Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Unlike the throne room, this room is left in shadow. But the arches… seem to glow… dispelling the dark. And unlike the rest of the citadel, they sit untarnished, unmarred—a shining white and shimmering blue-silver.
Brushing my hand over the closest pillar, a fierce shock races through my palm and up to my heart—a bolt aimed straight for my chest. Snatching my hand away, I pull it close.
Blood magic.
“Little love.” Ryc’s at my side in seconds, on edge.
“Ferry Gates,” I laugh, surprised as I crane my neck to peer up the pillar length. “These are Ferry Gates.”
Lowering my gaze, I find myself on the receiving end of several confused stares. It would make sense for them not to know—these are a blood magic construct.
“Ferry Gates are portals… or waypoints rather,” I try to explain. “They function in pairs. Stepping through one is to ferry to a predetermined place.” I heave a small sigh as I turn back to the pillar beside me. “These though… these are dormant.”
“Where do they lead?” Eve asks, venturing farther into the center of the room.
“Without activating them, I couldn’t say,” I reply.
“Might one take us to the archives?” Cyran asks as he touches the stone of a pillar, his brows furrowing.
“We’d need to determine which,” Ryc says.
“Open them all up,” Eve challenges with an impish grin.
“That is ill-advised,” Cyran adds in a hasty but firm tone, his eyes locking with hers.
“Cyran,” Eve drawls, giving him a flattened glare. “This is the seat of faekind. I highly doubt any of these gates lead anywhere dangerous.”
“But they could lead to other realms,” I say and their faces swing in my direction.
“Gates like these are used in the hells—they follow the Lethe. There each layer is a subrealm, wholly disconnected from the next. For a soul to reach its final damnation, it must pass through at least one set of gates.”
I’m met with silence.
“You’re not helping, Ves,” Eve finally says flatly.
“So we figure out a way to determine which to open,” Ryc replies. “But I agree with Cyran, opening all is a poor choice.”
Cyran turns to me. “In the hells, what’s stopping souls from traveling back through the gates? Returning to the veil?”
“The Lethe,” I answer. “The river’s current settles into a soul and pulls them deeper. Even I couldn’t fight it when I returned.”
“But these gates, they function as a doorway would otherwise?” he asks. “My concern is stepping through one and not being able to return.”
“They function as a doorway would, as long as it remains open,” I answer, understanding his level of concern.
“And how do they open?” Ryc asks and I shift, lifting my chin to meet his stare.
“All blood magic carries a cost,” I answer quietly as I scan the tops of each arch, searching for the raven. “Paid in blood.”
There.
It sits across the room, motionless and observing. At a quick glance it could be mistaken as part of the arch itself.
I point. “We activate that one,” I say.
“For someone who doesn’t believe a familiar has found her, you’re putting a lot of faith in the damn creature,” Eve teases as she pivots around.
“If it doesn’t lead to the archives, then we don’t step through,” I retort, reaching for the dagger at my thigh.
Ryc grabs my wrist. “Let’s… not use that dagger for this,” he says with a small grin.
I glance down at the moonstone in the pommel of the bloodstone dagger and nod. Probably best not to.
“If it leads somewhere other than the archives, can the gate be closed?” Cyran asks. “Whatever lies beyond will be able to step through and I’d like to ensure we practice appropriate caution.”
If things turn dire, I’ll do what I must—ominous warning against innate usage or not.
I nod slowly as the inherent difference between Cyran and I becomes starkly apparent. The future Sovereign King of Erus will serve his people, protect them, always consider them.
I’ll always protect me and those closest.
“Closing them is beyond my knowledge,” I say as Ryc and I move through the room toward the raven-graced arch. “But I’m confident I can figure it out if need be.”
Removing the blood offering should be enough.
But I won’t attest to that.
Ryc pulls his dagger from his hip and swipes it across his palm before I can argue. Silver pools in his hand before he presses it against the pillar. As he draws his hand away—his cut already healed—a silver stain remains, and a low, intense thrum blooms in my chest.
But nothing else happens.
“I don’t understand.” I step back, staring at the silver with narrow eyes. “It’s as if half the spell has awoken…”
It’s not enough.
His blood isn’t enough.
Why?
“Could it be due to your lineage?” I voice my thoughts, not expecting an answer.
Shaking my head, I make a silent request for Ryc’s dagger with a hand.
With a quick flip, he catches it by the blade, offering the hilt to me.
A quick flash of pain, and silver blooms across my palm.
Prepared for the sensation of touching the gate, I press my hand against the stone and a ground shaking pulse of magic hits me square in the chest.
“Holy hells,” Eve breathes. “Did you feel that?”
Now the spell’s active.
Stepping back and returning Ryc’s dagger, my eyes remain fixed upon the blue-silver runes as they rain from the crest of the arch—the raven now missing.
Ryc places a comforting hand upon my shoulder as a curtain of shimmering strings forms. They brighten, growing near white before taking on a reflective sheen.
For a moment, I see us—four black-clad figures standing before the arch, waiting for the waypoints to connect.
The reflection ripples as if a stone’s been cast into a still pond, and the four in wait waver away. A darker room comes into focus—round, filled with Ferry Gates cleaved from dark stone, and bustling with people. There’s laughter, chatter, even distant music.
Heads of silver, white, lavender…
More than one face swings in our direction and their eyes grow wide.
“Alert the Patriarch!” a male’s voice shouts in Malbolge and too many bodies scatter, others vanishing in bursts of flame and shadow and blood.
This is not the archives.
“This is Cerwiden!” I near shout as I streak forth, slipping from Ryc’s grasp.
Drawing up a corner of my cloak, I wipe at the blood left upon the stone with the desperate hope it will be enough to sever the connection.
Nothing happens.
Well, fuck.
Five males in dark red robes rush the gate and Eve, Ryc, and Cyran do the same, weapons drawn. This’ll be a quick and losing fight if even one of the five is a bloodmancer.
“Stop!” My shouted Malbolge command bursts through Illa Ysari as I step before Ryc, facing the line of dark fae.
They freeze, not expecting their own language.
I have seconds to give them further pause.
But in order to do that, I have to show Ryc, Eve, and Cyran the truth of the demon they’ve kept in their company. I have to show them who I once was—the demon I wanted to leave in the hells. The one I never wanted to be again.
I have to be her here.
Otherwise we’re going to die.
“You dare approach the eldest daughter of death?” I snarl the question, the language of the hells filling the expansive room with a guttural and punctuated sound. “Where is the reverence I am due? Where is your Patriarch?”
Eyes narrow across the line.
But they do not move.
Who I was… she’s far too easy to find.
I don’t expect to be recognized by Cerwidens. I was never assigned reapings within the blood magic scarred lands.
But surely they recognize Vaelyn. Our traits are similar enough, there’s no mistaking our relation. And beyond that, surely they know what I’ve done.
My pounding heart drums in my ears and I resist the urge to heave a sigh. They have to believe my seemingly wild claim to some small degree, otherwise they’d be through the gate and we’d likely be dead.
“If what you claim is true, our House Patriarch will be honored to receive you, il-akiv,” the male standing in the line’s center says and his sharp eyes rake over me. “But if what you say is a lie, you’ll find death the preferable end.”
The threat isn’t an empty one.
But I return it with an icy smile.
“You will bring him to me, General,” I demand, holding his violet stare, “else find the same Fate as Netharis.”
“First General,” the male corrects in a low snarl.
“The longer I wait, the longer I draw out your death, mortal,” I reply in cool, even tones.
“Zirzol!” a deep voice booms in the dark with the powerful warning. “Stand down. Let me lay eyes upon those who have taken Illa Ysari.”
The line of dark fae breaks, sweeping themselves into two rows.
Another male approaches with swift and silent steps.
His black and crimson robes swirl about his feet, a long silver braid decorated with black beads and adorned with small creature skulls swings behind him.
Dozens of tiny jars tied to his waist along the length of several ropes tinkle with each step, their contents likely rare ritual materials.
As he draws closer, the large House brand inked over the center of his exposed and muscular chest becomes clear—Lord of Blood.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
I know this mark—I know this House.
I’ve met its Patriarch once before—mere days before I escaped the hells.
This is no random House in Cerwiden.
This is the dominating House.
This… this is Cal Anore—Cerwiden’s capitol.
Of all the damning places the gate could have brought me, it had to be to the doorstep of the notorious necromancer closest to Vaelyn.