races.
Orthriel’s decline is another worrying sign – something to add to my brandsong’s collection of doom-laden whisperings.
Orthriel’s eyebrows lift and the set of their mouth hardens as they register the portrait behind me.
‘I can see you weren’t expecting me,’ they say coolly, nodding towards the painting. ‘You know better than this, Leilani.’
I stare at my slippers, praying Orthriel won’t read my thoughts. But there’s a gentle pressure inside my head, like cool fingers rifling the pages of a book.
When my mind is my own again, I look up, hoping my Guardian understands why I was drawn to the portrait.
Orthriel is Sistertouched too, though cielsylphs don’t bear the same burden as the Branded.
When the Dawn Sister crafted the Guardian races from the Aethers, one apiece, and gifted them the ability to channel its singular powers that they might assist her in caring for Arcelia, she enabled them to perform some magic, but they’ve no capacity for Shadow; they’re not dangerous as we are – as I am.
The cielsylphs are tolerated – grudgingly, it’s true – but they’re not hated.
Orthriel’s bowed lips are drawn even tighter, but a shadow of something like pity flickers in their eyes. ‘Your views on the binding haven’t changed, then?’
I shake my head.
Orthriel opens their mouth, as if to speak, but closes it again.
A prickling sensation rises at the base of my neck. ‘What is it? You’re keeping something from me.’
The corners of their mouth twitch, but it’s a weak, sad smile and their eyes remain shadowed. ‘Your gifts grow stronger. Tell me, can you conjure visions at will yet?’
I flinch. My abilities are seldom openly discussed.
‘The intrusions are more frequent. And it’s images sometimes, not just whispers. But my second-sight still reveals what it chooses, not what I ask to see.’
Orthriel nods but their brow pleats, like they’re weighing something in their mind.
‘Guardianships are usually assigned randomly,’ they say at last. ‘You know this, yet you’ve never once asked why I requested this appointment.’
The prickling sensation creeps down my arms.
‘I have something to give you, to mark your coming-of-age.’ Orthriel’s voice is little more than a hoarse whisper now.
With a deep sigh, they close their eyes, muttering words in a sibilant language I recognise as Airsong, the tongue of the cielsylphs. A sealed envelope materialises in mid-air. I stare at the first gift Orthriel has ever bestowed on me.
The prickling spreads to my fingers.
The envelope bears my name in looping amethyst calligraphy. I reach for it, trace the elegant lettering with my index finger, and turn it over to inspect the seal.
A nine-pointed star, encased within a circlet of heartflowers. The Stellarion seal.
‘What is it?’ I whisper.
‘When the bonds of Guardianship were re-established, in tribute for all Noelani did to restore the realms, I swore an oath to protect your family’s interests.
’ Orthriel shifts from one foot to the other, but their eyes never leave mine.
‘I still maintain that marrying Astrophel and forging an alliance with another member of the coterie is in your best interests, Leilani, and the best interests of the realm.’
I wince. ‘How can you say that? The curse of the Branded must die with me.’ I bite back a sob. ‘And Astrophel of all people. You know how it is between us. How it’s always been…’
Orthriel sighs again. ‘Yes, I know. And I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Nor can I condone your father’s methods of persuasion.’
I look away, tracing a thumb across my wrist where I can still feel the ghost of the manacles. The phantom scent of rosemary fills the air.
Cielsylphs are supposed to be creatures of reason, less controlled by their emotions than mortals, but the bond between me and Orthriel runs deep. Deeper than it should.
‘I swore a second oath, many sunrings ago,’ Orthriel continues.
‘What are you talking about, Orthriel? You’re scaring me. Swore an oath to whom?’
‘To her.’ Orthriel nods towards the portrait. ‘To Noelani.’
I suck in a breath. Orthriel is immortal like the rest of their kind, yet it’s easy to forget they were once Noelani’s Guardian too. As a rule, they refuse to talk of her. The ache of her loss, too great, I’ve always assumed. The sting of her final betrayal, too sharp.
‘She summoned me, the night before she and the other Elemagi withdrew to their bower. She commended that letter to my safekeeping. Told me to present it to you when you came of age.’
My legs tremble. I sink onto a stone bench to the right of the portrait, grateful for its solidity, as everything else starts to sway.
‘I haven’t read it,’ Orthriel says. ‘Noelani enchanted it so none but you can break the seal. The blood rite honed her powers into something formidable; she developed means of concealing those parts of her mind she wished to remain shrouded – even from me. But I have my suspicions about what it’s likely to say.
’ Again, that sorrowful smile. ‘If I’m right, this could be it, Leilani.
The answer to all your problems. Your way out. ’