Chapter Four
Settling into the plush, high-backed chair in the far corner of my quarters, I stare at Fated Celestials sitting upon the low table before me. Right now, my biggest concern should be finding a means to navigate the High Council and keeping Rowen on his throne.
Not sitting here, trying to find Celesta.
But I don’t want to think about Rowen, the High Council, or Vaelyn anymore. They’ve consumed my mind for a majority of the day. It’s left me sour. What I want is to find my mother, and ultimately, regain my innate.
Let this book show me something.
Anything to help me understand where Celesta may have gone.
I don’t expect to find her tonight, but she can’t remain hidden for eternity. And even if I don’t find anything in these pages, perhaps I’ll bore myself to sleep.
Either result is a welcome one.
The low crackle and popping of the fire across the room provides just enough sound to not be sitting in deafening silence. As summer departs, fires at night have become necessary. Sleeping with the balcony doors open isn’t something I’ll be able to do for much longer.
For now, I leave the door open. The various scents the wind carries intrigue me. Like the temperature, they too shift. They’ve grown sharper, crisper. Promising snow.
Pitching myself forward, I reach for the cursed book, dragging my fingers over its dark cover. It resonates under my touch. The strange unweaving magic winds up my hand and along my wrist.
The last time I opened this book its pages were blank.
I’m hoping it will be different this time.
I want my innate back.
I cannot be expected to simply ignore what she’s stolen. Ryc, Eve, Lilith, even Cyran, they all agree an innateless life is still fulfilling.
I couldn’t disagree more.
They’ve not lived without an innate.
They’ve never been left unable to reach theirs. It’s a perspective and understanding heavily shaped by knowing or seeing people who have never had an innate—not those who have lost theirs. They fail to recognize I built a presence—an identity—upon it.
Losing it… is losing yet another part of myself.
As a creature accustomed to having an innate ability for well over a thousand years, existing as an innateless mortal is nothing short of an insult. It’s no way for me to live.
I cannot defend myself.
I cannot ferry.
And now Rowen and his damn letter introduces serious concerns. I’m forced to rely upon Ryc to keep me safe. Entirely.
It’s not that he’s incapable.
It’s that I feel worthless.
And that is unacceptable.
Flinging the cover open, several runes spring forth upon the page, and I patiently wait for them to form words.
Fated Celestials.
“Show me what I need to know to find my innate,” I say, my voice low. “I need to finish reading those chapters.”
The book responds. The runes shift. Some fade, others appear.
Of course, Aether.
My eyes narrow but the short sentence fades. It’s quickly replaced by a series of lines in Malbolge. Runes race onto the page, creating a list.
The Aegis of Aether.
The Chasm of Chaos.
The Daughter of Darkness.
The Depth of Death.
The Fingers of Fate.
The Journey of Judgment.
The Light of Life.
The Litany of Light.
The Oracle of Order.
The Nature of Nether.
The Transition of Time.
My confusion grows.
These aren’t the chapters the book showed me before. None of these relate to Celesta.
Life? Death? Darkness? Light?
No, these very clearly relate to the primordials.
But…
Fate? Judgment? Time?
I’m not familiar with them. If they’re primordials, they’re not listed in The Elder Mythos.
Gods, maybe?
Fate would be Nektos…
But the other two?
I shake my head. It doesn’t make sense.
The runes begin to fade, leaving one line behind. The top one.
The Aegis of Aether.
I don’t understand.
The magic I seek isn’t related to Aether.
And I don’t give a shit about wielding Aether as my mother had.
Gods damn it.
I slap the cover shut with a frustrated snarl.
If I wanted fables about the old gods, I would have asked for that. Clearly the spell used to create this book is waning here in the living realm. I should have never bothered to bring it with me.
It’s proven to be useless.
Flinging myself upright and out of my seat, I breeze onto the balcony, needing the night air. Perhaps it’s grown a touch too cold now to stand outside in nothing more than a night camisole, but I don’t care. I’ll survive.
Leaning against the stone balustrade, I peer over the lawn.
There’s no lingering evidence of the small dinner party from earlier this evening. A dinner to celebrate Lilith and Fenryn. The table, chairs, magelights, the laughter… all gone. The lawn sits empty, dark.
I wish the best for them.
Truly, I do.
Let their journey be easier than the path Ryc and I have been set upon by Fate. I scoff a small bitter laugh.
An explosive caw cuts through the silence of the night, followed by shrieking choral cries in response. Overhead, a twisting black cloud takes shape against the night sky. Talons and beaks and wings swirl around a bead of white.
A single white bird in a sea of black.
My eyes narrow.
The white raven?
The raven attempts to weave its way through the attacking mass of crows, demonstrating aerial grace and skill. But there are too many crows and in a burst of white feathers, the bird plummets.
Fear screams through my veins, ringing in the hollow of my chest. Without thought, I spring over the balustrade, reaching for my shadows.
I’m met with utter silence.
And the reality of my hasty decision strikes hard and swift.
The ground rushes toward me, a scream tearing from my throat. I’m going to land on the ground three stories below—and it’s going to hurt.
A white light blinds me and corded arms snatch me out of the air, clutching me against a broad and muscled chest. The familiar scent of saffron and smoke envelops me as my eyes fly open, meeting the incredulous stare of Ryc.
Behind him, two pairs of heavily white-feathered wings beat slowly against the night as he lands on the grass below.
Awestruck, I stare, struggling to breathe.
Or think.
Or speak.
His beauty renders me stupid.
Beauty like his has to be sinful.
His wings vanish in a burst of shimmering white light, hidden away from the rest of the world once again. Much like my own.
“What in the heavens are you doing?” he asks, his bewildered tone matching his incredulous expression.
What was I doing?
My eyes shoot wide.
The raven.
Squirming out of his arms, I scramble across the lawn, scouring the dark for the fallen creature. My bare feet struggle to find purchase against the damp grass and I stumble. More than once.
There!
Near the corner of the lawn the bird lies motionless.
Barely visible in the shadow, the white of its feathers appears a darkened gray with splotches of black. As I draw closer, it becomes clear it’s not black. It’s crimson.
Falling on my knees beside it, I glance above.
No crows.
Ryc’s light must have been enough to drive them off.
The creature lies on its back, wings splayed, chest heaving. Blood streams from an eye. Likely lost. The injury too severe.
Folding its wings with a delicate touch, I pull the creature into my lap, not caring about the blood. Its head shifts, and it pins its good eye against me as its chest continues to heave.
“Ryc!” I call over my shoulder. “Call Drunina!”
The healer.
She can help.
Ryc lowers himself to crouch beside me, seeing the bloodied raven in my lap.
“Little death,” he says, the regret heavy in his voice. “She won’t make it in time.”
Nor can I grant the raven a painless death.
Not any more.
My vision blurs, tears stinging behind my eyes.
“Light take your enemies,” I whisper in Malbolge, daring to stroke the feathers along its crown. “And shadows keep you safe.”
As if it understands, its chest deflates and doesn’t rise again. The red eye grows unfocused and my tears slip.
I’m useless.
Truly, utterly, undeniably useless.
Ryc’s warm hand falls upon my shoulder and glides over my back in a soothing rub.
“Your heart is showing, little death,” he says softly.
I know it’s not meant to be an insult.
But it feels like one all the same.
Tucking the raven against me, cradling it as if it were an infant, my tears continue to silently fall.
“I tried,” I say, my voice surprisingly calm, even if devoid of feeling. “And I couldn’t…”
Ryc helps me to a stand, pulling me into his embrace with the raven between us. The pained expression on his face fuels my tears, despite the warmth and adoration flowing through our bond.
“I can’t live like this, Ryc,” I say, and he brushes a tear away from my cheek with his thumb. “I cannot be some worthless, innateless creature—”
“You are far from worthless,” Ryc interjects, his brows creasing.
I scoff a bitter laugh. “You’re right. My worth is staked in my blood. Sovereign Kings are willing to kill over it.”
Ryc’s expression hardens. “They won’t get near you,” he says, his voice a low growl.
“And so you’ll give Vaelyn what he wants,” I say, holding his stare.
There’s no winning.
White light flares around us and the familiar shimmer of magic rushes over my skin. The light fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving us standing in the middle of my darkened quarters. The only light coming from the fireplace. Its warmth seeps into my chilled skin.
“Vaelyn can have every soul in this realm,” Ryc says, pressing a kiss to my brow. “Except yours.”
There’s no doubt in his words.
Not a trace of it.
Instead, like all nyraphim, they carry a staggering confidence in the face of death.
Damn foolish fae.
He releases me, asking, “What would you like to do with the raven?”
I would like to see it live.
“I’ll see to it in the morning,” I answer quietly. “Give it a proper burial.”
Crossing my quarters, I bring the raven into the bathing room. The room floods with light as magelights flare to life, casting the room in a silver glow. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink, I scoff.
I’m a mess.