Chapter Forty-One
The Deathwail cleaves in half.
Wood crashes to the ocean floor below, the bodies of Will’s crew—of the cannibal pirates who tortured and killed countless people—who tortured Henry for twelve long days—plummeting to the bone-dry depths. But not Will.
No, not Will.
He appears in a whirl of black shadows at the entrance of a domed structure, its columns wrapped with seaweed, a statue at its center.
I’m already moving, racing toward the structure—toward Will—making my way to him on dry land. And I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know that Owen follows me.
But Will doesn’t run. He just stands there, at the top of the steps, as if he were waiting for me to catch him. As if this were exactly what he wants.
My stomach drops. He did this on purpose. The Sword—he wanted me to expose the Sword. And if Hildegarde hid it anywhere at Castle Grim, why not her secret haven beneath the waves?
“The Sword!” I yell at Owen. “It’s there!”
He curses. We run faster.
As we race toward the structure, Will takes a step back, pivoting on his heel to enter the dome, as if inviting us to follow.
“Azeron!” I roar as I climb the shallow steps into the folly, Owen at my heels.
Will leans casually against the statue in the center of the structure, his hands in his pockets.
I wonder if I imagine that he tenses, his eyes flaring at my use of his true name, because a moment later, a lazy grin tugs at his lips as he lifts his gaze to the ceiling and reads aloud, “Only blood can heal the land. Only truth can mend the past.” Will flicks a glance at the statue of Hildegarde—at the sword in her grasp—and tsks, shaking his head.
“I must say, I really thought the Sword would be here.” Will draws a wicked-looking knife from his belt, points it at me. “Perhaps an offering of your blood—”
Will moves toward me at a preternatural speed my eyes can barely detect.
But Owen is faster.
Owen chokes, blood splattering the stone floor, and I scream, grasping at my own chest, because it feels as if the blade that protrudes from his back pierced my heart instead.
Will rolls his eyes, wiping the dagger on his sleeve as Owen drops to the ground at the foot of the statue. “Such wasted potential.”
I charge him, blades drawn, but he vanishes in a whirl of shadows just as my dagger slices the skin of his throat.
“Aster?” Owen gasps, his gravelly voice thick with blood.
I sheathe my dagger and drop to my knees beside him. “It’s all right,” I say, trying to mimic Margaret’s calm, measured tone. “You’re going to be all right.”
I close my eyes, my shaking hands hovering over the wound in his chest. The Manan in the water thrums all around me, flowing through my veins. I can heal him. I know that I can.
But when I try to stitch Owen’s flesh, it’s as if there were no thread of Manan to grab hold of.
As if Owen were already a ghost.
Already dead.
“His blade wasn’t cursed,” I tell him. “I just need to… to close the wound. I can repair your heart—I know I can—just as Killian did for Father. You’re going to be all right. You—”
“Aster,” Owen says again, softer this time—weaker.
I open my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.
The sea is no longer parted. The ocean has come crashing down over us, surrounding the structure on all sides, and whatever enchantment Hildegarde cast on this place seems to fade as water leaks in, filling the folly, blue light pulsing all around us.
I prop Owen against the statue before the water can cover his head.
“I think—” Owen’s jaw tightens, his voice strained, but his eyes are clear. Kind. “I think I’m ready to go home now.”
“We will,” I tell him. “We’ll go together.”
His breath rattles with a hoarse chuckle, blood dribbling past his lips as his hand finds mine. “In this life… and the next… r-remember?”
He grins, carefree, laughter dancing in his eyes even as they fixate on the roof of the structure—on the constellations carved into the stone ceiling.
His hand goes limp. The water pours in faster, up to his chest now, covering the wound. His blood mixes with the water, a bloom of crimson.
I scream, cradling him in my arms as the statue begins to glow with golden light and the stone crumbles away, revealing a gilded sword.
His blood, I realize, my heart pounding. He might not possess the power of the Lightbringer, but he’s still the rightful heir of Hildegarde. His blood—Hildegarde’s blood—revealed the Sword.
“The Sword, Owen!” I shake him. “It’s the Sword!
We—we found it! Come on,” I say, dragging his body up with me as I stand, holding him with strength I didn’t know I possessed as his head lolls onto my shoulder.
“We have to go. Let’s go home, please? Let’s—” I groan, my teeth clenched, as I pry the sword from the statue’s grasp.
“Let’s go home now. Together, Owen. We have to go together! ”
The water fills the folly, up to my neck now. I’ll have to swim out. I know that I can—I’ve done it before. But I’ll have to carry the weight of the Sword.
Of Owen.
I know he’s gone. But I can’t leave him here. I have to take his body back with me. I can’t let go of him. Not yet.
I take a deep breath as the water covers my head.
I kick, the sword in one hand, my other arm wrapped around Owen’s waist, and try to draw on my power, but the Manan I exhausted attempting to heal Owen leaves me weak.
I manage to produce a current that carries me out of the structure, but as I struggle toward the surface, I feel my magic failing, feel the weight of the depths dragging me under.
I kick harder, but it’s no use.
I’m sinking.
There was a time when I might have given up—might have surrendered to the blissful embrace of the sea. But my family is waiting for me, where the light breaks through the waves. Titus is waiting for me.
They need me.
Remember, you have to live.
I have to live. Owen would want me to live.
Owen’s body slips from my grasp, and it feels as if my heart is ripped from my chest.
I battle against the current, my fist tightening around the hilt of the Sword. I’m close enough to the surface that I can see the mouth of the cave, but black spots edge my vision, and it seems no matter how hard I kick, the light dims with every passing second.
And then I’m being lifted, propelled toward the light, and Lewis drags me onto the rocky bank of the cavern.
My first gasp for air is a sob that splits my head in two.
“Owen?” Lewis’s voice warbles in my ears. He looks out at the water, as if he expected our brother to emerge any moment. “Where’s Owen?”
“I couldn’t—couldn’t carry his body back,” I cry. “I couldn’t—”
Lewis wades out into the water a few steps, and for a moment, I think he might dive below the waves, but a howl bursts from his chest as he collapses onto the bank beside me, slamming his fists against the stone.
I crawl toward Titus, slumped against the cave wall, where Eliza examines his dark, festering wound. She covers her mouth to stifle a sob before shifting toward Lewis, whispering in his ear as he throws his arms around her neck, shoulders heaving as he weeps.
Titus moves as if there were no force in this realm or the next that could keep him from me. He crushes me in his embrace, but even as he holds me, I don’t let go of the Sword.
I can’t let go. I can’t let go. I can’t—
Titus covers my fist, clenched around the hilt, prompting me to look him in the eye.
“It’s where he’d want to be,” he says, even as tears roll down his cheeks. And I know what he means, even if it feels like my soul is being torn to shreds. The ocean was always Owen’s home—it always will be. It’s where every pirate wishes to be buried.
“He can rest now,” Titus says, his voice cracking on a whimper as he draws me close to his chest again, his hand still covering mine.
Owen can rest now. He can finally be at peace. No more pain. No more running.
But I will never know peace. Because there is only one way this all ends, and now there is only one choice left to make.
And as Titus holds me close, his body feverish, I already know what I will choose.