Chapter 50
DIEM
The golden age our elders spoke of is difficult to remember.
At times, it seems that all we’ve ever known is violence and unrest. And yet, when we reflect on our past, it is neither peace nor war we think of, but love.
It was love that birthed us, love that saved us, and love that has led us to our end.
— OUR BEGINNING
The opening words to the Kindred’s retelling of their history echoed in my head as one of Vance’s men ushered me back to my cell.
I’d spent the day combing the books Ophiucae left behind in search of anything that might help me.
Despite the hundreds of pages I’d skimmed, those first few lines dominated my thoughts.
“None of that allowed,” my escort barked, knocking the tray I carried out of my hands.
Bits of fire-cooked quail and roasted parsnips spilled across the grass.
Before I could stoop to grab them, he shoved me into the cage and slammed the door at my back.
I stretched my arm through the bars, and he laughed as the food sat just out of reach.
“Wasting food rather than giving it to those who need it,” I said tersely. “You’re no better than the Crowns.”
His laughter stopped. “My father died in a Fortos prison because the guards wouldn’t feed him.” He drove the heel of his boot into the fallen food, smashing it into the soil. “Now you know how it feels.”
He stormed away, and I slumped to the ground beside Doriel. “I figured that might happen,” I muttered. I reached into my tunic and pulled out a hidden bundle of food I’d tied up in a napkin, setting it in Doriel’s lap.
They stared at it, frowning. “You brought this for me?”
I shrugged. Without food, Doriel would die, and I’d had enough of being alone.
They shoved the morsels of food in their mouth before someone could show up to steal it away. Not that there was anyone left to do it—the camp was almost empty, save for a handful of men on patrol.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
Doriel swallowed down a mouthful. “They left for the coast. If they’re going by boat, they’re headed south, most likely.”
My eyes wandered over the southern grasslands and stopped on a bright light atop a low hill. At the center of the glow, Ophiucae was sprawled on his back. Xipherus soared in circles through the clouds above, his red-tipped wings looking like smears of blood against the evening sky.
“Ophiucae didn’t go with them?” I asked.
“He never does. He stays behind and does that.”
“What is he . . .” My question slowed and stopped as I remembered what the Kindred had told me about the consequences of their second Forging spell.
What it brought him was an unlimited source of power. He no longer needed to be attacked to take our magic—he could pull it directly from the soil. He went from our weakest to more powerful than all of us combined.
“That’s why he stopped going with the mortals,” I murmured. “His magic isn’t strong enough. He needs a connection with the soil to fuel it.”
“The soil fuels his magic?” Doriel asked.
My eyes narrowed. “You pretended to know nothing about the Kindred’s family or the tenth realm.” I jabbed a finger toward the library. “I saw the books you hid in the room that only the Sophos Crown can access. You knew everything.”
“I told you the truth,” they protested. “You asked what I knew about Omnos, and I said all I’d heard was rumors. The Kindred never mentioned him in their writings.”
I gritted my teeth, unable to deny it. The Kindred had been meticulous in leaving their youngest brother unmentioned. It left my heart aching on his behalf. How must it feel for your family to go to such lengths to erase you, all the while knowing you were alive in a cell beneath the earth?
“Tell me you didn’t let Ophiucae in that room,” Doriel said, their eyes growing round.
“He was only there for a few minutes.”
I bit down on the critical part I wasn’t admitting—that he’d taken one of the books with him when he left.
“Diem, those books are locked away for a reason.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. The book on the Kindred’s mates is really dangerous. Thank the gods you hid that from the world. Those love stories have been known to kill people.”
“It’s more dangerous than you think,” they snapped at my mocking tone. “Why do you think the people of Montios live in silence in the mountains, while Merosians spend their lives at sea? Do you think no Descended among them wish to live otherwise?”
“Of course. The ones who do leave and go to Umbros.”
“And they can never go back, because they are shunned as heretics.” Doriel pressed a hand to their chest. “My people follow Blessed Father Sophos’s example.
He spent his life in study, so we do the same.
Even my guards devote their free hours in research to fulfill their divine duty.
‘As the Kindred lived, so shall we.’ It is the fundamental precept of our kind.
” They gave me a loaded look. “And that can extend to all aspects of the Kindred’s lives—including their lovers. ”
“Are you saying Descended will take mortal mates simply because the Kindred did?”
“Some Descended will do anything because the Kindred did. There was a time when nearly every Descended took a mortal lover—whether the mortal wished to be taken or not.”
I recoiled in disgust, though I wasn’t surprised.
Every evil the Descended ever committed had been justified as an act of obedience to the Kindred.
The Guardians had done reprehensible things in the name of the Old Gods, too.
That was the danger of faith. When a sword swings to please a god, all in its path end up bleeding, the innocent and guilty alike.
“The Crowns of long ago decided to limit what people know of the Kindred,” Doriel continued. “By withholding some details and emphasizing others, we can more precisely guide our people.”
“You mean you can control them.”
They ignored my jab. “It was decided that it would be best for everyone to believe the Kindred wanted their mortal mates to be forgotten—a temporary need to populate our kind, nothing more. Every Sophos Crown since has honored that decision.” They lifted their chin.
“And we are better for it. The Descended and the mortals.”
I wanted to yell that when a child hits another child, you teach them that hitting is wrong, you don’t give them something different to swing at, but if the Crowns hadn’t believed in the Descended’s ability to do the right thing, how could I?
The hopelessness inside me stretched its jaws, consuming more of my tired, defeated heart. I’d begun my reign as Queen confident in my ideals. I’d sworn to be better than the manipulative Crowns who came before me. I believed I could inspire others to be better, too.
The line between a dreamer and a fool was a hair’s breadth thin. Maybe the line between a leader and a leash was even thinner.
“Why was the book on the Kindred’s home world hidden?” I asked.
“The Kindred feared someone would use the book to go looking for it.”
“It doesn’t sound like there’s anything left of it to find.”
“Given what they said about the power their people guarded, someone might be driven to try.”
That, at least, I agreed with. The book had painted the Kindred’s home world as an idyllic place, evolved beyond hunger or poverty or injustice, but even in utopia, greed had endured.
A small faction yearned for more, and their world’s leaders, believing their paradise could not be improved, turned them away.
The faction turned their efforts to the people.
If our leaders will not share their authority, they argued, they must be hoarding the best resources for themselves.
The leaders ignored it, certain that the masses would see the harmony they’d achieved and trust them to maintain it. Some did, but others took the silence as evidence of guilt. The opposition grew, and so did their anger. For the first time, their world’s peace was at risk.
One leader suggested they use the heartstone’s magic to quell the unrest. The others feared that doing so would plunge them into war.
While the debate went on, the turmoil grew.
Their rivals launched an attack that left their city crumbling, and the leaders vowed retribution.
Once they are punished, they promised, peace will be restored.
Punishments came, but peace did not.
More disagreements led to more resentment, more attacks, and more bloodshed. The desperate leaders finally offered up a place among them, but the dissidents were no longer content with a seat at the table. They wanted the leaders, who they saw as selfish and corrupt, to step down for good.
The leaders refused. More of them became convinced the heartstone’s power was the only solution.
The law forbid them from using it for violence unless all the leaders agreed, and one holdout remained—their eldest member, who refused to sanction the slaughter of their people, no matter their crime.
Frustrated, the others overruled her. Ending a war is not an act of violence, they insisted. It’s an act of peace.
And an act of peace did not require a unanimous vote.
The heartstone was used, and their rivals were vanquished in one deadly, unspeakable strike.
If only that had been the end.
Their clerics had warned that such a heinous deed would demand a steep price in return, but even they could not imagine how much the leaders would lose.
The cost for the destruction of their most fervent opponents: their most loyal supporters.
The leaders’ lovers, their children, their dearest friends—all condemned to the same lethal fate.
Stricken by guilt for what they’d done, the leaders ordered their own execution.
New rifts formed between those disgusted that the heartstone had been used and those angry it wasn’t done sooner.
In the leaders’ absence, many attempted to seize control for themselves.
The clerics who guarded the heartstone decided it was better to destroy it than risk it being used for more violence.
They broke its source into pieces, weakening its strength, and set off to hide them in places they would never be found.
As they made their escape, they were discovered by furious mobs, who stole the heartstone fragments and eagerly turned its magic on their foes.
The world fell by day’s end.
The only survivors were a widowed cleric, her ten children, and the last-known remnant of the power that destroyed everything they once loved.
My focus narrowed on an object laying at Ophiucae’s side. “There was a book in that room that had a lock on its cover,” I said. “What do you know of its contents?”
“Nothing. I’ve never read it.”
“This is not the time for lies, Doriel. We both know there’s not a single book in that library you haven’t memorized cover to cover.”
“Of course I wanted to read it, but I couldn’t. Its lock requires the blood of all nine Crowns to open. If I had asked the other Crowns for their blood, they would have demanded to read it, too. I was told to never let that happen.”
My heart began to race.
Doriel sighed. “The curiosity is torture, but it’s not for me to question the Blessed Kindred’s command.”
“The Kindred?” I asked. “I thought the old Sophos Crowns decided to hide those books?”
“This one was different. The Kindred set the lock on that book themselves. Whatever is in those pages, they went to great lengths to make sure it never fell into enemy hands.” Doriel’s voice felt distant as my pulse thundered in my ears.
“I always wondered why the Kindred left a book no one could read. Now I understand. They left it for you.”