CHAPTER 33 #2
With a wide sweep of her arm, she offers me entry into her room.
The cause of such heavy weariness is laid bare to me the moment I see Kishek asleep in her bed.
His eyes are sunken deep, a sickly dark welling beneath the long lashes laying against his cheeks.
His breathing is deep and even. The only sign that the male is perhaps better than he appears.
“He will be all right,” Awri assures me, and I shrug off a small bit of tension winding in the fine sinew of my shoulders.
“I thought Caden healed him?” I ask, troubled.
She shakes her head regretfully. “Kishek nearly extended his gift beyond his ability, and Caden cannot heal that. The healers have done what little they can.”
I’ve never asked about their gifts. Never danced around my curiosity in our many conversations. I know next to nothing about their world as it pertains to their power, and I grasp at the tiny thread of knowledge.
I follow as she makes her way deeper into her room.
It is decorated much like her cottage. Chairs carved from gnarled roots sit in front of the fire.
Rugs woven to mimic the mossy carpet of the forest floor flow between every bit of furniture.
A detailed portrait of two extravagantly adorned feyn hangs on the wall between two large windows, a small table of carved creatures below it.
“My parents,” she says, “The day they celebrated their mating bond.”
I nod and smile politely, as if this isn’t the first time in my life I’ve ever heard of a mating bond.
I was taught that the feyn took mates but that is the extent of my knowledge on the topic.
While my mind continues to sift the lies from the truths of the stories I was raised on, Awri extends her arm, offering me a comfortable seat on a plush, green velvet cushion by a crackling fire.
“You hide it well,” she says as she takes a seat across from me, looking out the window.
“What?” I ask.
“Your curiosity,” she replies.
When I say nothing, a smile tugs up at one edge of her mouth and she says, “I admit that when you were so inquisitive about the fea, I expected you to be more open to all the possibilities outside of what you were taught by the La’tari.”
“You think I’m closed minded?” I nearly scoff, even as my mind trips over all I’ve learned and tried to reject since I landed on these shores.
“I’m sure there must be a reason you continue to deny any truth laid before you. And while you seem content to live in ignorance, it is not without its costs,” Awri says, her eyes wilting when they land on the form of her mate. Every defense building inside of me ebbs when I follow that gaze.
This is not the conversation I expected to have with her.
I debate excusing myself and consider discarding whatever fragile semblance of a friendship still remains between us.
But my feet don’t move for the door when I will myself to leave her to her sorrow.
As if my body were not within my control, I find myself kneeling before her instead, her hand clasped between my own.
“You said that you didn’t blame me for this.” It’s little more than a whisper when it passes my lips.
What little hope I had in the sincerity of her claim is lost when she replies, “Maybe I’m lying to myself too.”
The thin thread binding us to each other begins to slip, threatening to unravel all that is left. I may not agree with her—what could I have possibly known that would have changed this?
“What can I do?” My entire being protests the question even as I ask. It’s too open, it offers too much. What price will the female exact from me?
But I can think of no other way to mend this, so I plead, “Tell me.”
She doesn’t hesitate in her answer, doesn’t stop to think or consider what she might say. She leans forward in her chair, a challenge in her eyes as her hand closes like a vice around my own.
“Ask,” she says simply. “What secrets of the feyn, of A’kori, of Terr, do you wish to know?”
Nothing. Everything.
What can the female tell me without shattering the last of the small panes that remain of my life? What can she say that will not rewrite the histories of my world and all that I know?
“What would you like me to know?” I deflect, entirely unsure I want her answer.
Awri puffs out a sigh. I asked a fair question, just not the one she wanted. I’m not even sure what that question is, but I’m sure the answer will cost me more than I can afford.
I remind myself of the weight of her offer, of all their heavily guarded secrets. How many Drakai have lost their lives in search of the information she seems so eager to share with me?
Her brow pitches down to resemble the general’s glower when she replies, “Everything, Shivaria. I would have you know everything.”
Her eyes flick to the door and at once I understand her. Xeyvian offered much the same. Everything I have learned since arriving has been at my request. In the cottage they answered every question I had about the fea. Media gladly taught me about the Vatruke when I inquired.
Maybe it’s pure naivete, but I do not think they will force the shattering of my world. It is such a simple request, one they continue to make. ‘Ask.’
I’ve already sought answers from Felias and the sisters. Why is it so impossible to ask the same questions of them? I tell myself that it is because there are too many lies that I have yet to unravel. But deep down, I know that it is the threat that their truths pose to my reality that stops me.
Even after everything they’ve told me, what do I really know? The fea are the only true innocents in this war and the Vatruke hunt them, with the assistance of the Drakai.
I swallow hard, deciding on a question that will test her without risking too much. “Tell me about the power of the feyn.”
She raises her brows, tipping her head to the side, clearly surprised that I have finally given her what she wants.
I expect her to balk at the question, to retract the offer, to assure me that though I may ask her anything, there are still things she is unwilling to divulge.
Instead, she waves her hand at the seat across from her.
Smoothing the shimmering orange fabric of her dress resting upon her thighs she says, “Every feyn child is born with a connection to Shivay, the world soul. As we grow, that connection strengthens into a bond, one that Shivay uses to produce a gift inside of us.”
“You say that like it’s alive,” I wonder at her choice of words.
“Do you not believe the soul of Terr is alive?” she asks, as if it’s the simplest question in the world.
I’m not sure she intended to wait for my reply when she immediately continues. “Each gift is uniquely our own, some more subtly different than others, and all with differing degrees of power.”
She rises from her chair, busying herself warming a kettle over the fire.
“How do you determine who is more powerful?” I ask.
“Generally, feyn who are gifted with powers of the mind are considered the most powerful. Though, that is not always the case,” she says, walking to a nearby cabinet and kneeling to rummage through it.
“The power of our gifts is only as strong as our bond to Shivay. A gift like Toren’s is physical in nature and could harm a tree just as easily as it could harm any feyn.
Gifts like mine—illusion—and other gifts of the mind, while incredibly powerful, are only really effective if our target’s bond to Shivay is weaker than our own. ”
Awri stands, closing the cabinet with a gentle sweep of her leg, and walks toward the steaming kettle with two small cups and a variety of teas in hand.
“When I was a child, I was often upset with my brother, and jealous of the favor he received because of his gift. One night, I entered his mind while he slept, convincing him that he had fallen asleep in the forest and risen in the midst of a wildfire.” A smile breaks upon her face as she recalls the memory.
“It wasn’t until he threw a bucket of water onto a burning log that I released him from the vision.
The log was my father,” she chuckles, “and he was furious.”
I’ve never imagined her when she was young but find it difficult to conjure the scene of the mischievous and jealous child she describes.
“Riesh never told our father. I’m not sure why.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” I suggest. Finding myself curious to understand his reason.
She shrugs, offering me a steaming cup of hot liquid. “I suppose I enjoy the memory as it is.”
I don’t tell her how much I understand exactly what she means. Memories are such fragile things. Marred not only by the passing of time but by every experience before and after they are made.
“Your gift is incredible,” I admit.
Even a gift like Toren’s ice would be useless if he could be convinced of a reality chosen by his opponent.
Awri smiles proudly at the compliment before dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “It is a very powerful gift. Rendered completely useless against a feyn of greater power.”
Blowing across the surface of my tea, I stare at her quizzically as she explains. “Take Xeyvian, for example. I would be lucky to convince him that my rug is a different shade of green.”
I feel my eyebrows hit my hairline before I regain my composure and ask, “He is that much more powerful than you?”
She nods, pursing her lips to blow across the beverage in her hands.
“What if Riesh amplified your power?” I wonder. “Could you do it then?”
She nods again, somewhat more hesitantly.
“Though my brother’s gifts are far from secret, I hope you will understand if I don’t say much about them. Knowledge about our gifts and the strength of our bond to Shivay can be the difference between life and death.”
“I understand,” I say. How could I argue even if I wanted to? I doubt there are any in La’tari who know even this little about their gifts.
“Earlier you said a gift like Toren’s could harm any feyn,” I say, “You mean that physical gifts, as you call them, are not subject to the same laws of power?”
She hesitates a moment before answering, selecting her words carefully.
“If a feyn grows a rose bush and walks away, the rose bush remains. If a child comes along and pricks their finger on a thorn from that same bush, the finger will bleed. A gift that takes on a physical form belongs to Terr once it leaves the body, and it is no longer tied to the power of the gift of the one who made it.”
I nod my understanding, though I’m not sure she’s convinced when she shrugs and puffs out a breath. “I’m not sure how else to explain it.”
“Thank you for trying,” I say with a smile before checking the dwindling light outside the window.
Sipping the last of my tea, I rise from my seat. Awri rises to meet me, taking the cup from my hands with a small smile that seems sincere. “Thank you for coming to see me. And for being curious.”
I dip my head, unsure of how to respond to the female. Tonight seems to have gone well, even if Kishek seems no better, despite her insistence that my questions would help him. I begin toward the door, stopping when my hand grasps the lever, and glance over my shoulder.
“Will you show me your gift?” I ask.
The small smile fades from her refined features and she shakes her head.
I try not to let my disappointment show.
Of course she won’t. She just told me how important their secrets are, then baited me into asking questions to which she only gives partial truths.
I feel my back stiffen involuntarily at the rejection of my request and her face wilts.
“I hope you believe me when I say that if I could show you, I would,” she says.
I nod my understanding once again and slip out into the hall.