Chapter Ten #2
Time-warped rows of headstones stretch into the distance, lining both sides of the gravel path Cyran and I tread. There are more than a few that remain bright white, standing out among those that have become a darkened gray and laden with lichen.
These were all people at one point.
They each had their own thoughts, loves, dreams, and desires.
And I’m sure many of the more pristine headstones wouldn’t exist if Netharis had left this city alone. At least now no additional stones will be placed as the result of him.
The cemetery would feel strangely open if it weren’t for the numerous trees and their drooping branches. Bedecked with small, now yellow leaves, the trees appear to rain streams of fine gold toward the ground.
Weeping willows, Cyran had called them.
Appropriate.
If it weren’t for the leaves, the place would lack color.
There’s so much gray—the gravel, the aged headstones, the surrounding wall…
it’s too much like the veil. Drained of color and life.
If this place is intended to honor the dead, they do the varied and vibrant lives of their loved ones no justice.
And Cora… she was certainly vibrant.
“Cyran,” I call his name and his lavender eyes peer over his shoulder. “When I lived at the temple, there were those who would give Eve grief for her choice in partner because she was human,” I say and his brows crease. “Is it common for fae to scrutinize such pairings?”
He turns his face forward, remaining silent.
Oh.
He’s going to ignore me.
I suck in a breath, a scathing retort upon my tongue—
“Regrettably, even in Erus, those involved in inter-species relationships will always come across those willing to give unsolicited advice and opinions,” he answers, his voice softer than I’d expect.
My retort dies in the same drawn breath.
“It’s gotten better since King Alaryc’s ascension,” he continues, keeping his voice low and eyes forward. “But dismantling centuries of King Thalion’s purist views, especially among fae, takes time.”
I don’t doubt his words.
Not in the least.
A species with a life expectancy of a few thousand years has no real reason to change.
Or at least, not swiftly. Demons are much the same.
With a plethora of rules and regulations—which they often break for sheer amusement—expectations and standards are…
rigid. And they carry hellish consequences… if caught.
My involvement with Druka comes to mind.
Even if I hadn’t already been promised to Kassil, Netharis would have never allowed his daughter to be involved with a succubus. To him, they were servants and playthings, nothing more.
But, lingering on Cyran’s words and the tone he chose to speak them, a small truth emerges. He knows exactly the kind of scrutiny Eve and Cora endured. He’s endured it himself.
He’s never shared much about his past or who he is, despite all the probing questions I used to ask. His reluctance to answer set the precedent between us quite early.
Thus, I stopped asking.
Who am I to fault a fae for failing to find friendship with a demon?
Curling around the towering gray marble fountain, I follow in Cyran’s wake.
Peering into the basin, I find gold and silver coins glitter from the bottom of the shallow depth.
An odd use of a fountain and a bizarre waste of gold.
Then again, this realm is filled with curious customs, tedious traditions, and befuddling beliefs I don’t quite understand.
The white marble mausoleum comes into view, a rather impressive structure in the center of the graveyard. Within it, hundreds of those who died in Celesta’s service have been laid to rest, reaching back twelve hundred years.
Lifting my gaze as I trace the tallest tower, blue-silver ripples overhead. But beyond the tower, beyond the ward, a flock of gulls soar west, slicing through the sky toward Kevus Lake. My eyes linger in muted envy.
Cyran pulls the heavy, barred mausoleum door open, its hinges groaning. The sound rips through the graveyard, jarring my teeth and hair—and likely those of the dead. Loud and drawn out, the sound echoes between the stone walls as I grimace.
The wretched sound dies as abruptly as it had been birthed, and Cyran steps aside, claiming his usual post beside the door.
He never enters.
The mausoleum is considered sacred ground—even if the Olloran chapter of Celesta’s devotees no longer exists.
Entering, the same stillness found in the Moon Temple greets me. While not in a state of complete ruin, the sense of mourning is the same. Despite being brightly lit, the lack of life doesn’t feel out of place.
At least, not here.
Yet after this morning’s venture, it’s still unnerving.
Shining magelights line the white hall, clinging to silver candelabra chained from the ceiling. So much white. White walls, white floors, white tombs. It edges on too bright and near painful to look at.
Small, square marble doors form a grid along the walls, many sealed shut by both traditional means and old magic.
The low hum of it tingles in the center of my chest and along my skin, setting my hair on edge.
Each door features a brass plate, many dulled and darkened with time.
Others—many, many others—gleam in the light.
They’re newer.
Barely five months old.
I don’t need to count them to know exactly how many were added following the eclipse.
One hundred and twenty-two.
All of Celesta’s devotees, her priestesses, the High Priestess, and the majority of her council—at least those who were in attendance during the eclipse. One hundred and twenty-two newly forged plates, each with their own name, date of birth, date of death, and title engraved in the metal.
This entry hall is for her witches and acolytes.
Acolytes line the right, witches the left.
It’s the longest hall of the three within the mausoleum.
As I venture along, noting the number of dead versus fresh flowers left along the wall, the sound of trickling water reaches me. It stems from the fountain at the mausoleum’s heart—an identical rendition of the fountain in the courtyard between the temple and Castle Erus.
Swinging left at the fountain, the hall becomes shorter, wider. And there are far fewer shiny brass plates, all of which lie near the end. Sunlight pours into the hall from the large west-facing, round, frosted glass window.
The full moon.
The opposite hall leading east, where the High Priestesses lie, features an identical window of darkened glass. I won’t be visiting that area of the mausoleum again any time soon.
Artemise lies there.
May she rot.
Eve didn’t deserve to be cast from service. Not over something that wasn’t her fault. Not when she was mourning Cora.
Lowering myself to the floor, to my knees, I lift the drooped and withered flowers from the only vase present and set them aside. A few dried petals cascade to the floor, tapping against the marble as they land.
My brows furrow.
The flowers hid a small wooden box resting beside the vase.
I left the flowers months ago.
I did not leave the box.
Curiosity once again gets the better of me and, placing the bouquet of wildflowers in my lap, I take the box. It’s a dainty thing, small enough to fit in the center of my palm.
Lightweight.. no imbued magic.
Constructed from a bright blond wood and polished to feel like glass.
It’s the kind of simplicity Cora would have appreciated.
It lacks a clasp, or visible hinges. But there is a vertical seam through its center.
Prying it open as I would a book, a silver band featuring a heart-shaped ruby rises on a bed of white velvet.
Eve.
Eve must have left this—this gift of silver.
My sight blurs and silent tears slide down my cheeks as my composure and cursed soft heart disintegrate. I nearly drop it, my hands trembling as I struggle to remember how to breathe.
Blinking to clear my vision, a small engraving on the interior of the band catches my eye. With narrowing eyes, I read.
With my whole heart, Cor.
Enduring another blade through my heart would hurt less.
Seeing this?
Seeing the future Cora and Eve could have had—would have had—leaves me a quivering, sobbing mess.
It’s a future robbed.
One they’ll never have.
Because I gave Cora that godsdamned ribbon.
If I had known…
I snap the box shut and return it to its place, unable to stare at the deadly consequences of my choices any longer. There’s nothing I can ever do or say to make this right for Cora or Eve.
But I can spend eternity trying.
Lifting my gaze to Cora’s name plate, I wipe at my face with the heel of my palm and heave a shuddering sigh.
Cora A. Winters
It’s not even stamped in pretty script.
It should be pretty.
She deserves pretty.
She would have been twenty-five today.
This realm has been robbed. It needs more of her. Her laughter, her light, her care. Eve needs more of her—deserves it.
Fumbling, I place the fresh flowers in the vase and swing myself around to lean against the wall. Letting my head fall back, I heave another sigh. And for a time, Cora and I sit together in silence.
Just as we used to in the temple library.
“Hey, Cora,” I say, not surprised my voice breaks and trembles.
But if there’s a chance her soul lingers here, watching me from the veil… she deserves to hear this. I suck in a breath, knowing it won’t steady me. Cora, unlike me, enjoyed practice of fae custom. This gift of silver would be no different—and fae… fae acknowledge when a gift has been bestowed.
They celebrate it.
Revere it.
“Congratulations,” I say softly and try my damnedest to smile.