Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
ALLIE
T he forest was alive and loud.
The line of people delved deeper within in a slow wave, their otherworldly chant gliding between the tall pines as their candles lit up the night.
For the briefest moment, I felt like I was back in the Aquila cathedral, but instead of the tall murals of mighty gods flanking me on all sides, I was surrounded by trees older than our measly buildings, the smell of sap burning through my senses.
The people in Malhaven had spent decades–centuries–building our temples to prove our devotion and might, cracking the earth for rocks and precious metals, carving its forests for our ships to set sail to other realms where we could do the same.
Against nature, humans, magical or not, were all just violent, loud flashes, extinguishing in a blink against true wonders.
The only other times when I’d felt as humbled as walking through this ancient forest was when I stared at the stars and sea from my balcony in Aquila.
The ocean didn’t care about our petty mortal struggles and fights, when it could silence us with one wave, like a flick of the hand when a fly comes too close.
The stars cared even less, gazing down as cold, silent witnesses to all our fiery emotions before we faded. They didn’t intervene for ruined kings and desperate widows, what could they do for a girl with a cracked pride searching for her purpose?
Now, though, they couldn’t see me, not when the canopy was so thick, there was only a glimmer of the sky and moon washing down upon us.
The melting wax smelled almost metallic, leaving small drops of red along the snowy road. Like blood from a kill still running away from its inevitable death. But the song was so peaceful, warming the night and my chest.
It sounded sorrowful, like the ballads of old, sung by the sailor’s wives for their safe return, filled with longing, yes, but also hope.
The entire procession had the veil of ceremony, ancient and secret, at the border between sacred and profane.
I followed them, standing a few feet behind, feeling like the biggest intruder. Each time my boot crunched a frozen branch on the ground, I winced, as if I was disturbing this ritual.
But my curiosity was stronger than any trepidation.
Sylvester flitted from tree to tree, my silent, snobby companion, completely unbothered. Who knew how many of these processions he’d witnessed.
Dozens of people walked ahead of me, children spread out between them and held onto tightly. A hint of solemn danger lingered in the air, but nothing too bad could happen with younglings present…right?
I knew all of them were aware I was following from a respectful distance; they’d turned around and stared too much not to. But they didn’t shy away, didn’t pick up the pace, didn’t shoo me off for intruding.
My presence there simply was.
“Dadda, I want a candle, too,” a little girl from the back of the line whined in a whisper, tugging on her father’s hand. I recognized the man–I’d seen enough of his shaved head around the fortress to recognize the back of it.
He was one of the Commander’s warriors, usually guarding the third floor.
“Later, my daffodil,” he whispered, breaking his chant. “The wax can scorch your little hands.”
“But you have one.”
“Daddy’s hands can take it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m older and my skin is tougher. Yours will be too, if you’re lucky. And daddy will make sure you will be.”
My father had wanted me to be just as lucky. He’d protected me as best he could, even after sorrow had taken hold of him after my mother’s passing.
He’d guided me through life, perhaps with a gentler hand than I deserved, but he’d poured his support into me. I’d never asked him if he’d liked having me for a daughter, and now I never would.
But the gentle beat in my heart told me he did. All the memories of his warm hugs, smiles, and gentle pats on my shoulders told the same story and nobody could ever rewrite it.
“But why?” she asked.
“Because daddy loves you very much–”
“No,” the little girl said emphatically. “Why do you have a candle?”
“I–” The warrior turned to the little girl and licked his lips a few times, hesitating. “It’s tradition.”
“But why?”
He took a long inhale, closing his eyes, the universal sign of parental patience. But he didn’t chide, he didn’t shush, and from the way he was working his jaw he was trying to come up with an answer she would understand.
I distantly wondered if my own father had done the same, from times I couldn’t remember. I definitely would have been asking too many questions, I came out of the womb curious, but he’d been the perfect embodiment of patience and knowledge.
Fresh tears lodged in my throat.
My father would never answer another question of mine.
I’d never get to hold his hand again.
“Because our ancestors did this before us every final day of the week, so we do it today to keep their memory alive. That is tradition,” he said gently.
The girl looked up at him, a furrow in her small brows and a pout on her lips. Finally, she nodded. “Where are we going?”
“Remember when grandpa died last year?”
The girl’s lower lip trembled. “Yes.”
“Well, grandpa’s body is no longer with us, he’s with the gods now–”
“Selfish gods,” she said with a child’s unbridled anger.
Sometimes, I thought the same thing, though I didn’t dare speak it out loud.
The gods were indeed selfish. And greedy. They’d taken so many from me.
My mother.
Grandpa Constantine.
My father.
How many more souls would they snatch away from me?
“Best not say that, daffodil. The gods always know what they’re doing,” her father said quickly, looking up at the sky, as if apologizing for his daughter’s words. “As I was saying, grandpa’s soul still sometimes visits the mortal realm.”
The girl gasped. “He’s never visited me!”
“No, we’re visiting him now and we need a candle to do it, so he can find us.”
The little girl squealed in delight, a new pep in her step. The sound melted into the song, drawing me closer.
The forest path began to widen, the trees giving a wide berth to an unusual clearing.
The dirt was replaced with rough-hewn stones, more ancient than the ones in the city, onto which now even the snow seemed to have enough guts to settle on.
Up ahead, a humongous stone structure began to take form, seemingly out of the night itself. It looked like an upturned warship jutting out like a rock from the icy ground. Two arches guarded the entrance, intertwined at the top in one great spike.
The people in the front of the procession had already entered through the small door embedded in the stone, lighting it up from the inside with their light and their song.
From inside the building of stone, the chant turned primal and ethereal, beating straight into my chest. It drew me closer, despite the shivers coursing up my spine and settling at the base of my skull.
Suddenly, I had the oddest feeling I was being watched.
Sylvester soared up ahead and landed right on the crux of the tall arches, like a beacon, so it wasn't him.
I turned, eyes scanning the darkness behind and around me, a stark difference from the light calling me forward.
Nothing, only trees and snow and–
My heart tremored as a flash of light flitted between the trees, delving further into the east side of the forest.
A purple light.
But I blinked and it was gone.
No hum rattled against my bones, no shakiness in my knees.
I’d convinced myself I’d imagined it when the little girl’s voice broke through all the sounds. “Dadda, dadda, did you see that? Let’s follow it!”
For the first time, her father’s voice had an edge to it. “We never go inside that part of the forest. Promise me you’ll never, ever do that.”
“But why?”
Whatever the warrior told his daughter got drowned out by the chant as they entered the structure.
I kept staring at the trees, heartbeat galloping, but I saw nothing else. No glimmer, no flash, no glow.
Maybe it was just a weird phenomenon in this crater.
Maybe if I told that to myself enough times, I might actually believe it.
With a shake of my shoulders that did nothing to settle the shivers racing down my back, I approached the entrance, steps slow and unsteady.
Mrs. Mallowmere had told me to follow them, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about a temple–or whatever this place was.
Or entering it.
Still, I wanted to see. Wanted to feel generations of tradition surrounding me and immerse myself in it.
Death was universal, but each Clan had its way of revering it. I’d heard the Blood Brotherhood burned their warriors, but this seemed vastly different.
This was the most intimate peek I’d ever get at the heart of this city–the way it remembered its dead.
A short old man with a hunch and a golden walking stick waited right beside the door, face partially hidden underneath his black robes.
I nodded my head in greeting and made to walk through it.
His walking stick jutted out with the speed of the wind, blocking my path.
“No candle, no entrance,” he said with the voice of a smoker.
I swallowed my sigh, even as I deflated. I stared through the door, but all I could see was a stone hallway, nothing more.
Just as I readied to calm my curiosity and turn, a rustle resounded from right behind. “She’s with me.”