Thirty-Seven
THIA’S FEET ACHED. THE GOLD PAINT ON HER ARMS WAS SMUDGED from sweat that soaked her skin and hair.
Music filled her ears. It was strange but gentle, a haunting lullaby that clung like mist after a rainstorm. Bodies swayed around her, solitary, arms held open to the sky, also covered in paint.
How long had she been dancing?
Despite the pain in her feet, her exhausted limbs, she was alive with an energy she hadn’t felt in years.
Her cheeks flushed at the memory of the drums, the chanting, the ferity she’d allowed herself to give in to.
She hadn’t noticed the music shift; perhaps it was a recent adaptation, this new, calming tone having returned her to herself.
The moon was lower now, the bonfire reduced to embers.
Thia searched for Dess, but he was gone.
The clearing had emptied significantly—Lythia was also gone, as was the man who had been beside Thia at the ceremony’s start.
She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly lonely. She glanced behind her, at the stones where the others had sat. Thran had departed, but Oskaren remained, elbows resting on her knees, her dark eyes on Thia.
Thia offered a hesitant half-smile, wondering what the girl was thinking—if she was anywhere near her true self, or if that person was locked far away against the joy of the music.
She was only a little mortified at the idea that Oskaren might have been watching her while she had given herself over to it.
The thought maybe thrilled her just a bit too.
The dark-haired girl did not return the smile, but neither did she frown. Thia took that as promising and crossed the clearing to where she sat.
“Hi,” she said, when Oskaren was in front of her.
Oskaren raised her chin, skimming the swirls of gold on Thia’s arms and neck, but her face was unreadable. “Faelyn.”
“Where are the others?”
“In search of food.”
“You aren’t hungry?”
She shrugged, and then lapsed into silence.
Thia gulped some air and blurted, “Would you like to dance?”
Oskaren raised an eyebrow. She glanced at the Losrohir and back to Thia. “No one else has a partner.”
Her cheeks heated. “In my land, slower dances are done as a pair.”
Oskaren stood suddenly, and Thia’s flush deepened at their suddenly proximity. The girl’s lips twitched. “In mine as well,” she said, holding out a hand. “Only the Losrohir dance alone.” She bowed, arm still extended. “It would be my honor.”
Thia reached for it. But as her small fingers closed around Oskaren’s larger ones, the girl stiffened, mouth twisting with pain. She released Thia just as suddenly and bent at the waist, bracing herself on her thighs.
“I’m sorry,” Thia said, resisting the urge to touch the back of the girl’s head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
Oskaren took a deep gulp of air, then another. “I wish I could.”
Thia’s heart twinged. “It’s my fault,” she said.
No, it was King Caradoc’s fault. She should have known a simple dance would cause Oskaren pain, that even a hint of lightness would be taken and replaced with agony.
The thought filled her with rage. She hated that she needed his help, hated that someone so cruel held so much power.
She’d spent so much of her life wishing to be like her mother, only to find out she was the opposite, a creature of small comforts and deep loyalties to Melina’s adventurous daring.
But now here Thia was, for the first time since learning the truth, wishing it again, because maybe then she could have done something, broken the spell, given Oskaren just a moment of reprieve, even if it were only for one night.
Before she could stop herself, Thia placed her palm on the girl’s bowed head, rubbing a thumb gently over the slope of her skull.
She wished.
A jolt shot through her chest, an electric spark that tumbled down her arm and into her hand, similar to the strange spikes the earth’s thrumming had created in her feet. It vibrated there for a moment, filling her fingers and beyond. Then it was gone.
Thia released Oskaren, flexing her hand in front of her face, staring at it.
Oskaren straightened, posture relaxing.
Expression clear.
Warm.
Happy.
“Thia,” she breathed, and Thia’s blood rushed at the sound of her name. Oskaren took her hands. “Thia!”
“What happened?” Thia asked. “Are you alright?” She could hardly get the words out; she was swept up in the utter joy on the girl’s face.
Oskaren had always been stunning, her bones chiseled from stone, every feature smooth and striking.
But smiling, truly smiling, she was the most staggering person Thia had ever seen.
Passion blazed in her eyes, kindness in the tilt of her mouth.
“Ren?” she asked wonderingly, and Oskaren nodded, still beaming.
A tendril of black hair slipped loose from her ponytail and fell into her face. She ignored it, pulling Thia closer. “You did something.”
Thia blinked. “I—what?”
“I feel like myself.” Oskaren stared at her. “Storm Crow.”
Thia gulped. “I didn’t.” But she had felt something. The spark….
Like the thrumming, she’d thought. The magic of the Losrohir? What had Lythia said? The Festival of Impartation was to renew their magic. Perhaps partaking in the dance had somehow…charged her with it?
Oskaren grinned suddenly, and Thia’s usually full head emptied of thought. It was so mischievous, so playful without any hint of mockery, that she couldn’t help but grin back. “Dance with me, Faelyn,” Oskaren said earnestly.
Dance. Yes. There was music, and hadn’t Thia asked her already?
“Don’t you want to….” Figure out why she was suddenly free? Ask the Losrohir if their magic could break curses? She wondered if she should find Dess and see if he had any resurgence of memory.
But Oskaren placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever this is, for however long it lasts….” Her head ducked, as though suddenly bashful. “There is nowhere I’d rather be this night than here with you. Dance with me.” Her hand slipped to Thia’s waist.
Thia swallowed, Oskaren’s long fingers curling around her ribs like hot coals.
She slid her palm into Oskaren’s other one, where it was extended for her to grasp.
The girl drew her closer in one smooth tug, and Thia’s heart skittered in her chest. She took a small breath, and the other girl smirked, as if knowing exactly how affective her presence was, then guided her gently backward. And they were dancing.
Thia was relieved that Oskaren took the lead; she had never danced quite like this before, the style more akin to ballroom than swaying in a high school gym.
But the other girl clearly knew what she was doing as she pressed Thia backwards again, then pulled her forward, and guided her through spins.
Even so, she couldn’t resist tipping her head back to examine her partner.
Moonlight shone on Oskaren’s black hair, on the gold paint that wrapped around her cheeks, emphasizing her cutting bone structure and the piercing nature of her dark gaze.
If Thia had been an artist, she might have liked to paint this moment.
Instead, she tried to commit every detail of the girl’s exquisite features to memory.
It was only when she realized she was staring that she noticed Oskaren was as well.
She looked away, cheeks burning furiously.
“The Eye of Syrrene,” Oskaren said.
The girl was gazing at her neck—no, at the bead on the end of her tiny braid. Normally hidden in her long tumble of hair, it fell just below her ear, the full length of it pinned up by Lythia’s flowers. It bounced along her skin as Oskaren pulled her into a turn.
“The bead,” Oskaren said, confirming it. “It’s called the Eye of Syrrene. Did Dessfar tell you what it means?”
Thia shook her head, attuned to the bead’s cold metal as it skimmed across her skin with the movement. “Only that girls here wear them.”
“It’s true,” Oskaren told her. “Syrrene is our goddess. There are other lesser gods, but she is the First.” Her face took on what Riley liked to call the “thinking frown,” an expression he was drawn to pointing out in Thia any time she tried to remember something.
On Oskaren it was adorable, her sculpted lips pursed, forehead covered by that tendril of hair that was still spilled across her brow. Thia itched to brush it aside.
Oskaren’s hand tightened slightly on Thia’s waist. “Legend says Syrrene came to our lands from Sothis—the Divine Realms. While she was here, she fell in love with a human man. They had a child, a girl named Aza, who became the first sorceress. After a time, Syrrene fell ill; she could not survive eternally without Sothis’s divine light to sustain her.
But her child was mortal, and could not return with her to Sothis.
So Syrrene cut out her own eye and transformed it into a bead.
Braiding it into her daughter’s hair, she told the girl that as long as she wore it, her mother would watch over her and keep her safe from harm.
Over the centuries, it has become a symbol of luck—a prayer that Syrrene might keep you safe. ”
Thia removed her hand from Oskaren’s shoulder to lift the bead.
It was a bit like an eye, when the light caught it a certain way, and the lighter flecks of green aligned down the middle like a cat’s pupil.
“What are these?” she asked, brushing her thumb over the marked golden clasps that held it in place, runes she didn’t recognize.
“It’s Magicians’ Script. The symbol for bless—the command that begins most of their benevolent spells.”
She let it fall back against her neck and returned her hand to Oskaren’s shoulder. “Shame it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” There was a smile in Oskaren’s voice.