Chapter 22
ELORA
The path from Theo’s home to mine was well-worn. The two of us had trampled through tall grasses and uprooted any saplings which dared to stray into our path, maintaining it all our lives. But now, despite only having left in the fall, and spring barely having arrived, time had pressed at the edges of our dirt road. I stomped on a new sprout which dared represent life.
The path should stay dead, just as Theo would. Our horses nickered in the distance, locked in the pasture behind Theo’s house, but they settled quickly. Theo’s animals were gone, and his house was empty. We would probably be the last sign of life there for a long time. With his mother having moved to Mira already, would their home be reclaimed by nature?
Drawing myself out of my thoughts, I stepped from the crushed sapling and continued toward my home. When it bounced free, I stopped and turned around.
“Elora?” Cy asked, but I ignored him.
Using my divine light, I decided to make the plant wither. Unable to produce the fire like Mama, the light I could emit was still hot, and I wanted to burn the plant to ash. Calling upon my divinity, light emanated from my palms, glowing warm and threatening. Kneeling over the sapling, I clasped it between my hands and waited.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing my gifts,” I said, even though the words felt heavy on my tongue. I didn’t know how to explain my intentions. How could I tell Cyran that if Theo were dead, my old life was too? How could I explain that this scrap of land, which belonged to only us, should be left unscathed, frozen in the memory of time?
As the sprout grew hot beneath my hands, Cyran only watched me. I refused to look at him. Finally, when the plant withered and crumbled beneath my touch, I was satisfied. But I knew it would be short-lived.
I wished I could just be sad like Cy. If my sorrow would just stay contained, life would be so much easier. But it wished to escape. I was so angry—at Mama, at myself, at the gods. It was so much easier to find a physical outlet for my pain, though I took no joy in it.
Once I stood, I could see the top of our stable, its wooden roof looking the same as it always had. I wondered what Mama planned to do with this place. Would she allow our home to grow into disrepair? Cyran remained quiet, not commenting on my destructive distraction.
“I didn’t realize how much Mama hated it here,” I said as Cyran held out a hand to help me over a puddle along the path. Grateful for my outburst the other day, I couldn’t be sad that it had led to some normalcy between us. I’d missed my friend. And as it turned out, he was the only one I had left.
“I’m sure she didn’t hate it,” he said, leading us around the stable and toward the clearing. He stopped just at the edge of it, probably looking for any hidden dangers. It was a good thing I’d coerced him into coming with me; I was thoughtless, and I could have gotten into trouble on my own. Sure enough, I watched as his shadows slithered outward, poking through the clearing and into our house through the crack in a window.
Faxon had slammed the window shut after I got stung by a bee that had wandered inside. It hadn’t hurt too badly, though I’d yelped in pain, and he’d torn into a rage over it. He’d just returned from Mira, and I knew now what had caused his anger. He’d been plotting during that trip, planning to sell me to Folterra. Regardless of the fact that he’d raised me my entire life, Faxon had ceased to view me as his daughter from that point onward. The crack in the window remained as a testament to his abandonment.
Perhaps it would be best if Mama let this place rot.
“I don’t know how she couldn’t hate it. She didn’t love Faxon, and she was forced away from her friends and family—because of me. I’m lucky she didn’t hate me .”
“You’re her daughter,” Cyran asserted, and for whatever reason, his surety irritated me.
“You’re Dryul’s son. Do you claim he loved you?” I snapped.
Cyran blinked as if he’d been slapped, and I regretted my harshness. I’d wanted to start anew with him, and I was already making a mess of it.
“Love isn’t something which comes naturally to an Umbroth, I think,” he said, and he looked away.
If this is what it is like, then I am ruined.
The words he’d scribbled in the margins of my book, when the dragon prince had made his declaration of love for the main character, were forced to the forefront of my mind. Cyran certainly had thought he was capable of love when he’d written them. But was it natural? Did he have to work for it?
Did he have to work for it because it was me or because of how he’d been raised?
I hadn’t been enough for Faxon, when he found out who my true sire was. How could I be enough for Cyran? After what he’d done to me, it was clear he hadn’t thought much of me back then. But had that changed?
Why was I thinking about being enough for him?
“It’s a wonder she hasn’t sent someone to burn the place down,” I murmured, hiding my shame over my callous words and silly imaginings.
“She probably didn’t want to anger you any further,” Cyran retorted. Long-legged, his gait was difficult to keep up with as he took the porch steps three at a time.
“I doubt that’s even possible,” I laughed.
“Oh, I don’t. The past few weeks, I’ve found your fury for your mother to be limitless.”
“And you think I have no right to feel it?” I demanded, putting my palm against the door as Cyran’s shadows turned the knob from the other side.
“I never said that,” Cyran replied as he gently pried my hand from the sun-bleached wood. “I don’t think feelings care much if we deserve to have them. They’ll do as they please, won’t they?”
Despite my desire for one, I didn’t have a scathing retort. I wondered if he felt as if he couldn’t be sad over his brother. Or perhaps he wasn’t sad at all, and instead felt guilty. For the first time, I wondered if he was angry with me for killing the man who had helped raise him. I was certain his feelings on the matter were rather complex.
Cyran was tall, and as he stepped through the doorway, he had to dip his head. There was no hesitation as he crossed the threshold, and he walked straight to the hearth. He knelt before it, and I was bewitched. Moonlight streamed through the window, kissing the outline of his nose. Cyran was many things that I was not. Calm and quiet, he could be quite reserved. But in his handsomeness, he was not understated whatsoever. His nose was perfectly formed, and his lips were distractingly full. As he adjusted logs left in the hearth, I couldn’t help but watch his hands. Even they were beautiful—with golden jewelry and clean fingernails, he was every bit the royal I was one day expected to be.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “I have never done this before.”
Stupidly, I stared at him with my mouth agape. “You’ve never lit a fire ?”
He stood, crossing his arms over his body. Without the moon lighting his face, I couldn’t see his features even as he stepped closer. “Elora, I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I was raised a prince. Do you know what servants are?”
“Be quiet,” I said, shoving past him toward the hearth. When I grabbed the iron poker, I had an intense urge to jab him with it, but I didn’t allow myself the satisfaction.
“All you do is strike this against the flint—wait. No. No fire. We aren’t staying, and I don’t want anyone seeing the smoke. You’re not a very good sneak, either, are you?”
“Ismene and I often did whatever we wanted. There was no need to engage in such cunning,” he said, before moving toward the window.
“I’m sorry,” I said, regretting making him think of his sister. I was certain it hurt him, just as the thought of Theo hurt me. I wondered if he felt as responsible for her death as I did for my friend’s.
He didn’t respond, and I struggled not to fill the silence. Instead, I turned to look at my home. It was fitting that we came at night. The place I’d grown up in was shrouded in shadows; everything I knew and loved about it was now tainted by my mother’s secret history. The man who had carved my height into the doorframe over the years was dead, and once again, I was reminded that my old life was over.
A large part of me wished Mama had burnt it down. I knew she had stopped here on the way to Ravemont, but she hadn’t made any significant changes to the house. It was the same as the morning I’d left.
It felt wrong. It felt like everything inside should have been in disarray. I ran my fingertip along the dusty shelf which held our bowls and plates—each stacked as normal.
I fought the urge to smash them on the ground.
The sound of Cyran’s footsteps was the only deterrent to that demented impulse. Hand trailing up the bannister, he quickly loped up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I demanded, suddenly mortified over my stupid idea to bring him here. “Don’t go into my room!”
Running after him, I stumbled up the stairs in the dark. Rounding the corner, I realized I was too late. Cy’s silhouette darkened my doorway, and I sighed.
“The dollhouse is old. I don’t...I haven’t played with dolls in a long time. I should have gotten rid of it, but?—”
“I know. Faxon made it for you,” Cyran replied.
“How do you—” I started, before remembering. It was unfair how much Cy had learned about me from my dreams while I’d been trapped within them. But, try as I might, I couldn’t view it as a violation. Because of Cyran’s perseverance within my subconscious, he’d been able to wake me.
I wouldn’t allow myself to think about how he’d done it.
“Your mind is stunning,” he breathed as he stepped into the room. “It’s exactly as you dreamt it.”
Why did his words fill me with confidence? He’d only complimented my memory, and it wasn’t as if I could help that. Or could I?
“I pay attention to detail,” I said, suddenly feeling sheepish. “During winter, there is little to do but read and draw.”
He took a deep breath, slowly turning to face me. It was disorienting for him to be here. Cyran, with his finery and regal disposition, didn’t belong in our run-down cabin. He walked toward the window, trailing his fingertips over my dresser. The contents of my jewelry box clinked beneath his touch.
Noticing my messy bedding, I side-stepped Cy, tugging my blanket up before turning to my nightstand. I held my fingertip to the wick of my candle, allowing it to slowly heat until it caught flame. “We shouldn’t linger. We have a long ride before dawn.”
“I remember this bracelet,” he said, picking up the string of delicate glass beads. I wrapped my hand around my wrist, hoping he didn’t notice the one he’d given me was nowhere in sight. I’d left it behind in Astana.
“Put it down,” I said, fearful he might break it. “Theo made it for me.”
Cyran made a thoughtful noise. “I wondered about that. In all your dreams, you never wore it.” He held the jewelry closer to his face to inspect it. “Gods, he loved you, didn’t he?”
“It was a birthday gift,” I snapped. “I saved and bought him something nice for his too,” I lied. I’d been ashamed when I realized how much work Theo had traded to the glassblower in Brambleton to make the tiny beads. All I’d done for his birthday was bake him a cake that didn’t even taste very good. “Why would you say that? The bracelet might have been expensive, but?—”
“The beads are the exact shade of your eyes, min viltasma . Your mind might be brilliant enough for that level of detail, but for everyone else? Only truly important things leave such an impression.”
“Well, you know the exact shade too, so I wouldn’t look into it too much.”
I regretted the words immediately. He had told me he loved me, and I’d insulted him moments later. To be fair, he’d been willing to die to hold off his brother, and I had only wished for him to listen to me. Still, though, there was a reason we hadn’t spoken of it. When he only gave me a soft smile, ears turning pink at their tips, I wished I could disappear.
He chuckled. “I’m told there’s an empty tomb at Ravemont. Perhaps we could go there on our way to Crown Cottage, and you can let me die of embarrassment there instead of under your watchful gaze.”
I snorted, thankful for the change in subject. “I didn’t know they called her Martyr Lucia. It’s strange to think my mother’s twin was important enough to mean so much to so many people. Enough to steal her skull, for gods’ sake!”
It was as if time slowed, and I stared in horror as Cyran dropped the bracelet. It slipped right out of his hands, and slammed to the floor. I shouted as half the beads shattered on impact while the rest rolled away from the broken string. The room lit up with the glow from my eyes, and Cyran’s pupils shrank to two tiny pinpricks as he stared at me with an open mouth.
“I told you to put it down!” I shouted, falling to my knees to try to collect the intact beads. “What is wrong with you?”
A shriek of frustration bubbled up my throat, and I ignored the sharp pain in my knee as a tiny shard of glass embedded into my skin.
“I’m sorry,” he began, but my frustrated groan silenced him immediately. “Elora, I didn’t mean?—”
“Be quiet, you idiot!” I yelled. When he jumped at the noise, regret burrowed deep into my stomach. “I told you to put it down, and you didn’t listen.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
But I stopped listening to him as I picked up the remaining beads and ran downstairs. I wanted to put them on a thread so I could take them with me. Perhaps I could make a necklace out of them. I knew it was an accident, that Cy hadn’t meant to drop them, but Theo was gone. The bracelet had been irreplaceable, just as Theo had been.
When I opened Mama’s sewing basket, I couldn’t find what I needed. The yarn she had was far too thick, and there was no thread to be found. Where could she have put it? Growing frustrated, I dumped the basket out on the floor, grateful for the full moon’s light.
“Really, Mama?” I muttered, growing more irritated by the minute. Cy’s footsteps on the stairs announced his presence, but I didn’t look at him yet. I knew it wasn’t intentional, and I didn’t want to take it out on him. “Where is the thread?”
“Elora, I’m sorry. But I just realized?—”
“I can’t find the blasted thread.”
The hot splash of a tear on my cheek made me realize just how close I was to a breakdown. I couldn’t let Cyran see it; it was silly to cry over a bracelet. It wouldn’t bring my friend back. I hadn’t even thought of it since Theo’s death, but the moment Cyran picked it up, it became one of my most prized possessions. And now it was ruined.
“We could wrap them in cloth?—”
“Where did she put the thread?” I groaned, before tossing everything back where it belonged, placing the beads on the side table for safe keeping.
“Is there somewhere else she would have kept it?” Cyran sounded just as worried as I did, and I was grateful he understood how important this was to me. Was I mad for being so upset? Perhaps. But nothing made sense to me anymore. Everything made me angry or despondent. There was no reason for any of my emotions.
“Twine!” I exclaimed, thinking that it might be fine enough for the beads to thread onto. “We tied up the moonvine last summer so it would grow up the trellis.”
Determined, I marched to the front flower bed—only to find that Mama had trimmed the twine after the moonvine had been trained. I wished the blooms were open, and that summer had returned once more, but the dark green leaves merely taunted me with their well-behaved climbing.
“I hate you, Mama!” I shouted at the house, at the sky, at my mother who was so far away she’d never hear me. Logically, I knew this wasn’t her fault either. But everything to do with the loss of my friend came back to her, didn’t it? If Theo hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have cared so much about the bracelet breaking. And even in this one small thing which would help make up for it, she failed me.
Blowing a breath through my collapsing lungs, I tore at the moonvine she had meticulously trained. I ripped and tugged and destroyed, and I knew I probably looked frightful, but I didn’t care. I was angry. This was all Mama’s fault.
“Elora, stop.”
Cyran’s voice didn’t faze me, and I continued to pull at the vine, ripping it free from the trellis. The plant was stubborn, and its thorns were unyielding as I ripped the twisting grip of the vine free. Cyran watched me silently, and when tears tracked down my face, he said nothing. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I could stop if I tried.
“This won’t bring him back.”
“I know.”
“Elora, you have to stop.”
“No.”
Cyran sighed, and I stood to wipe sweat off my brow. He crossed his arms and pursed his lips as he looked down at me from the porch.
“Declan used to jest about me being the lesser bane of his existence. I didn’t understand it—not until now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not sure how any of this was remotely relevant while I was having a breakdown about my dead friend.
“He thought your aunt was the Beloved, and he was the Accursed. So he killed her—well my father did. I think they were the ones who took her bones.”
He slowly moved down the steps toward me, and I let the vine in my hands fall.
“He was asking for your mother’s blood that day he attacked us, remember? Blood of the Beloved?”
I simply blinked at him.
“The bone of the bane. Declan must have thought the prophecy meant his bane. His enemy. Not the bane of the gods, but the bane of the summoner.”
“He was trying to request a favor?” I asked, finally understanding what Cyran was saying. Cy settled down on the porch steps, long legs stretched out in front of him. He wiped a hand over his forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“He must have known something me and Reminy haven’t figured out yet. Your parents will need someone’s bones to summon a god.”
My heart thundered in my chest, and I took a step closer to Cy. My simmering rage toward my mother was forgotten and replaced with worry. “I don’t know if it will be as easy as robbing a grave for them. Unless you think Declan’s bones might suffice?”
“Hard to be a bane of someone’s existence when you’re dead, I’d think, especially since there are far more threatening enemies. Although, if anyone could, it would be my brother.” Cyran held out his hand, letting me see the beads resting in his palm. “I found more. I’m very sorry, min viltasma . Truly, I didn’t mean to drop the bracelet.”
“I know.”
And despite myself, I stepped forward and knelt on the bottom porch step. When I leaned into him and wrapped my arms around Cy’s waist, he didn’t hesitate to return the embrace. As my breathing slowed, tears fell from my eyes unbidden. Was this what I needed? To quell the hot anger boiling my blood, perhaps I needed Cyran’s crisp calm. Relaxing into his grasp, I let him soothe me. Desperately, I wondered if I could rely on him once more.