Chapter 43
The vicar guides me back across the bridge to the first platform. We head toward the wall where the shelf originates, but instead of taking the stairway up again, we turn right.
“I didn’t have an opportunity to meditate and cleanse my body.
” The moment the word “body” leaves my mouth, I’m reminded of how exposed I am.
Part of me wants to curl in on myself and hide.
The other part wants to stand taller. I will not give him the satisfaction of shame because there is nothing for me to be ashamed of. I am me. Wholly and unapologetically.
“That is not something to be concerned about, for you are Valor Reborn.”
I roll my eyes at his back.
A new stairway leading down appears through the haze, and I swallow the lump in my throat. There is only one thing deeper than this: the Font itself. Not the general area we’re in now. Not the mist of Ether. But the wellspring of magic and life.
I pause at the top of the stair, hesitant to follow. I don’t want to go down there alone with him. But there’s nowhere I can run. And I can’t fight him.
Can I? The thought has sweat beading along my brow. Could I fight the vicar?
The notion is pure treason, and everything that he has trained into me rebels against it. But something was awakened at this man’s hand in the sundering pits. Something that’s intrigued by the notion of such a fight.
He glances over his shoulder. “Isola?” Impatience makes my name short and taut.
If I’m so powerful, why do I obey you? I want to ask. Instead, I plaster on a forced smile. “Forgive me, I was briefly overwhelmed by the Etherlight.” And then I take my first step down.
Carved into the cave wall are depictions of dragon skulls, hundreds of all shapes and sizes. Human skulls are wedged between them, wrought from stone. I have no choice but to rest my palm on one for balance, and a jolt runs through me. The rock glitters under my touch, then darkens.
I stare at my palm but don’t dare fall behind again.
The pathway plunges into the stone and becomes a tunnel that has so many carvings of human and dragon bones it’s almost as though its constructed entirely from them. They stare at me with vacant, hollow eye sockets. Each one more lifelike than the last.
Upon someone’s death, their body is returned to the Font, so that their Etherlight can be restored to the earth. What if these bones aren’t mere carving from rock? Grim fascination stops me from looking away, even as a horrified shiver runs down my spine.
At long last, we end at an iron gate. On the other side is a narrow strip of rock that is the beach to a vast lake of molten gold.
I know what it is, and yet I can’t believe it. My throat has gone dry. “Is that…”
“The Font.” The vicar unlocks the gate and opens it, gesturing for me to step inside.
“I…” I’m rooted to the spot. This goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“This, Isola, is your destiny.” He speaks almost gently, but his eyes shine with something that makes my skin prickle.
His golden eye is the same color as the liquid of the pool and, suddenly, the gilding makes sense.
I would bet anything he drops a tiny bit of the Font’s liquid Etherlight into one eye of every citizen of Vinguard.
That is how he connects them to the Font, and why they have a better sense of the flow of Etherlight after—enough that those who couldn’t use magic even with an artificer sigil before can manage simple feats following.
“Do not stall.” The vicar grabs my arm, yanking me toward the gate, shoving me in front of him and onto the threshold.
He steps back into the tunnel, positioning himself behind me, blocking any hope of escape, and the harsher edges of his voice smooth as he adds, “Go and commune with the Font. Find your true power to slay dragons with Etherlight, Isola.”
I look uncertainly between him and the final path to the Font.
The vicar leans forward and whispers, “Lest I try to wrench it from your body again using my own methods.” He keeps his stare locked on me as he steps back. There’s the making of a snarl curling his lip.
I try to think of a retort. Some way to get around this… But there’s so much Etherlight flooding the area, I can’t concentrate. My head spins. Something about it calls to me, louder by the second.
Unable to resist its pull—or the vicar’s orders—I take timid steps along the narrow strip of rocky beach at the edge of this vast, underground spring of raw magic, awestruck and terrified.
This is the last thing keeping the world alive.
The power rolling from the golden mist is irresistible but overwhelming.
I’m frozen in place, as though I’ve run into an invisible wall.
“Go, Isola,” he urges from behind me, not crossing the gate, as though he wouldn’t dare get as close as I am. His toes haven’t even passed the threshold. “Show me your true power.”
I press on when it feels like a thousand invisible hands are trying to force me back, pushing through to reach the edge of the molten gold.
What will happen if I continue? If I touch it?
I already feel as if I’m about to be torn apart—like the magic is grating against my ribs and tugging flesh from bone to pull me closer.
It hurts, yet I yearn for it. Like the sweet pressure right before a joint pops.
“Go,” he commands.
Shuffling forward, I barely submerge my feet into the Ether. It’s warm but not wet. The second it touches my skin, the whole world tilts, shakes, and trembles. I can see the patterns of Etherlight in the air. They carve shapes…no, lines. Like artificer sigils—like a secret language.
From the back of my mind come unrelenting screams. A thousand voices crying out in pain so loud, it’s a roar. I nearly collapse.
“Continue, Isola.” The vicar sounds far away.
Come, Isola, a voice whispers from the Font itself, cutting through the screams.
Then the vicar’s rises above the roar of power and the screams in my head. “Bring Vinguard power and victory at last!”
I take another step, and another. My foot slips on rock underneath the Ether, and I tumble off an unseen ledge.
Not liquid, not mist, the Font is something else, something indescribable.
It sucks me under, and I fight against it on instinct.
My feet find purchase on the rocky bottom, and I push up, frantically gasping for breath as my head clears the surface.
Waves of gold obscure the vicar before he comes back into focus. There’s an inquisitor—no, a Mercy Knight with him now.
I’m pulled under again.
The Font cradles me. Every joint in my body aches with a distant and unyielding pain from the sharp, persistent surge of power. It’s too much, but something in me wants more—needs more.
For a moment, I think I see someone, deep within the endless field of gold. There’s a man, standing in front of countless others on a precipice. The vicar? No…someone else.
Another crash of power slams into me, and with it, I hear the screams of thousands in chorus. The weeping of a thousand more. It’s as though I’m somewhere else entirely yet still trapped within my body. Like I’m on the edge of realizing something—knowing something—just beyond my grasp.
My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly breathe. This raw magic is going to destroy me.
I’m pulled farther down, or maybe I’m not moving at all. This is the only way to save humanity, I hear someone whisper between my ears—more like a thought.
I finally resurface, gasping. My eyes swing back to the entrance, but the vicar’s gone.
I can leave.
Fighting with gritted teeth, clawing at rock, pumping my legs and arms, I struggle toward the rocky strip in front of the still open and empty gate.
For something that looks light as air, the Font is as sticky as tar, sucking me down, as if trying to consume me.
The world continues to blur and oscillate.
Tell no one. Distant screams persist. What’s happening? I don’t know what thoughts are my own anymore. It must be done. What is reality and what is the fiction of magic. We will survive.
I struggle to find my footing on the rock. If I don’t get out, I might die here.
Gasping, I manage to climb out onto the narrow strip of stone at the edge of the Font.
I catch my breath and look down, expecting to find my body bruised, torn, and bleeding under a coat of golden Etherlight.
But even though the unbearable pain persists, I find my skin uninjured and clear, with only scattered patches of Etherlight remaining.
I groan as it hisses off, evaporating in a blood-red haze.
I think I’m going to be sick. I want to tear off my skin.
It feels as though it doesn’t fit. Like it’s not mine.
What’s happening to me?
The Font behind me is bubbling. Groaning. I force myself to find the strength to stand. I try to run for the gate, but my feet slip, and I land hard, the stone cutting my skin. My blood steams off the rock, making me wonder just how hot the stone is from the Font. How I’m not cooking alive.
Maybe I am?
I manage to right myself somewhat. I’ll crawl to that gate, if I must. Hand over hand, knees and feet dragging, I make my way.
The body isn’t made for this much exposure to raw magic.
No wonder humanity lost our ability to draw Ether on our own—it was a survival mechanism of our species.
Those who could do it must’ve died off. Because this… this agony…
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. I will not die here.
The gate is close, and something tells me if I can make it to the other side of the threshold, it’ll be better.
There must be something about the threshold that buffers the overwhelming nature of the Font.
Otherwise, how did I not feel such agony until I had crossed from the tunnel to the rocky beach?
There is a reason the vicar didn’t enter.
If he thought he was safe there, then it must be safe. I’ll work out by whatever magic later.
Just as I reach the entry, boots appear. The gate slams shut with a heavy clang. The same terror the bells inspire sinks into me, making my blood run cold even as my skin burns.
The prelate stands on the other side. I know her by the scuffs on her boots. “I don’t think you’re done in there.”
“Let me out.” The words are gravelly and low from pain.
“Make me.”
I snarl at her like a beast. She lets out a low hum of amusement in response.
“The vicar had some urgent business to attend to but left me in charge—told me to ensure you don’t come out until you can properly wield Ether.” She crouches. “And if you can’t make me open this gate, then it looks to me like you’re not done.”
From this angle, for the first time, I can see more of her face. It’s still shadowed by the hood she keeps drawn to its fullest, but the haze and glow of the Font illuminate strange angles on her cheeks and jaw. I can’t make out finer details, but I can see one notable absence.
“Your eyes,” I wheeze. They’re both a dark shade of brown.
Not a particularly noteworthy color on its own.
But the prelate is easily in her mid-twenties.
She’s a Mercy Knight. All that combined means she’s a full citizen of Vinguard and thus should have received the gilding.
The fact that it’s notably absent has only one explanation: she didn’t go through the Tribunal. Which is impossible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands and, one blink to the next, the gold is there.
I try to make sense of what I just saw. “What…”
With a final look, so disapproving that it could wither fruit on the vine, she says, “Show us what you’re really made of. If you’re meant to save this world, then do it,” and leaves, the gate locked shut behind her.
“Don’t— Don’t leave me here.” I reach through the bars of the gate, but she’s already gone. I run my fingers over the empty keyhole and let out a cry.
The bubbling and churning continue behind me, calling me back. I grab the bars, trying to pull myself up, but the effort almost overwhelms me. It’s as though the Ether has had a taste of me, and now it demands more. Tendrils of magic wrap around my body like vines, pulling me back to the source.
I grip the bars tighter.
With a deep breath, I groan and pull myself to my feet.
And just as I do, the Font explodes.