8. Chapter 8
Flanked by trees on every end, we travel on the backs of the wolves as I replay Augustine’s claim that he had work to do near Riverhall.
I’ve never been to Riverhall myself, but thanks to the cartography class that Grandmaster Grimwell once forced me to endure, I can already envision the city’s signature aqueducts weaving through the moss-covered neighborhoods, and the misty fjords splintering through the jagged mountains.
Eventually, the glimmering bodies of water travel west, where they spill into an inky black sea that cradles Aurora like a canvas of darkness—the Leviathan.
Somewhere along the bend, I pray there will be a cottage nestled beneath a dome of whispering trees, which will smell like cinnamon, spice, and an undertone of something minty.
Tears of relief will prickle my eyes upon learning that this is where the old witch with mismatching eyes resides, the very person whom Solara has sent me to find.
In my mind’s eye, she will offer to deliver me to my sister across the universe, only after I’ve found a way to thank
Augustine for his generosity. Although, to be quite frank, I can hardly surmise the thought of thanking that pompous prickwad for anything. Mostly because he would never stop goading.
“How did you know about my spellmark?” I ask, gripping onto Fyra’s neck tighter as she swerves around a thorny bush and leaps over a wayward log.
Riding on the back of a giant wolf is a bit more difficult than riding on a horse, considering there’s no saddle to grip onto.
On the bright side, at least Fyra is moving slower than her counterpart, Void, despite the fact that she could probably catch him with ease if she wanted to.
Void keeps racing on ahead with Augustine on his back, as if egging Fyra on.
He only stops after seeming to realize that she’s not going to play with him, falling back into step beside us, where he snorts grumpily.
“When we first met…” I say to Augustine as Void nudges Fyra’s ear, causing her to growl at him in warning. “When you pulled back my sleeve. How did you know that my spellmark was of a raven?”
“Remember what I said about discretion, Little Bird,” Augustine replies, looking at ease despite the fact that my returning glare is incinerating.
I wish that he’d show a sliver of discomfort for once, or at the very least, that he’d wipe that amused smirk off his fucking face.
It only makes him more intriguing, which is vexing, because his entire existence makes me irate.
“I assumed that discretion would extend to you asking less questions,” he adds smugly.
“And yet you gave me no discretion when you took a peek at my spellmark,” I remind him hotly, pressing my face against Fyra’s fur and closing my eyes tightly as we dip underneath a big cluster of branches spiraling off a gathering of willow trees.
“I simply want to know why my spellmark was of such great interest to you.” I peek one eye open to gauge his expression before adding, “What kind of secrets are you keeping?”
Augustine doesn’t answer. Instead, he fixes his gaze on the horizon, where the trees are morphing into sprawling fields of sunflowers, and stalks of corn leagues taller than the both of us, unraveling a prettier sight than what I imagine Heaven looks like.
“I mentioned your spellmark only to warn you,” he replies, his words slipping off his tongue and cracking in his throat, as lies so often do. “You’re in grave danger.”
How stupid does he think I am?
“I didn’t need a warning,” I say, opening both eyes to glare at him. “I was perfectly aware of the danger I was in before you arrived. Throughout the entirety of my life, in fact, I have been aware. There has not been a single time where I wasn’t aware.”
“Right, well,” Augustine says, “I didn’t want you to forget.”
That doesn’t answer my question.
Tilting my head back, I bask in the sunlight cresting the sky as we exit the forest, its tendrils of light painting a dusky mirage along the horizon.
As the trees fade away, a giant structure materializes in front of us.
Hang on a second. I jerk my head up and gawk at the blindingly bright, oracle-like gates, towering before us like twin pillars of ice.
They look like masterpieces carved from the very hands that forged the universe, the Mother of Time.
Standing between a set of mountains that tower all the way to the clouds, their cragged cliffs look as menacing as their massive silhouettes, which can only mean one thing…
“This isn’t Riverhall,” I say, craning my neck further to get a better look at the frigid walls in disbelief.
I received perfect scores in my cartography class, which is how I know that Riverhall is a city swimming with turquoise lagoons and sluggish gondolas, home to white swans and golden reeds.
It’s airy and open, with turreted houses and endless waterfalls that hiss with steam.
This frozen tundra is the antithesis of Riverhall.
“I said that I had an errand to run near Riverhall,” Augustine amends as we approach the structure.
"Eighrora is nowhere near Riverhall," I counter.
He shrugs. "Everything on this continent feels close when you look at it relatively, don't you think?"
I stare at the starlight-filled gates of Eighrora as my stomach hurls insults at my spleen.
“Oh gods. You’re turning me into the gods to collect the bounty, aren’t you?
” I ask, inflicting him with a glare before adding, “It seems the copious amounts of fish you’ve been consuming must be affecting your ability to be a good person…
because this is low. Even for you.” I throw a glance back at the forest, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
Meanwhile, Fyra’s ears pin back against her head, as though she’s upset her parents are arguing.
“I’m not turning you in to collect the bounty,” Augustine replies.
“Then why in gods’ piss are we standing before two towering walls of ice?” I demand. To be fair, the material that makes up these four-hundred-foot walls isn’t actually ice, it’s lumicite, the strongest substance in all the realm.
Augustine dismounts from Void and says, “Remember what I said earlier, about needing you to trust me?” Like clockwork, the gates creak open, revealing a garrison of undead guards whose eyes narrow at us in disdain. “I’m going to need you to do that now.”
“Fyra, turn around right now. I no longer wish to be associated with this evil incarnate,” I command my wolf, who flicks her tail in disinterest.
“I told you to learn how to whistle.” Augustine frowns.
“You had all day to figure it out. But you didn’t, did you?
And now Fyra won’t heed a word you say.” He finishes his statement with a long, drawn-out whistle of his own.
And to my utter horror, Fyra obeys his command and drops to the ground, allowing him easy access to my waist.
“Fyra, don’t listen to this piece of wyrm shit!
” I cry out as Augustine grabs me by the hips and throws me over his shoulder.
With his opposite hand, he jams two fingers in his mouth, releasing another sharp whistle across the clearing.
Both wolves trundle off into the forest to join the rest of their pack.
“And you call yourself a man?” I scream at the double-crossing traitor as I wriggle around in his grasp, trying to break free from the stronghold that he’s built around my body with his solid arms. “Put… me… down!” I may not know how to whistle, but I sure know how to spit into eyeballs.
He’s lucky that I’m slung over his shoulder right now, or I’d hawk a loogie right into his face.
“I’m sorry, Princess.” Augustine chuckles, as though this is some kind of romantic tryst and not a hostage situation. “I’ll see you soon.”
“See me soon? I never want to see you again, you bottom-feeding sea urchin!” It’s only then that I realize the quiver strapped to his back is within my reach.
Theoretically, I could yank an arrow out of it, use that arrow to stab him in the throat, and then—OOOMPH.
He drops me on the cold hard ground, right before a group of dead-eyed soldiers.
“HEY, WHAT THE FUCK?”
The guards all congregate around me. I peer up at the broken-hearted insignias etched onto their polished golden breastplates, then scan their oversized helmets for any sign of humanity, finding none.
Their armor looks expensive and well-kept, sure, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t rotting underneath it.
I can practically taste the dark magic emanating from them from here.
The same dark magic that is said to leave behind permanent deformities and welt-like scars on their skin, marring their soulless yellow eyes with contempt for all things living.
Just like in that harrowing nursery rhyme.
“Eat your vegetables, or the undead guards will arrive with their yellow eyes. Listen to your parents, and don’t misbehave, or the Divine Army will rip off their helmets and reveal their faces.”
A shiver skitters down my spine at the unsettling lyrics from my childhood that the wardens used to sing to us every evening before bed. At first, I’d assumed it was a tall tale to keep us in line, but now I know better. It’d been a warning to avoid the Undead Soldiers at all costs.
“They rose from their graves to protect the queen from chaos. You will obey, or the Needle will steal your last breath. Yellow eyes, yellow eyes, the eyes of the dead.”
“Take this one to the Atrium,” I hear Augustine say from somewhere behind me.
“How about you go fuck yourself,” I retort, just as two guards grab me by the arms. Another guard throws handcuffs around my wrists and hauls me forward, away from Augustine. As I’m swept off my feet and dragged through the gates, I throw an incinerating glare over my shoulder at him.