Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
It doesn’t matter how high we climb, the fog doesn’t lessen. There isn’t a reprieve from the sight-stealing smokiness and it hides away much of the island. But eventually, the trees give way to a once manicured lawn.
Dry and quiet fountains emerge surrounded by hedges left to grow wild. Scattered stone tables and chairs—some broken, others knocked over—all encumbered with veilflower vines greet us. Why has this place been left to wither with time?
Eve’s hand lands on my shoulder and her pointed finger darts past my face between Ryc and I.
“Look!” she whispers.
Ahead, taking more solid shape as we walk, white, high-rising towers stretch skyward, their peaks hidden by fog.
Three towers from what I can see—my eyes narrow—connected by bridges?
Darkened, arched windows reveal themselves, complimenting the cascading buttresses, and in the tower closest, a set of massive darkwood doors appear.
This citadel dwarfs Castle Erus.
How am I to ever find the archives in this?
With a steadying breath, I ascend the stairs beside Ryc, knowing in a few weeks’ time, we’re to take residence here. Being here now is like being granted a glimpse of the future.
It takes both Ryc and Cyran to pull open one of the reluctant to yield doors, the resounding groan of its hinges filling my ears. Slipping past them as the door wedges open, I step into the foyer, too eager to wait.
“Ves,” Ryc laughs as he and Cyran continue to fight with the door, their shoulders too broad to slip in as I had. “Don’t wander far, please.”
His laughter, along with the door’s groaning, echoes through the foyer as I take a hesitant step forward, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Compared to the lawn, the dimness of the entry is near complete darkness and it takes longer than I’d like for my eyes to accommodate.
Once they do, I’m greeted by disaster.
Furniture smashed, glass shattered, floor littered and darkened by dirt, dust, and grime. The walls match the floor, covered in dark sprays of what might be blood.
Centuries old blood.
No, a millennium old.
Paintings lie ripped from their hooks, those somehow remaining knocked askew. All of it coated in heavy, dark dirt.
Ruins.
My heart sinks.
Is this meant to be taken as an indication of what awaits Ryc and me? Connak mentioned this place serving as a reminder of what happens when the gods don’t get their way. Why would they want this?
Defeat sweeps over me faster than I can brace against it. “What if the archives are like this? Or worse, what if they’re like the Moon Temple library?” I ask and my quiet voice still manages to catch an echo.
Ryc appears beside me, his stare fixed forward. “We won’t know until we find it. And even if they are, we’ll do what we must to find answers.”
As I stare at the whole of the room, my fingers find his and lace themselves tight.
Gods, I hope he’s right.
Eve lets out a long, disbelieving whistle as she wanders farther into the room. “I knew the fall of the last High Rulers was a bloody affair,” she says. “But I didn’t know Illa Ysari was left like this.” There’s a clear note of disapproving disgust in her tone.
“The council could never agree how much each country should fund or staff restoration efforts,” Ryc replies, sounding particularly distant. “The issue was shelved long before I became Sovereign King. It was easier to let it go.”
Eve scoffs, a bitter, sharp sound. “Why am I not surprised bureaucratic bullshit is the reason the wellspring of our kind was left this way.”
“None of this was covered in Lilith’s lessons,” I say, taking a few slow steps into the foyer. Ryc doesn’t follow and my hand slips from his. “What happened?”
“There’s no solid answer,” Ryc says and I glance over my shoulder. “The only known truth is the High Rulers were killed. There were no survivors for firsthand accounts to be recorded.” His attention shifts toward the right, and his lips work into a fine line.
In a swift sweep, Ryc walks past me, approaching the far wall.
“I never understood how a fortress like this could be infiltrated, wiped out, and left before any of the Sovereign Kings took notice,” he says as he brushes a hand over the wall, clearing a large swath of white.
Four jagged gouges tear through the center of the revealed white, darkened by clinging dirt.
My eyes widen with the realization of what they are.
The Moon Temple earned identical markings the night of the eclipse.
“I think now I have a better idea of what happened,” Ryc says quietly as he dusts his hand against his thigh.
“Netharis has pierced the veil before,” I whisper as I approach, reaching for the deep grooves.
I trace my fingers along them.
And while my hands aren’t broad enough to have created them, a typical demon’s would be.
“We saw how easily Netharis tore open portals throughout Ollora. There’s no reason he couldn’t here,” Ryc says as he watches me study the wall.
Of all the gods, Netharis would benefit from a severed connection between fae and Aether. They’d grow weaker, and in time, under the threat of dying out, they’d become more likely to accept demonic offers.
That feels like something Netharis would reach for.
Above the end of the scarring, an ornate gold-framed painting hangs off-center. The canvas slashed, the lower half remains in place while the upper has curled into itself.
A portrait of a pair judging by what I can see.
An important pair, no less—the clothing too fine.
“Were the last rulers both winged fae?” I ask, hoisting myself onto my toes to reach for the upper half.
Ryc steps in beside me, offering me aid, and uncurls the canvas with ease. “No,” he replies. “High Emperor Godrick was nyraphim. Full blood.”
In the same instant, a pair of painted golden eyes pierce me.
They’re the same shade as Ryc’s.
Granted they’re some artist’s rendition, but the color… though time-worn and neglected, there’s no mistaking the color. Set in a handsome, sable-skinned face, he stares at me with a cold expression. Beside him, a tawny-skinned female with eyes of forest green holds the same emotionless expression.
Neither of them inspire any feeling or memory.
And why should they?
They existed long before I.
“Is he one of Gaia’s children?” I ask, and Ryc glances down at me, confusion crossing his face.
“He has the same eye color as you, as Zuriel, as Gaia,” I say.
“I don’t know if he is,” Ryc says. “As far as I know, Thalion is the only sibling I have.”
My brows fly high. “You have many siblings, Ryc,” I say, trying to mute the surprise in my voice. “You’ve stood against Death Bringers, but not once encountered a Life Bringer?”
He studies the portrait for a long moment before letting it spring back into place and turning to me. “Not once,” he says.
I scoff a bewildered laugh. “There are six,” I reply. “And they’re all self-righteous bastards.”
Ryc chuckles. “You know them?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No… I’ve fought them.”
A small silence passes between us before I continue.
“Life Bringers collect the blessed, Death Bringers collect the damned, and sometimes, a soul is a bit of both. We fight to determine who gets to claim them.” I stare blankly at the dirtied wall between the slashed canvas.
“Zuriel, Gaia’s eldest, is the Life Bringer who helped me escape the hells.
And he is the biggest bastard of them all.
He and I have endured countless skirmishes.
The tally of victorious versus vanquished between us was lost long ago. ”
“What a wild family reunion your Joining is going to be,” Eve says and both Ryc and I turn in her direction.
She and Cyran stand near the end of the foyer, at the entrance of a hallway leading deeper into the tower.
“A horde of demons and a legion of nyraphim with a long and bloodied history between them in one place,” she says with a small laugh. “Erus doesn’t have enough Royal Guard to prevent that bloodbath.”
“My siblings won’t be in attendance,” I say.
“And Gaia has never been involved in my life. Not until she returned Ves,” Ryc adds.
Suspicion snakes around my throat.
Why is that?
Before I can ask, Ryc takes my hand. “You and I will be the only ones at our Joining.”
I nod.
That would be best.
“We’ve lingered long enough,” Ryc says, giving me a reserved smile. “Let’s start our search near the throne room.”