Chapter Twelve
Sitting upon the edge of the couch, I stare at the golden soul crystal, watching the hypnotizing, steady pulse. It rests, cradled in black velvet, the early evening sun casting it in a wash of red light through the window across the room.
Whoever—or whatever—this soul belongs to, I hope they appreciate the eternity I’ve given them is better than anything they would have been given in the hells. Even if it is locked away in a warded stronghold cell.
Leaning forward, I reach for the crystal—
Clattering porcelain causes me to snatch my hand back, clutching it against my chest as my heart leaps into my throat.
My head whirling, Raevi stands on my right, frozen by the door.
The silver tray between her hands with a teapot and a pair of downturned cups rattles again as she tries to steady her breath.
I didn’t hear her enter.
Nor was I expecting her.
“Raevi,” I breathe her name, releasing a long, relieved sigh as my heart slows. “You startled me.”
“Lady Ves,” her quiet voice trembles, “necromancy is forbidden.”
She stares at the crystal, her eyes fixating upon it.
Ryc’s warning comes to mind.
He was right.
“Oh,” I say with a small, lighthearted laugh. “There’s nothing to worry about here. Nothing illegal is happening.” I near jeer the word, offering her a smile.
But her wary expression remains fixed.
Instead, her eyes dart to me and quickly rake over any exposed skin. My brows raise. She knows enough to look for evidence of blood magic or perhaps a demon mark.
Curious.
Raevi is a new, recent addition to the castle staff rosters. I’m sure Ryc or Lilith or whomever oversees the hiring process has vetted her as needed, but I’m interested to know what experience or understanding she has regarding necromantic practice.
“Raevi, how do you know what this is?” I ask, giving the crystal a casual point.
She hesitates, swallowing hard. “How I know what I know doesn’t matter. Does King Alaryc know you’re a necromancer?”
I laugh.
The timid creature has teeth after all.
With a growing grin I reply, “I am many things and King Alaryc knows them all. A necromancer is not one of them.”
I settle against the couch, folding my hands in my lap.
“Then why do you have it?” The question flies out of her, and it’s easy to see she’s considering fleeing from the room. The fact the silver tray remains in her hands versus dumped on the floor has to be a testament to her fear of Oraphia being greater than her fear of necromancy.
Either way, navigating fearful demands of an otherwise meek-natured attendant isn’t how I planned on spending my evening.
“Truth be told, it fell into my possession before I came to Ollora,” I answer.
Of course, she’ll never understand the literalness of my answer and there’s no reason to give her anything more on the matter. If it’s not enough to convince her, she’s free to take her concern to Oraphia, Cyran, or Ryc.
Though… I’m not sure I want them handling this.
I’m more than capable.
“You didn’t steal it?”
I pause, her follow-up question not one I would have anticipated.
“From a living person?” she clarifies, likely due to the confusion upon my face.
Again, I laugh, shaking my head. “No. I assure you I did not.” I shift, turning slightly in her direction. “I’ve answered two of your questions now. Your turn. How do you know what sits upon the table?”
She stammers and the tray in her hands rattles.
I heave a sigh, quickly realizing I’m not going to get a coherent answer out of her.
“Raevi,” I interject firmly. She silences herself and miraculously the tray stills. “I do not care if you are a necromancer. In fact, if you are, your services are needed. Help me figure out who this soul belongs to.”
Her eyes narrow in a rather scrutinous stare. “You don’t know whose it is?”
“I don’t,” I reply. “Regardless, it doesn’t belong here. I shouldn’t have brought it.”
Had I known what it was before leaving the hells, I certainly wouldn’t have. If Vaelyn or Netharis noticed it missing from the hells, neither have said anything. Whether unnoticed or unimportant, there’s no guarantee it will remain such.
One slow step at a time, Raevi crosses the room. She lowers herself to the floor, resting upon her knees as she places the tray upon the table and gives me a distant stare across the short expanse.
“You stole a soul not knowing whose it is?” she asks, lifting the teapot as she turns over a teacup.
Is this creature admonishing me?
“For what it’s worth, I stole an obsidian box not knowing what lie inside,” I retort, growing prickly with my defense.
She doesn’t lift her eyes from the dark red, steaming liquid as it pours from the kettle. It swirls into the cup and the mild, spicy scent of cinnamon and rose hips wafts into the air between us.
“And you’re not a necromancer?”
My brow arches high with her question.
I used to ferry the dead, not reanimate them.
Blood mage would be the more appropriate title if we’re doling them out based on magical skill. But I know better than to be a blood magic practitioner as a living creature. The spells’ usefulness rarely outweigh the cost to cast them.
“How much has Oraphia told you?” I answer her question with one of my own. “Do you understand who you serve?”
At this, her eyes meet mine as she sets the teacup and saucers before me, near the middle of the low table.
“I’ve been told enough. Oraphia made it clear you’re not a typical fae,” she deigns with a slight nod. “But I think there are things even she doesn’t know.”
Not a typical fae is putting it rather mildly.
What I need to know is whether she understands I’m part demon.
The last thing I want to do is blurt the detail and have her go running and screaming from the room.
She’s too timid, too quiet a creature and she doesn’t strike me as the type who would be willing to sit alone in the same room with someone like me.
“And you find it acceptable to be employed to attend a not typical fae who happens to have a hellish item stored in a hellish box?” I ask, carefully studying her face for any trace of her thoughts betraying her calm facade.
Her dark blond brow quirks ever so slightly.
I would have missed it had I not been staring.
“All castle staff assigned to your care know the… nature of your blood,” she says, and the care with which she chooses her words is telling.
And thank the gods for it, it makes this conversation easier.
“So you’re fine in the company of a demon, but a necromancer… that’s where you draw the line?” Darkened amusement threatens to tilt my lips in a grin.
She remains silent, lowering her eyes to her lap.
Fueling my suspicion.
There’s only one reason I can think of for which a person would be fine with the company of a demon but not that of a necromancer.
“Are you contracted?” I ask, giving her a narrow-eyed stare.
Her dark brown eyes fly to mine. Wide and fearful. “To a demon? No. Never.”
The hasty panic in her voice doesn’t lend itself well to her credibility.
But I highly doubt Ryc would make a habit of employing contracted mortals—outside of Eve.
More than that, part of me feels I should be offended by the affront painted upon her face, but it’s good to know she’s not going to be someone easily swayed by Vaelyn. Or any other demon for that matter.
“I’m a Fate reader,” she says, not granting me the time to question further. Words continue to tumble out of her. “That’s how I know what soul crystals are. Not because I’m a necromancer, not because I’m contracted. I’ve no dealings with either ilk—aside from you, Lady Ves.”
Well what in the nine hells do I say to that?
What in the gods’ names is a Fate reader?
“I’ve been given the ability to see, read, and interpret the threads—weavings—Nektos has tied to a soul,” she answers my unasked question with far less rush, followed by a heavy, defeated sigh. “I don’t reveal my innate,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “It tends to be damning when I do.”
I smother the want to laugh.
We all have parts of ourselves we hide. For one reason or another.
“You’re able to discern Fate?” I ask instead.
She nods. “By reading your weaving, I can learn what it is Nektos expects of you and how she plans to get it. It doesn’t matter what you decide, you’ll end up where she wants you one way or another. Your decisions simply extend or shorten the distance between knots.”
“Knots?” I repeat, brows high.
She gives a small, breathy laugh. “They’re like turning points or major crossroads. A person’s weaving is littered with them.”
The reason behind Raevi’s desire to hide her innate becomes painfully clear. Such an innate would be sought by kings, perhaps even the pantheon themselves. They would use her to try and circumvent Nektos, defy what Fate has denoted. And punish her when they could not.
Raevi, she is no warrior.
So she hides.
In plain sight.
Gods does that resonate louder than I’d like.
“Would you like me to read—”
“No,” I interject firmly, shaking my head. “I’ve a loose idea of what Fate wants from me, and knowing that is more than enough.”
“Wise,” Raevi says with an approving nod. “I’ve witnessed many who learn the truth of their Fate grow obsessed with altering it.” She pauses, her eyes darting to the crystal. “Can I ask, do you know why this particular crystal is gold?”
“No,” I say again, albeit softer this time. “I’ve never seen a gold one before. Red, blue, silver, even the rare green. Never gold.”
As someone who’s likely held millions of souls, I’d dare say I have a fair assessment on the matter.
“I’d never seen gold either,” Raevi says, her tone matching mine—soft and questioning. She lifts her gaze from the center of my chest to lock onto mine. “Not until I came to Ollora.”
I don’t know what it is she sees, but it’s clear she sees something.
“King Alaryc was the first gold weaving I saw,” she says and it becomes a struggle to keep the surprise from my face. “Then you.” She nods toward the crystal. “Now this.”
Ryc and I have gold souls?