Chapter 46
AMEIRAH
The attic room looked exactly the same as I remembered, and hushed reverence once again fell over me as Nabil and I stepped through the ancient door, both of us armed and dressed in leather armour.
Instead of a handle, the door was opened by a revolving cube in its centre like a puzzle box, and I was glad I’d made Shula explain it thrice to me, because it took even more attempts to get it open.
“You’re no help,” I told Nabil, softening the remark with a smile as he closed the carved door behind us. A relic from Wyvara, from a time when fae and araethawn lived in peace and prosperity, not corrupted into a war by a queen of dark magic.
“You handled it,” Nabil dismissed, though he echoed my smile weakly. Still grieving, still healing, but bravely facing every day. It didn’t go unnoticed even if his was a quiet inner strength instead of brash and flashy. I admired him. If I lost Raheema, I was sure I’d never leave my bed.
“I never get used to seeing this place,” he told me, his eyes roving around the high-ceilinged chamber that had no right to fit inside the fortress’s tower.
The floor was polished to a glasslike shine, even though no one had been up here to clean it in weeks, and it ought to smell of dust and neglected rooms, not fresh mint.
The rich blue and jade flowers that dripped from golden columns should have been wilted, but instead they thrived, soaking up the magic that practically dripped from the air.
Of course this was a gate, it could be nothing else.
“I’ve touched that mirror before,” Nabil murmured, crossing the wide space, craning his neck to look at the vaulted ceiling high above our heads, the moulded wyverns crouched at the top of golden columns. “It never felt like anything except glass.”
“Kaazhim and the king needed my blood to enter the other gate in Morysen; maybe it’s a mirror to everyone except those with Cirestian blood.”
It wasn’t a pleasant thing to say, even if I was coming to terms with the fact Falael wasn’t my father but my keeper, and my real sire was the loathsome gentry who’d tortured my magic out of me.
But to realise I’d only ever known half of myself, that there was a side of me that belonged to Cirestia, that I knew absolutely nothing about that part of my heritage…
it would take much longer for me to accept.
I found it easier to think of war and darkness and Zalaam evil than to look inside myself right now.
Nabil watched me; I felt his eyes on the side of my face, but I didn’t return the look.
I crossed the floor, the room so mighty that my footsteps were a whisper absorbed by the high ceiling—or the dense magic all around us.
My skin seemed to tingle the closer I got to the end of the room, my lungs light as I breathed in all that magic.
Not exactly the same as the weightless air of Riverren, but close.
Enough that goosebumps spilled down my arms when I finally dared look at the mirror that stood over us, crowning an imposing flight of golden stairs.
It was flanked, as I remembered, by arched windows as tall as houses, through which a waterfall could be seen.
“There wasn’t a waterfall in Riverren,” I said, frowning. “If we’re not all mad, and this really is a gate, it must show the capital.”
“We’re not mad,” Nabil said, giving me a contemplative look.
“What?”
“I think you’re right. This gate is only accessible to those from that world, who bear its blood. I might not be able to go with you.”
“Kamaal could. Kaazhim and his henchmen too.”
His mouth twitched into an almost-smile. “I’ve always wanted henchmen myself. I’d use them to muck out Buchra’s stall—” His smile fell. His throat shifted with a swallow.
I didn’t know what to say, had no words to soften the loss, so I just rested my hand on his shoulder.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and patted my hand before he pushed it off his shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“I never said you weren’t. When this is over,” I added carefully, “we’ll honour her properly.”
Nabil nodded, silently walking across the cavernous room beside me, peering at the cracked mirror, the intimidating windows, and that impossible waterfall on the other side of the bright crystal glass.
“I could,” I began, voicing an idea I’d secretly contemplated these weeks at the fortress. “I could write the story of her battle. Make sure everyone knows that she fought to keep Daurith safe.”
How many had made it out between that initial attack, and the king’s second sacking of the sacred city? Everyone that survived was because of Buchra, because she gave her life for the wyvernlings and children who lived there.
Nabil was quiet for so long, I was sure I’d overstepped.
We reached the base of the golden stairs, with the giant windows looming over us—windows into another world.
“There are other battles, other times she fought to defend Ithanys. Lives she saved, hours spent protecting the wall. I’ll help you compile the stories. ”
“We’ll make sure every library has a copy, so there’s no one that doesn’t know her name.”
Nabil smiled sadly. “She’d love that.” He laughed, rusty and raw. “She thrived on attention and praise. She—”
The door clattered open behind us, startling us both.
Nabil drew the sword from his back, and I took his cue, sliding the dagger Kamaal gave me from its sheath.
The handle was made of red metal carved all over with prayers for courage and strength, and if it was anything like Silverstorm’s other relics, it would literally deliver on those promises.
“Who is that?” I whisper-hissed to Nabil as two people strode into the room. I realised why the door had clattered rather than creaking on its old hinges when I saw it slump to the floor. They forced their way in. I was glad I’d drawn my dagger.
“Two of the Torn Island leaders,” Nabil said with a confused mix of suspicion and rage. “Kanuri and Amuq’ran.”