Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LYRA
The gods live here.
Obviously, not the real gods, but golden statues larger than anything my eyes have ever beheld.
They tower in a circle, stretching far up the horizon, disappearing behind a small haze.
Each member of the Canamae is represented.
Adhara. Algol. Araceli. Astralis. Raffir.
Saffi. Their parents, Ahlai and Merikh, are not amongst them.
There is no roof above our heads; only blue sky and candied clouds. It compliments the white marble and the shiny floors washed in a gold gradient, adorned by arctic marble columns with golden ornaments, towering in between the statues.
My mouth hangs agape as I drink it all in, wandering to the center of the lavish room. As I walk, I spin in circles, my eyes attempting to grasp the grandeur of all that lies before me while the sweet scent of jasmine stuffs itself into my nose.
“This is the source of my home’s protection and power.”
I whip my gaze to Casimir, shocked at his admission. He has a hand stuffed into one of his pockets, and despite what he’s just said, he looks at the statues disapprovingly.
“How?” I ask.
“Centuries ago, after the outcome of the Great Clamaté War had been decided, a few gods themselves erected this place and their statues within it. Here, they slumber within, their magic flowing through the gold as a conduit that casts a dome over our oasis. It is how our land survives. How my people are shielded from their madness. Why magic moves differently here.”
“Wait… these statues.” I point for emphasis. “These gold things right here. They contain the gods?”
“Well, not all of them, as you can see. Only the Canamae.”
My jaw drops. “So all this time—while everyone has been saying prayers and burning altars in temples for the Canamae’s aid or favor—we’ve actually been living in a world without the gods?”
“More or less.”
Okay. Alright. Like that isn’t a world altering revelation.
I stop at the foot of one of the mountainous statues. There is a crack climbing from the foot of the god, up its calf, halting near its thigh. I study the statue’s face, frowning. “Who is this?”
“Astralis,” Casimir answers, a weight dragging his tone. He strides over, tilting his chin to gaze up at the statue’s face alongside me. “And he is awakening.”
“What do you mean by ‘awakening’?”
“I mean as I say. The gods slumber within these gold confines, and Astralis is awakening. He is attempting to break free.”
Yeah…okay. My head is officially reeling.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to make sense of what he’s telling me. “How is it the gods ended up here, in these statues, in the first place? How is that even possible?”
“Because I put them there.” He watches me sidelong before looking back to Astralis.
“This is no ordinary gold, and with the help of a deity, it was decided that to stop the few, all the Canamae needed to be put to rest. Most came voluntarily, others by force. It was the only way to end the Great War.” He puts Astralis to his back and struts to the center of the room, where he glances up at the exposed sky.
“The thing the history books have right is the gods’ involvement in the war—that much was true.
They interjected themselves, divided, as some aligned with their father, Merikh, while others with their mother, Ahlai.
Merikh backed his favorite mortals—his champion—gifting them kernels of his magic, providing wielders with access to knowledge they should have never received. ”
My stomach hollows. “Are you talking about forbidden magic? About Magaius?”
Casimir does not turn around to meet my eye. “Yes. Magaius was chosen to be Merikh’s champion, gifted with forbidden magic and the knowledge to help others access it as well.”
I think of the worn book Nuha showed me that night in Philator’s library, We Sang the Dawn. Her words drift into my mind.
It belonged to the one the story calls Prince.
Also known as the Wielder of All. In this story, he was bestowed with a great gift to wield all magic from the Mother Goddess herself, after the Commander, known in the story as the Wielder of the Forbidden, received access to forbidden magic without consequence.
Glimmers of the final vision the Veil showed me play in my mind next.
“Because war demands sacrifice. A truth I have tried to help you see. I cannot help it if you chose to ignorantly remain blind. And now? Now we have the edge we need to finally end this accursed conflict.”
“Magaius,” Casimir breathes. “What have you done?”
I study Casimir as if for the first time, my mind spinning. “And so you were the Mother Goddess’s champion,” I muse aloud. “Chosen to be the one who would stand against your best friend and Merikh. Is that how you’re able to wield all magic? Did she gift you the ability?”
He is silent a long moment, and then—
“Yes.”
The beginning of the prophecy from his journal—words that are permanently seared into my brain—rattle around in my mind, turning over each other.
Beneath the gaze of a gripping white moon, where a lone, starry-eyed wolf waits, a raven will be made, forged in the weight of his sins.
Cursed by another and rejected by the threads sewn into his withering heart, the raven will no longer be shackled by the weight of time, but rather a servant to the whims of it—destined to forever fly, no matter how many times it clips its wings to fall.
Images I saw in the Veil flicker in my mind.
Ones of the wolf with glowing eyes prowling toward Casimir.
It is met with humming. The humming from the vision I couldn’t discern.
Except, it loudens in my head, the song morphing from a faint echo to something like a haunting lullaby. I finally recognize the tune.
I hear Nuri’s ethereal voice; the song she sang during the second test while firelight flickered across her skin.
A wolf that lurks in the blackest of nights, his glowing eyes are a stream. Alone, he wanders lost in this life, awaiting sweet release. A child, a child, he finds deep in the trees, washed in mud and weeds. A child, a child, a knife deep in his skin, awaiting sweet release.
Chills sweep down my body as realization dawns on me.
Holy shit.
I sing the next words aloud, and Casimir stiffens at the sound of them. “The voices, they crow, in the moonlight. Until the child believes. The wolf will keep him locked in this life, awaiting sweet release.”
I remember Casimir’s words the day he came for me. The answer he fed me as I was aching and confused, attempting to understand what he was trying to accomplish.
I hope to bring you back with me; I hope to teach you the nature of our magic. I hope to provide you with a home and a family—with my own family a home. But most of all, I hope to die.
I hope to die.
When I pry my eyes from the angelic marble floors, Casimir is watching me with a quiet sadness brimming in his gaze. “You’re the boy from the song.”
Casimir nods, the action slow. “I created it during my first century of life. I was…struggling. Wandering from place to place aimlessly. I sang it on the road, in front of fires and in taverns. I always sang it like a lament for myself, but…” His brows furrow, and he shakes his head, his hair shifting into his eyes.
“I am not sure how the song caught on. It was a very dark time for me, and there is so much I do not remember. I must have sung it in front of a bard or in some farming town whose people kept the melody alive. Though, some of the lyrics have changed through the centuries. I never have been able to figure out where the child line came from.”
Despite everything, I arch a pointed brow at him. “So you mean to tell me one of the most famous folk songs in all of Solaya is nothing more than a song you made up in your self-loathing?”
He shoots me a look. “Your compassion is extensive.” And for a moment, in his plunging shirt, loose pants, and tousled hair, he appears so normal.
I shrug. “You kidnapped me.”
“So you like pointing out.”
“Apologies—how annoying of me to keep bringing that up.” Yet I soften when I glimpse the awakened shadows in his eyes.
“The raven will no longer be shackled by the weight of time, but rather a servant to the whims of it—destined to forever fly, no matter how many times it clips its wings to fall.” I allow the words to settle.
“Your immortal life is not a gift—it’s a curse, isn’t it? ”
His jaw flexes, and for the first time, I see unbridled emotion surfacing on his features. “It is the cruelest curse that could have ever befallen me.”
“So you truly cannot die?”
He tucks stray hair behind his ear, eyes falling to the ground. “It’s just as the prophecy says: destined to forever fly, no matter how many times it clips its wings to fall.”
A sudden sadness overtakes me, clogging my throat and piling inside my chest. “How many times have you tried?” I murmur. “To… die.”
“More times than you could count in your lifetime.”
His pain—so tangible in this moment—temporarily becomes my own. “Did you feel…” I swallow, steadying my voice and ensuring pity does not seep into my words. Nobody needs pity; just someone to hear their experience. “Did it hurt?”
“Every single time.”
I cannot explain why I do what happens next.
Only that I see the layers in his emotions so clearly in this moment.
I see the pain haunting him, cutting him from the inside out, leaving him to bleed.
I see his determination to rise above that pain—to not be a prisoner to it.
But that brings conflict, and I know that better than anyone.
He is a conglomeration of hurt, anger, numbness, pity, regret, and perhaps the most confusing of all…
hope. And while I don’t think he would ever confess to harboring such an emotion, the quiet moments—the underlying melody fueling his lament for humanity—assure me of the truth.