Chapter Twenty
For the rest of the day, I kept a keen, obsessive watch on my wrist. Waiting to see if the vine and veilflowers would return. I’m not afraid to admit I pulled up my sleeve to check as many times as there are minutes in an hour.
It didn’t return, and thank the gods for that.
Explaining the appearance of Eve’s House brand was difficult enough. Ryc knew little about House brands and their purpose, prompting quite the informative lecture from me. It left me feeling like Lilith during our lessons—only Ryc is an attentive student.
Despite everything I know about the hells, including House brands, my understanding of starting a House is undeniably sparse. It was never something I had to consider. I had no reason to. Why would I when I was already a vessel in the most powerful House of the hells?
More than that, matriarch-led Houses don’t exist.
At least… they don’t in the hells.
I can’t say that for certain about Cerwiden.
But if Netharis sculpted the lands to be an echo of the hells, it might be safe to assume the same can be said about the continent across the ocean.
Eldoterra was left to be sculpted by Gaia and while there’s no shortage of horrors here, they pale in comparison to those I’d hear from Vaelyn about the dark fae.
I don’t know why Netharis kept me away from those lands in all the centuries I reaped damned souls, but I’m not upset by the decision either.
Settling deeper into the couch before a warming fire, I adjust The Joining in my lap. Ryc sits beside me, his arm curled around my shoulders, his own book in his lap.
I’ve made it through Chapter Three of this damn boring book. I would have been able to read more if I could somehow grab rein on my wandering thoughts.
A knock at the door sounds.
“Enter,” Ryc calls, lifting his head.
He glances at me as the door opens and presses a kiss against my brow. Cyran closes the door behind him and approaches with a letter in hand.
“Word from Ashemere,” Cyran says.
My mind snaps to attention and my heart leaps into my throat. Tossing The Joining onto the couch, I lean over Ryc and snag the letter from Cyran as he stops at the end of the couch.
Ryc laughs as I snap the crimson wax seal.
“The return messenger waits in the foyer,” Cyran adds.
“Guarded?” Ryc asks, watching me unfold the letter.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
The scent of blood hits my nose before I see the near black swirling script.
Not ink.
Blood.
Of course Sabien would return notice in blood. Vampires are truly compelled to be the most dramatic creatures across the realms.
Ryc leans closer, reading the letter over my shoulder.
“Tonight,” he says, turning to Cyran. “Sabien is willing to grant an audience tonight.”
With the flourished and curling letters of common tongue, it takes me a touch longer to read through the letter. There’s one sentence of the few that stands out.
I would be honored to receive you and Vestaris at Ashemere.
I.
Not we.
“Seems Sabien will be meeting us alone,” I say, passing the letter to Ryc.
“Is that a concern?” Ryc asks in earnest.
Pulling myself to a stand, I cross the room, reaching for my wardrobe doors.
They swing open on silent hinges, bearing the small collection of things I’ve squirreled away—my Moon Temple robes, a stack of handwritten notes upon the upper shelf, a black hair ribbon, and a handful of crystalline beads.
It’s a collection of tiny pieces from large moments in my short life among the living. I refuse to let them go. The pieces wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.
But what I need, which is my armor, sits buried in the back.
“It’s concerning in that the majority of Indui’s Blessed are not interested in welcoming a Death Bringer into their home,” I reply, pushing some of the hanging robes aside to reach the shelves behind.
“Shall I advise Eve?” Cyran asks and his eyes meet mine as I turn away from the wardrobe, arms filled with armor and more suitable clothing.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Ryc and I speak at the same time.
My narrowed eyes fly to him. “Bringing guard makes a statement I’m not sure I want to make, Ryc.”
“Walking into a vampire nest alone isn’t an option,” he counters.
“I requested this meeting. Bringing Eve and Cyran will be viewed as an offense.” I huff a sigh as I close the wardrobe doors with a hip. “Ryc, if I lose this opportunity…”
Jagged peaks of panic and rage sear through my chest with the thought.
“Going to Ashemere is a risk,” Ryc says as he approaches. “We’ve no idea what we’re walking into, no idea what to expect. We cannot ignore the possibility Vaelyn has been in contact with Sabien, especially if he’s invited to the Dark Hunt as you say.”
I take a steadying breath, emptying my arms onto the end of the couch. There’s undeniable logic in his stance, but…
“Indui’s Blessed are… particular about mortals approaching them.” I hold his stare.
Ryc’s brows raise. “I think what you’re trying to say is we’re not viewed as anything more than game.”
I grimace.
But nod.
“If Sabien is offended and denies your request, we’ll find other avenues,” Ryc says quietly. He takes my hand. “We’ll go to Cerwiden if we must. We’ll find the answers we need with or without Sabien.”
“You’d leave Erus?” I ask, trying to mute my surprise. “Your duties? For months?”
“If it comes to that, yes,” Ryc answers, he traces small, slow circles with his thumb over the back of my hand. “Erus will not fall apart in my absence. It’ll be left in competent hands.” He glances at Cyran and nods once.
Cyran nods in return and retreats from the room, the door closing softly after him.
“We don’t have months, Ryc,” I say. “We have until Ashdown. This has to work.” I slip my hand from his and give him my back, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. “Would you?” I ask.
Without hesitation, Ryc answers the request, his fingers finding the first of the silver buttons.
“When you made mention of requiring necromantic text, I started doing some digging of my own,” he says and I peer over my shoulder. “Illa Ysari has its own archive of records. We may find what you need there.”
“Is the place not beholden to Eldoterran law?”
“No,” he answers with a small smile. “It’s not. The caveat is Rowen was unsure how to access the archives. It’s not a place he was ever granted permission to visit.”
“Rowen was alive when the thrones were last occupied?” A small breathy scoff escapes me.
That would make Rowen what… at least sixteen centuries old? Likely much older. And worth more than simply his armies—I’m going to need to know everything he knows about the process for High Rulers in a few weeks’ time.
“He was,” Ryc chuckles as he finishes with the last of the buttons. I turn to face him, tugging my arms free from the silken sleeves. “Granted, he was not Sovereign King when Illa Ysari fell. He didn’t become Sovereign King until much later.”
“But he knows about this place?” I ask, reaching for the clothing I pulled from the wardrobe. A silken crimson puddle forms around my feet as my dress falls. “He’s certain an archive?”
“Yes.” He smiles.
“An archive with necromantic and-or demonic text?” I refuse to be swindled by fae wordsmithing.
“Yes.” His smile grows as I throw on my long sleeve, black shirt and reach for the matching pants.
“And Sovereign Kings swear an oath to protect this island knowing such information is kept there?” I ask and he laughs.
“The oath encompasses more than protecting an island or our people,” Ryc replies, picking up my leather breastplate.
“It deepens our connection to Aether. We’re granted access to a second innate because of this.
As it stands, fae birthrates suffer because there isn’t enough Aether in the realm for our populations to grow.
The oath renders Sovereign Kings and Queens into conduits of Aether. ”
“Are the High Empress and Emperor also conduits?” I ask, trying to wrap my mind around the concept of being a source of magic.
Ryc nods. “Yes. They harbor a direct connection and the oath bestows a deepened connection among the Sovereign Kings—to those willing to make the oath, at least.”
Placing the breastplate upon me, I hold it in place as he reaches for the first of the dark metal buckles along the side of my ribs.
“Nyraphim used to walk among us on Illa Ysari,” he says. “They were the first to die out when Aether was trapped.”
“Trapped?” My brows furrow as our eyes meet. “You speak like Aether was a living creature rather than a primordial god.”
“She was both,” he says with a soft smile. “All the elder gods walked among their creations. Some ruled lands.”
“I’ve never heard any such thing,” I counter as he grips my waist, pivoting me to work the buckles on the other side. “How do you know this?”
“Stories, histories… all passed down through the Witherhorn family,” he says. “One of the many duties of Sovereign Kings is to remember. Though, I believe it’s grown too easy for more than one to forget.”
The primordials left these realms long before I ever existed.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe it. The primordials created the realms and left their shadows to do as they please.”
The gods are their shadows.
Always striving to be more like the primordials, but failing miserably.
Ryc pauses, his brows furrowing at my words.
“The gods were left because it’s what people wanted,” he replies gently. “People wanted a higher power to celebrate, to question, to believe in, to turn away from, to love, to hate…”
I’m hard pressed to believe any such thing.
The primordials left and the gods continue to bastardize, manipulate, and do as they please with little regard for anyone outside the pantheon.
“The elder gods sought to live in the world they worked to create.” He finishes with the last buckle and lifts a hand to cup my face. “Our ascension will wake the slumbering Aether of our realm, granting Life the ability to grow as it should.”
“And let me guess, we’ll all be shepherded by nyraphim.” My laughter is rife with fantastical disbelief.