Chapter Thirty-One #2
“I was contracted to hunt errant souls,” Cenviri answers, ignoring the sharpness of my tone.
“The energy of a soul crystal such as the one you carry is very distinct. I don’t know how you’ve managed to find it, or if you fully understand what it is you carry, but if you seek to avoid the pantheon’s attention, rid yourself of it. ”
Eve laughs. “And let me guess, you’re gonna offer to take it.”
A broad smile crosses Cenviri’s face. “Yes, but with good reason. There are others. I seek to reunite the halves.”
“There are others?” I ask as my eyes grow wide.
“Yes, quite a few,” he answers with a nod. “As far as I know, the three I surrendered to Netharis still remain in the hells. One of which is mine.”
The necromancer gave Netharis half of his soul?
More than that… his is also gold?
“Why?” Ryc asks, bewildered by the answer. “Why give him a portion of your soul?”
“For power,” Eve retorts with a dry huff.
“For love,” Cenviri corrects in much softer tones.
“A fool’s notion, I know. Netharis required my Fated soul as collateral.
He promised its release, along with that of my mate’s—my cris—when I delivered the others.
That one,” he points again to my hip, “Is a piece I found buried in the mire of the Eastern Wynds several centuries ago.”
Half of me… found in Cerwiden?
“You,” the breathy word escapes my lips, “found it.. in Cerwiden? And gave it to Netharis?”
Too many questions swirl in my head.
That could explain how it came to be in the hells. But… if Netharis contracted a necromancer to find these souls, he wouldn’t have let them fall to the wayside. They wouldn’t wind up in the library. They would have been secured, protected, and hoarded like bloodstone.
Or kept on quiet display… like Zuriel.
“No, I did not.” Cenviri’s brows crease as he shakes his head. “I gave the soul to Zuriel. I would have given it to anyone powerful enough to keep it out of Netharis’ hands.”
Stop.
Fate needs to stop.
Zuriel?
A demon-bound necromancer gave a Life Bringer half of my soul?
Then how did it end up in the hells?
“Are all gold souls fractured?” Ryc asks before I can ask anything else.
But it’s a question in the long slew flying about my head and I wait for the answer. If all gold souls are fractured, finding Ryc’s is about to become my first priority once this whole ordeal is finished.
I can’t leave him broken. I won’t.
Not when he continues to stand beside me.
“When I found them?” Cenviri shakes his head. “No. Not all. But that’s not to say Netharis hasn’t shattered them since.”
I may come to regret it later, but it feels safe to assume Ryc’s soul is intact. Surely Gaia isn’t the type of goddess to exploit her children in the same vein as Netharis.
Cenviri’s eyes linger upon my hip before they travel upward to meet my stare. He offers me a rather remorseful smile. It’s as if there’s something more he wants to say, but hesitates in saying it and ultimately refrains.
“Why did Netharis collect them?” Ryc asks and all traces of well-masked worry vanish from the necromancer’s face.
Within the expanse of a heartbeat, defensive concern flickers across Cenviri’s features. It’s gone before it can settle, before I can draw a full breath.
“Why did Netharis seek anything? For power. Only a few of these souls exist across the four realms,” he replies. “They’re imperative to the world we live in, as such, they’re Fated.”
My mind wanders to the Fate given to me.
This prophecy of altering the realms.
I ended Netharis.
That alone should alter the realms enough.
But it raises a concern I’ve yet to consider… a gold soul is less than forgettable. Until I opened the obsidian box months ago, I’d never seen one before. If there are people like Cenviri who can sense these souls… can he tell? Can he tell the soul is mine?
Does he sense Ryc’s soul, too?
For something that’s supposedly powerful and rare, three Fated souls stand together now.
“The gods have discovered a way to control them, innate ability and all,” Cenviri adds.
To say I’m not surprised is an understatement.
Netharis craved the utmost control in all things.
Ironic considering the inherent chaos of the hells.
“And now free of my contract—in large part thanks to you, il-akiv—I have to correct what I’ve done,” Cenviri says. “I must find and free and mend the ones I damned. The ones I gave to Netharis. Mine and my mate’s included.”
He’s going to stand against the hells.
Wage war with Vaelyn.
If there’s any one living creature capable of such a thing, it would be a necromancer. Their understanding of the hells and death eclipses that of anyone else. But… even then… he’s going to be bound by his body.
He’s lost before he’s begun.
“Share your thoughts, little love.” Ryc’s gentle voice slows my racing thoughts.
“This… this is larger than I could have ever imagined.” I shift in my seat, lifting my chin to meet his stare. “You… you’re also—”
“Fated. I know.” He offers me a small smile. “Fated to restore life.”
My spine straightens.
Restore life?
And Nektos has paired him with a creature Fated to alter the realms?
He lifts a hand, placing it along my jaw. “The only life I care about right now is yours.”
My foolish little heart squeezes itself bloody and I nod.
No one has ever shown me such utter devotion.
Not like this.
Not something verging on the edge of consuming obsession.
Ryc turns his eyes to the necromancer as he robs me of his touch. “Is it possible to mend these souls?” he asks.
“Theoretically,” Cenviri answers and he leans a shoulder against the pillar of the Ferry Gate.
“If you somehow find their other half. There’s no guarantee they’re living.
I would also need—” He stops himself short, his gaze falling upon the black book cradled against my chest. “You sought the ritual in the archives.”
I nod.
Cenviri heaves a quiet but bewildered scoff. “And you found it?”
I nod again. “With the help of Illa Ysari’s archivists.”
Cenviri extends an open hand, careful not to pierce the translucent divider between us. “Give the crystal and ritual to me. I can ensure it’s returned to whom it belongs.”
My jaw clenches.
While I’m not entirely convinced I can trust Cenviri as much as I would like, his opposition of Vaelyn makes the situation easier to swallow. Even so, trust or not, I’m left with little other choice.
“I will not,” I answer, my tone firm and his brows raise as his hand lowers. “But I will ask you help me mend it.”
His surprise shifts to narrow-eyed concern.
“If he refuses and tries to take it from me, we fight.” I send the thought to Ryc and his hand falls away from my back, discreetly swinging to rest upon the pommel of his sword.
“Do you know who holds the other half?” Cenviri asks. “I cannot mend missing pieces.”
I suck in a deep breath.
There’s no going back after this.
Once Cenviri knows, he either helps or goes running to Vaelyn. And gods I hope it’s the former.
“It’s me, Cenviri. I’m the other half,” I say, somehow managing to sound resolute.
Sharp surprise flashes across his features and his wide, mossy-green eyes dart from me to Ryc.
“Which means… you too,” he trails off, shaking the thought from his head. “Never in a thousand lifetimes would I have ever thought Netharis capable of this kind of binding.”
Binding?
Shoving the urge to question aside—I can ask later, once we’re finished with the mending—I remain still. Waiting for Cenviri to continue. Instead, he studies me, giving me a stern glare as his head tilts.
“You’re sure the crystal is yours?” he asks.
There’s nothing scrutinous about his tone.
But it grates against me all the same.
“How does one show proof?” I counter as heated, indignant anger prickles down my spine. “I know what I saw, what I felt when I touched it. A Fate Reader confirmed my weaving as gold. It is mine.”
A cold, jaded rage emerged from the darkest recesses of my essence and closed its demanding, icy grip upon my heart. And whatever proof the necromancer sought, he seems to have found it. His scrutiny falls away, his expression taking on a degree of regret.
“Then like me, you’re both involved in a game the gods have rigged,” he says. “There are things you should know—need to know. Let us talk. Join me in Cal Anore.”
He swings an open arm behind him in invitation as he pulls himself from the pillar, and my eyes meet the stare of at least two dozen dark fae clad in a mix of black and crimson robes standing near the center of the room.
I hesitate.
Stepping through the Ferry Gate means stepping onto Cerwiden soil. I’ll be an entire ocean away from Illa Ysari, from Erus, from Eldoterra. Surrounded by necromancers, bloodmancers, demons, and gods know what else.
“You are safe among those in my House,” Cenviri says, noting my hesitation and concern. “Though I cannot make the same guarantee should you decide to venture beyond Cal Anore’s island.”
We’ll also be leaving a door wide open between the two lands. Glancing over my shoulder, the rows of sentinel constructs take several, silent marching steps forward. Four pull from the ranks and position themselves behind us.
“Illa Ysari is well protected,” Cyran says, his voice low. “If Your Majesties would prefer, I can remain here.”
“No,” Ryc and I say in unison.
Cenviri snaps his fingers three times and four more Generals step into the view granted by the gate. “Remain here, keep inquirers at bay. No one through. Answer no questions. Zirzol with me,” he says, the language of the hells racing from his lips.
“Ready?” Ryc asks, offering me his arm.
Taking it, I breathe deep and nod. “I’m tired of waiting.”