Chapter 34
Elara
Alone white rose reached for the sunlight, stretching out its stem and leaves. The poor thing looked like it would topple over, trying to soak up the rays that seldom passed through the sliver of a window near the ceiling of Ursa’s infirmary.
Elara watered the pitiful desdemona cutting, its leaves withered and peachy-white petals browning at the edges.
Lysandra tittered nearby in her raven form.
Explaining the unusual creature to Ursa had been a hoot.
The first time Lysandra had shifted from a cat to a raven, Ursa had dropped a beaker, its contents staining the floor bright blue.
Now the woman was quite fond of her, bringing her little lemon cakes as treats during Elara’s healing lessons.
“Come now, beauty,” Ursa cooed at the bird, coaxing her over to the table where, just weeks ago, Elara was worried Caelan would take his last breaths. With three jilted hops and a flutter of onyx wings, Lysandra landed on the table with a soft thud and began pecking at the crumbs in Ursa’s hand.
I like this one, she said in Elara’s mind, causing her to grin at the older woman.
Me too, Elara sent back.
“Now, what do you get when you combine hawthorn and olive leaf extract?” Ursa asked.
Elara tapped her chin dramatically. “A tea for chronic headaches, or, in stronger doses, a remedy for high blood pressure.”
“Excellent! Your potions knowledge is coming along nicely. And so is your anatomy.”
Elara nodded absentmindedly, offering Lysandra a scratch on the top of her feathered head.
“I know that look, child.” Ursa rested one hand on her hip and the other in the wide pocket on the front of her apron. “You’re not happy with your progress. Whyever not?”
“You’ve been testing me on tinctures and proper bandaging technique for weeks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for our lessons. But I feel like I’m missing something.”
Ursa nodded and pursed her wrinkled lips. “And you’ve been training with Captain Stormrider. Long days make for weary hearts, my dear. You’re being too hard on yourself. Here, give me your hand.” She held out her palm, and Elara placed her hand on top of it.
Ursa pulled a scalpel from a nearby drawer—Elara feared that she’d never learn where the woman kept everything, her memory already bursting.
In a flash of movement, Ursa ran its chilly edge from Elara’s wrist to the base of her index finger.
Fat red droplets joined the blue stain on the floor, and Lysandra cawed her dissent at Elara being harmed.
“There now, you see?” Ursa nodded to Elara’s bloody palm.
“See what?” Elara asked, brow furrowing as she willed her skin to knit itself back together.
“You didn’t even flinch! A mere month ago, you would have jumped out of your skin at a wound like this. And now, you could let it bleed as long as you like or heal it. That’s progress.”
Elara nodded slowly. Progress. When she’d first discovered her magic, she hadn’t been able to control it, to protect herself by keeping her power hidden.
Progress wasn’t something often afforded to a princess, who was expected to be picture-perfect at all times.
Appearing flawless didn’t leave room for the growing pains and failures required for real learning.
Between her training with Caelan and lessons with Ursa, she’d forgotten to be proud of herself.
For a moment, Elara reveled in the feeling—the freedom—that accompanied her willingness and ability to be a beginner, for once.
The feeling was foreign, out of place beneath her skin.
But she smiled graciously at Ursa. “Thank you.”
Ursa looked her over again and sighed. “I know when we started this journey you were hoping to learn more about the potential of your power to heal others.”
Elara nodded. “Something just isn’t right.
I can’t grasp it though. The journal from the library that Lysandra found outlined all the known uses for natural magics—for those born with essence affinities.
Obviously, the Stormriders and other Moiren have kept the most power, followed by the rest of the elementalists.
Why were the Serathi the first to disappear?
And why would they—we—return now?” She didn’t expect Ursa to answer and was musing aloud for her own benefit.
She thought back to the journal—she and Sera had spent countless hours translating the infuriating tome but had only managed to crack the first half.
It made her long for Thalia’s keen eye, as she had a knack for languages, history, and all things arcane.
Why am I so different? Elara thought, saddened by the idea that she might be the only one like her in the world.
You are no different. You are just like the others.
Elara jumped, almost knocking over a rack of glass tubes. Lysandra wasn’t supposed to hear that thought, let alone answer the question.
What others? she asked.
The raven shook out her feathers again, blinking her beady eyes. Not ready yet.
What do you mean, I’m not ready? Lysandra sounded like her father, and Elara’s hackles rose.
No. The others are not ready yet.
“Well, you could waste your time pondering the past, or you could focus on the task at hand,” Ursa chided.
“Lysandra says there are others. Others like me?” Elara asked. The bird tilted her head at an angle only natural to a predator.
Yes. Like us. Don’t you know?
Elara’s patience was wearing thin, the urge to tear out her own hair battling with her desire to keep Lysandra’s soft feathers unharmed.
“She said that there are others like ‘us’ and that they aren’t ready yet.” Confusion, thick like fog, settled over her.
Ursa froze, the rag she was using to wipe down her work surface drifting to the floor. “Of course,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Elara, did that journal you found mention anything about druids?”
“Druids? Yes, the book mentioned the druids were the protectors of the source of all magic. But they were just limericks. I thought those were fairy tales for children.”
Of course they’re real, she thought. I’ve seen enough magic in the last few months to last me a lifetime. Why should I disregard those legends? Especially after learning about the Well . . .
Ursa wrung her wrinkled hands together. “They aren’t just protectors; they are the source of magic. My grandmother used to tell me it was born of their blood.”
Narissa’s prophecy floated into her mind once more. “Ursa, what really happened during the Shattering?” Elara asked.
“Well, my grandmother was a young girl. Your great-great-grandfather was king. He joined forces with the Stormriders and wanted to use the threat of that alliance to broker peace with the druids and end the war. But he betrayed both the druids and the Stormriders—destroying the first and exiling the other. Essence had already been declining before that, but after the druids were gone . . .”
Elara balked. Caelan had been right—it was the Evensongs who’d betrayed the Stormriders.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Ask Lysandra what she is to you.”
Elara turned to the raven and raised an eyebrow. Go on, then.
The bird puffed out her feathers with pride. I am your familiar.
“She says she’s my ‘familiar.’ Do you know what that means?” Elara asked.
“Elara, a familiar is a druid’s companion. Their protector and guide,” Ursa said, giving her a pointed look.
Elara’s heart pounded, and she turned back to the rose. “Impossible. I can’t be a druid. My parents aren’t. My sister . . . No one in my family has even had an essence affinity, not for hundreds of years.”
It is not impossible. You have druid blood in your veins. It was just hidden before.
“How? Why?”
I do not know.
“But . . . my family,” Elara protested again. What if my parents were keeping this from me?
Ursa placed a hand on Elara’s shoulder. “I miss them too.”
A tremor ran through Elara as she stared at the rose, its thorns seeming to prick her soul, and silent sobs racked her body. Her hot tears pelted the dark soil in its clay pot. The familiar weight of the world settled onto her shoulders. Princess. Prisoner. Healer. Savior. Druid. It’s too much.
“Don’t worry, child. I know you’ll bring them back to us.
And then we’ll get your answers. With a familiar—and a Stormrider—at your side, anything is possible.
Look.” Ursa gestured to the rose. The flower’s petals were pure pearls in the moonlight, its leaves restored to their vibrant emerald green. “You healed it.”