Chapter 56
My heart flutters erratically as I’m escorted to the sovereign’s study and into the small dining area.
I’m barely over the Dreamwalker trapping me in that dreamscape, and her words have burrowed into my heart and eaten away at my conscience.
She’s right. Neris is right. Every time I try to take a step forward, my own cowardly nature slams me right back into a place of indecision.
It’s been just over three weeks since my arrival at Paramount, and I feel no closer to getting out of here.
I need to try harder to push through the fear.
As I enter the room, Lynx turns her masked face to me. To my surprise, Neris is seated there, a picture of beauty in her flowy cerulean gown and her golden curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“Welcome, Lady Gwyneth,” the sovereign says lightly.
I nervously smooth my hands over my own dress, feeling surprisingly even more out of place now than I do in Zenith uniforms. I curtsy and ease myself into the seat next to Neris.
She glances askew at me before her eyes flick forward to the sovereign again.
“You must be wondering why I’ve invited you and Miss Reneris to dinner,” he says.
“Yes, Excellency.”
“I like to get to know my recruits, and I haven’t had the chance to properly converse with you.”
Servants bring food in, metal domes and plates clanging and clattering lightly as they set down a variety of foods: mutton, cabbage in a parsley sauce, and thick slabs of crusty bread.
Once they leave and our plates are piled high, the sovereign’s deep blue eyes settle on me again.
“When did you learn about your terraforging?”
Neris and I glance at each other briefly. “I was very young.”
With a thoughtful look, Neris adds, “Maybe five or six years old?”
I nod, and the sovereign places food in his mouth and chews slowly.
I glance across the table at Lynx, who sits there, her hood still up, her eyes peering out from her mask.
A few strands of honey blond hair peek out from under her hood as she slowly twirls a fork between her fingers.
Her sleeve slips back slightly, something like white fabric visible underneath.
When she catches me staring, she tugs her sleeve down and stops twirling her fork.
“I’m told that Wielders who do not use their powers after they manifest—unless they wore a dampener—are slowly driven mad,” says Rheon.
“How did you manage to avoid that, living in Erleya under the late Queen Morwenna’s reign?
And especially in a renowned household such as yours, where privacy is a rarity. ”
I think back to the visions, the delusions perhaps—have I, indeed, gone mad?
It would make sense in the grand scheme of things.
But I respond as casually as I can. “I used small amounts of my powers daily. Gardening, fixing small cracks in walls, chopping wood simply by controlling the axe with magic, repairing jewelry, etcetera. Whenever I could, I moved rocks and boulders in the forest on the outskirts of the city.”
“Clever,” the sovereign says.
“Thank you, Excellency.”
He’s silent for a while, and there’s only the sound of scraping forks and sawing knives. After a while, he says, “You don’t seem to be fond of your powers.”
Something between a cough and a gasp catches in my throat, and I clear it forcefully. “I … Sometimes I wish I were Ordinary, admittedly.”
Neris gives me an odd look.
“And you, Miss Reneris?”
Her eyes dart to the sovereign’s.
“Have you ever desired having powers?”
“Perhaps …” She smiles with a natural casualness that I envy.
“What if I told both of you that I’ve been working with a Mage on a ritual of power transference? It doesn’t work with mind magic or sorcery, but using Skinchanger blood lends to the possibility of transferring powers from a Wielder to an Ordinary.”
My pulse skitters, my blood running cold as I shudder.
I open my mouth to say something, but my voice refuses to come out.
Most people don’t know this, but powers are more than just an accessory that a person has; powers are a part of the person’s soul.
Unfortunately, I’m living proof of that; trying to carve my terraforging from me nearly killed me.
“That …” My voice comes out squeaky, so I take a hefty sip of wine from my goblet before speaking again. “That sounds dangerous, Excellency.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Every novelty is dangerous at first, Lady Gwyneth. It is a work in progress.”
What does that mean? I refuse to look away from him, not wanting to raise any suspicions. He smiles, and I swear something changes in his gaze. I cannot quite wrap my mind around it, but this man makes my flesh creep.
“The Shadow Wielder continues to defy me. If he does not agree to join the cause, I will relieve him of his powers and give them to someone else who does care to make this kingdom a better place for all.”
I’m barely over his last comment, but this one makes me feel even more uncomfortable in my own skin. I fidget in my seat.
“As much as I loathe the Purists and their mad attempt to rid Erleya of Magekind, they have had success in removing a person’s powers. I seek to simply … redirect it. Why waste a gift, right?”
Neris places her hand over mine as it begins to tremble in my lap. If my heart beats any faster, it’ll burst out of my chest.
“Have the pair of you noticed the blight worsening?” The abrupt change of subject makes my head spin.
In silence, Neris and I nod.
A strange darkness seems to shift into Rheon’s eyes, but when I blink, it’s gone. I need to get a grip on my emotions.
“The land is dying,” Rheon says. “I’ve heard the Purists are gathering sympathizers to overthrow Paramount so they can open the Veil at Fiada Purlieu.
Ironically, we once thought that was the right course of action.
That we could unleash Enidwen and use her power for the betterment of Erleya.
What we didn’t know at the time was that not only has Enidwen’s spirit been in this realm for ages, but the Veil has never been fully closed.
Like a crack in a foundation, it’s been slowly reopening, draining our land, causing the blight.
It will get worse if left open—completely destroying all our crops and livestock. ”
My brows furrow. Enidwen as in the enchantress of the Basduunai? Why would anyone want to summon her? And if the Veil is cracked, wouldn’t monsters and Otherworlders be upon us? Not just our plants dying? “Apologies, Excellency. I am not following.”
“Ah.” He smiles and dives into a story about a mortal Grounder named Enidwen, who was taken to the Otherworld by an immortal.
She forged a weapon in the Otherworld and used it to slaughter her lover, throwing off the balance of the realm before escaping back to ours.
She went on to claim more powers for herself before summoning the Underling Prince.
He was supposed to grant her unlimited power, but his spirit corrupted hers and she lost control.
A group of Wielders and Mages called the Heirs of Dusk and Embers ended up defeating her.
They banished her to the realm where the Underling Prince came from.
She was thought to be gone, trapped forever along with the Underling Prince, but it turns out she’s been trapped in our realm somehow.
We’ve heard the tale before, but somehow, the way Rheon says it …
“If she summoned the Underling Prince,” Neris says quietly, “then that couldn’t have been the Veil to the Otherworld. Wouldn’t that be … the Underworld? As in Lugda’s realm?”
“Oh, another clever woman,” says the sovereign. “But that is a detail we have been trying to figure out. If indeed it is the Underworld, we’re not quite sure what difference that makes. What we do know is that the Veil needs to be closed to stop the other realm from draining ours. And the Purists—”
“—they want it open,” Neris interrupts. “Wouldn’t that let more magic in?”
“Not necessarily. But it may restore the full power of all the gods—good and evil.”
Cold rushes down my spine. I recall Magdin and Damarlach in my mind, two different sides of one coin, both asking me to smite the oppressors. But who are the true oppressors? Will closing the Veil truly end the blight? Would opening it really unleash the gods?
Despite Rheon’s words, he’s nonchalant about it. He only smiles, that murky shadow creeping into his eyes again, as he pops more food into his mouth. This time, I feel myself flinch, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“To close the Veil, we believe it requires a Shadow Wielder,” says Rheon.
My pulse jumps.
“Why?” Neris asks.
“Enidwen was the first Basduun. After her demise, her followers—the other Basduunai—continued to wreak havoc on the realm. And because Basduunai no longer exist in our modern era, a Shadow Wielder is the closest we will find. However, if the Shadow Wielder does not cooperate, the Veil will continue to open. And it isn’t just Erleya that will be doomed but the rest of the world.
If the Purists somehow get to Fiada Purlieu, they won’t hesitate to open the Veil by whatever means. They have their ways.”
Oh, I know. Just as much as I know that Basduunai very much exist. Just as the Purists are aware. They are after the Heirs. I am certain they’re after that Dreamwalker. I suppose it is because, if the sovereign is right, she can destroy the only hope they have of opening the Veil.
But what exactly do the Purists gain from opening the Veil to the Underworld? Unless they also think it’s the Otherworld?
My brain itches to know. Something is not adding up. Something is off with this whole situation. It seems both the Zenith and the Purists want extreme versions of balance. Neither of them is right.