Chapter 41
After laying Peonica in bed upstairs, I go straight to the bar, where Micheline is already serving her regulars.
I slouch by the bar. Micheline’s scrutinizing gaze darts towards the green dragon slumped outside the doors, unable to fit through the doorframe.
A small crowd of people gathers to point and gasp, no one daring to get too close. This can’t be good for business.
“New pet?” the proprietress asks.
“Don’t ask.” I shake my head and lean over to grab a bottle of whiskey, then take a gulp. The hot liquid burns as it slides down into my empty stomach.
Micheline takes a deep, sorrowful breath, glancing at the Divinity Gazes that light up. Soon, the Threadbinding ceremony will begin, and the Sibyls will officially announce Zyrel as the new Archpriest of the kingdom of Calcatra.
I look away.
It was all for nothing. Rust Hollow. The cursed women. They’ll be reduced to nothing more than free labor until the day they die. And no matter how hard I try to remind myself that I stopped Calista from her reign of terror, the despair within me gets louder with every passing second.
If I’d never entered the Trial, another Champion might have proven strong enough to challenge Zyrel and actually defeat him.
Seraphina would have, the voice inside me snarls. She was made to win. The only reason she was forced out was because Ryker chose me out of guilt, after learning the truth. If I hadn’t been there….
If I had just accepted my fate, Seraphina might have become the Archpriestess instead of being locked inside her own body, slowly dying or already dead.
Kaelzar would have stayed with his people.
Saved them. Calista would still be trapped in her realm, forgotten.
The women of Rust Hollow would still be alive.
None of them would have been turned to slaves.
The guilt is overwhelming now.
“You did your best,” Micheline says, placing her soft hand over mine, which I just now realize is trembling.
“Whatever made you give it all up, I believe you had a good reason,” she whispers conspiratorially, as if it will make my failure bearable.
And then she adds, “There is another way to fix it all, and you will find it. Soon, Ray, you will change everything.”
There’s something knowing in her expression. Not hopeful. Certain. An irritating prickle of suspicion slithers at the back of my neck, and I hurry to dismiss it. What could Micheline know that I don’t, and why would she hide it?
It must be the aftershock of Kaelzar’s betrayal, staining every relationship I’ve ever had, turning them into something impure and not to be trusted. The thought of him makes my chest seize, and I bite my lip to hold back a sound that could be a scream or a sob or a curse.
I nod in response, not trusting myself to speak.
Micheline slides something across the bar. “This came for you while you were gone.”
I blink, recognizing the handwriting. Eva. A flickering beat of something warm still stirs as I reach for the letter. “Thank you,” I murmur, tracing the edge.
I’ll go to her next. Tell her everything. She’ll help me see the side of all this that isn’t crumbling. Her, I can trust.
I grab the bottle, knowing that the barmaid left it on the bar top near me intentionally, and head back upstairs.
I sit by the window, where I have an unobstructed view of the entrance below and of the dragon sprawled in the sun. Sunbathing? I shake my head in disbelief, still uncertain what task she is meant to fulfill in this realm, and why she remains here with me instead of attending to it.
I suppose I’ll learn soon. But not today. Today, it is difficult to care about anything beyond my sister.
A heavy numbness spreads through my body, as if my mind is granting me a moment’s mercy before the next wave of sorrow crashes over me.
I unfold the letter. And the instant I begin to read, the air inside me stills.
I tracked down the merchant from Maraneethos who brought you those concoctions and colored your nails. Archer won’t be pleased when he learns the fortune I paid him, but he’s finally admitted what it was you smelled among his things.
Apparently, when Sparkfins are kept in saltwater tanks, their electrical charge causes sodium metal to collect at the bottom.
If that metal is dried and mixed with powdered Luminestone, it becomes highly flammable, completely invisible when dusted onto objects.
It ignites instantly when it’s exposed to heat.
That’s why Sparkfins are sacred in Maraneethos. Not for the spiritual reasons we assumed, but because they can be used to create one of the most dangerous weapons imaginable. When combined with dragon bones, which apparently emit toxic vapors when burned, the result is devastating.
The merchant uses the specks of this tincture for magic-show tricks, to bewilder his clients.
Though he assured me he didn’t have any on him, for safety reasons, he claims unless properly cleaned with solvents, the scent lingers long after one was in contact with it.
And that’s why his box still had that scent.
It’s illegal to smuggle the eels out of Maraneethos, and the nation guards the secret viciously. That’s why he was so reluctant to share it and why he was surprised that you recognized the scent. Most people mistake it for rusted, wet metal.
I’d love to know how you came to recognize it, too.
Perhaps we can talk when you have a moment.
I didn’t want to intrude at your temple before the last challenge, especially after what happened at Rust Hollow, but I know you’ll end up at the inn sooner or later.
Send for me, and I’ll come at your invitation.
I also have a special congratulatory gift, because we both know you’re going to win. I believe it will pair perfectly with that fancy whip of yours.
— Eva
I reread the letter, slower this time, and the strange, disjointed pieces of information begging to move, snap into place like a puzzle.
The Archpriest’s death rises in my mind, illuminated by understanding.
He had stepped into the open plaza under the full blaze of the sun, his robes carrying that same strange metallic scent I had noticed and dismissed at the time.
His clothes must have been dusted with the inflammable residue, and when the sunlight touched him, the mixture ignited.
It wasn’t the gods that ended the Archpriest, girl. Though someone tried very hard to make it seem so.
The words of the stranger, spoken to me during the second challenge make sense at last, now that I understand the mechanism behind them.
And then I remember Mael.
Later in the day, in my rooms, I caught the same metallic scent, faint but unmistakable.
He must not have cleaned himself properly, or perhaps he never thought anyone would recognize it.
At the time, I had no reason to question it, but now the implication is unavoidable.
Mael had to have been in contact with the substance, and he had access to the Sparkfins themselves.
My mind turns inevitably to Maraneethos and to the crisis Mael nearly caused by smuggling the eels out of a nation that guards them with such fervor. That act should have plunged Calcatra into open conflict.
Instead, the matter was quietly resolved by Duke Alistair Montague, Consul of Trade and Commerce, who rewrote the trade agreement with Maraneethos on terms so generous that they drained Calcatra’s coffers merely to preserve the peace.
All this time, I believed Alistair had been forced into that concession, but now that belief feels dangerously convenient.
And if everything is somehow connected, how would this stranger from the challenge know the cause of the Archpriest’s death?
Was he merely an accidental witness to the plot?
Or was he involved, his conscience momentarily getting the better of him and forcing those words out once I saved his life?
But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have followed Alistair’s lead and remained with Zyrel’s group—
My thoughts veer off that path abruptly, seized instead by another lingering memory: the moment Zyrel spotted Alistair among the participants.
The Red Hunter rushed to the duke as though no one else in the arena mattered.
I remember finding it strange even then, but with so much unfolding around me, I let the moment pass without closer scrutiny.
Now I see it for what it was. Zyrel sought to become the next Archpriest, and Alistair is not a man who lends his influence without expectation.
A dull ache builds behind my eyes, and I lean forward, pressing my forehead into my hands as I rub at my temples. Too much has happened in too short a span of time, and it feels as though my mind no longer has the space to hold it all at once, let alone make sense of it.
The strain seems to worsen without Kaelzar’s nearness, without his steady presence, his relentless insistence that I could do better because he knew that I could.
Illusion, I remind myself sharply, anger flaring at the weakness of even allowing such reflections to surface.
None of it was real. Every bit of it had been lies and carefully crafted deception.
Forcing any lingering image of the Godbeast aside, I turn back to speculation and deduction, because they are the only things sharp enough to keep my mind from drifting back to him.
I do not know if or when Mael, Alistair, and Zyrel first aligned themselves, nor whether they are working toward a single shared plan or pursuing their own separate ambitions. What I do know is that their actions, when viewed together, form a coherent and deeply troubling design.
As I rise and begin to pace the room, the final question presses itself to the forefront of my mind. What could they possibly gain by removing both the Archpriest and me while elevating Zyrel?
The answer arrives with chilling clarity when I remember Consul Montague offering his daughter to accompany Ryker to the ball.
With the Archpriest dead and me disgraced and gone, Ryker is left exposed and isolated.
Alistair could bind the king to his family through marriage, install a pliant Archpriest loyal to his interests, and surround Ryker with enemies who wear the masks of allies.
Even Mael, Ryker’s own treacherous brother, would remain close at hand.
Ryker would never realize how completely he had been encircled by the vultures. He would be guided, influenced, and slowly softened until he became nothing more than a broken puppet, moving at their command.
I turn away and kneel beside Peonica, sprawled across the narrow bed.
She looks peaceful. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine that she is only sleeping, that she will wake any moment now and grumble something incoherent about the hard mattress and her sensitive back. My eyes sting at the thought.
I imagine her rising and washing up while I tell her everything—what has happened, what I have learned.
I imagine scolding her for sacrificing her life to save mine, though I know I would not dare be too harsh, because I would have done the same for her without hesitation.
I imagine her patting herself on the shoulder, declaring herself the most self-sacrificial hero of the decade, and demanding a raise for her exceptional services as my sister.
And then I imagine what she would say next.
“You are not an abandoned child anymore, Ray. You are not a scorned daughter or a disappointing fiancé. You are not a young woman struggling to prove herself at court, nor a cursed woman destined for Rust Hollow. You are a priestess. And even if your Church would rather kill you than follow you, you have the power to stand against anyone who dares oppose you. Because no matter what mistakes have been made, even if those cursed women do not yet realize it, they need your protection now more than ever.”
I imagine her tilting her head, watching me as I absorb her words, then accepting them without question.
I draw in a slow, audible breath. “If I had a coin for every lie I’ve been told by someone I trusted,” I say quietly, “I would be rich enough to give you that raise.”
The sad smile that touches my lips does not last. I press my forehead against her hand, curling my fingers around hers. I squeeze gently. Her skin is still warm, and that warmth gives me a fragile thread of hope. I lift my head to study her resting face.
“But what I have been given in return is the truth,” I continue, feeling a low, simmering rage stir beneath my grief, feeding something wild and resolute inside me. “And that is the most powerful currency of all.”
I straighten my back, tightening my grip on her hand.
“Yes, I can take life, and I can heal it,” I say softly. “But as life itself has shown me… sometimes the only way to heal is through death.”
I rise to my feet, grim determination settling into my bones.
They made me survive.
Now they’ll learn what that costs.