30. A Beacon for Bad Luck
A BEACON FOR BAD LUCK
GAbrIEL
Splashing cold water on my face in the cabin’s small bathing room, I avoid looking in the mirror. I already glimpsed myself once, and the pallor of my skin had my gut contorting.
I had been days, maybe less, from death. I know it like I know that kissing Wren is my new favorite activity. Her taste still lingers in my mouth—one I never want to get rid of.
Picking up a tunic from the pile of clothes someone left in here, I slide it over my head and arms. The material is soft, and it doesn’t bother the bandages wrapped around my torso.
Hopefully, their presence means Wren hasn’t seen the scars on my back.
When she sees them—because there’s no question in my mind that one day, she will—I want to be able to explain where they came from. Who my father is and what he’s done.
But today isn’t that day. After all, the rebels are waiting for us. Rolling out my shoulders to prepare for whatever’s to come, I exit the bathing room.
Alaric, Skyler, and Wren are standing by the front door. “This way.” Alaric gestures outside. “The seer is waiting in the main hall.”
Wren moves towards me as if pulled by the same force that makes me want to remain by her side. I slide my hand into hers, lacing our fingers together. She lets out a soft squeak of surprise, but she doesn’t pull away.
My heart leaps at the small touch. I squeeze her fingers, and she looks up at me with a smile as bright as the suns.
It’s then that I realize the truth: I’ve fallen for Wren. I’m not in the process of doing it—at some point, it already happened.
She snuck into my life, glowing Mark and all, and stole my heart. It’s hard to believe I used to think I’d always be alone, because right now, I can’t imagine life without her.
The day Wren found me in River Bend Forest changed everything.
It doesn’t even bother me that my little bird is a beacon for bad luck.
Yes, my life has been made infinitely more difficult since we first met, but she’s also brought light into my life that never existed before.
It’s as though my eyes had been shrouded by mist, but this smart, beautiful woman ripped it away.
We step out onto the wooden porch, and warmth hits my cheeks. My footsteps slow as I scan our surroundings.
We’re in the middle of a thick forest, and tall trees loom over us on all sides. Some are so large it would take five grown men to circle them. A thin layer of snow dusts the ground. The air smells fresh and crisp, carrying hints of impending warmth. New life, waiting to arrive.
Spring is coming.
I tilt my head up, and the air shimmers high above my head. The blue-green tinge seems unnatural, and it stretches in all directions.
“That’s the net,” Wren whispers, bumping her shoulder against mine.
I’m not sure what I pictured, but this wasn’t it. Creating something like this must’ve been a massive magical undertaking.
Then we’re moving. We pass a few people talking in small groups. A pair of young women carrying buckets of water ambles past us. A gaggle of screaming children is playing a game of tag. This place is teeming with life.
I’m not sure what I’m more surprised by—the fact that the net seems to allow the rebels to live freely or that none of them are staring at me with hostility.
Both are unexpected.
By the time we reach the middle of the camp and climb the steps of a long rectangular building with a wraparound porch, my limbs are weary. The walk didn’t take long, but it feels like I ran for miles.
Alaric nods to the women guarding the entrance, then knocks on the door. A muffled call comes from within. “Wait here,” he instructs before opening the door and striding inside.
I glimpse a fire burning in a hearth along with several people conversing in groups of twos and threes before the door shuts.
The guards at the front entrance stare straight ahead while the others who walked over with us stand back. It isn’t true privacy, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
I tug Wren away from the others, drawing her in for a hug. She fits perfectly into my arms in a way that shouldn’t make sense but somehow does.
Neither of us speaks, and yet, the moment feels full. Perfect in a quiet, comforting way. As if we both needed this. Her hands cling to the back of my tunic, and I rest my chin on her head, soaking in her presence. It grounds me.
Eventually, Alaric returns. He stands in the doorway, his stance relaxed and nonthreatening even as his right hand rests on the pommel of his sword.
“She’s ready for you. This way.”
He strides back into the main hall, but before I follow, I glance at Wren. “Ready?”
She draws in a deep breath and pushes back her shoulders before nodding. I slide my hand into hers, leading her into the building.
The wooden structure reminds me of the cabin where I woke up, although it’s much larger.
It’s homey and comforting in a way that my father’s palace never was.
Long rectangular windows decorate the walls on either end, letting in light and providing glimpses to the forest beyond.
A large fire burns in a red-bricked hearth.
Lengthy wooden tables and benches fill the space, each capable of holding several dozen people.
My eyes go to the front of the room where the seer is sitting in a wooden chair, flipping through the pages of an ancient leather-bound tome with wrinkled hands.
Her robe is similar in shape to the ones Esyn’s priestesses wear, although hers is a pale purple.
Maia would probably know the specific shade if she were here.
She was always interested in those types of things.
The robe is long, the bottom trailing on the ground even though the seer is sitting, and the sleeves fall past her fingers.
Grassy threads are embroidered around the hem, and the seer’s white hair, accented with green highlights, hangs in an intricate braid down her back.
Her violet Mark glows steadily, a splendid light that immediately catches my attention.
Its brightness is almost mocking, as if laughing at the fact that I, and countless others, fell for all the lies being told about the Given.
Thank the gods, my little bird found out the truth and ran from her Giving Ceremony. If she’d attended and they’d killed her . . .
My blood chills, and for a moment, it’s like I’m back in that place of darkness. A life without Wren would be cold and dark and one I never want to experience.
I banish those thoughts quickly since Wren’s fated death never came to pass.
She was brave enough to escape before she was Given.
Kindhearted enough to save a stranger in the woods.
Stubborn enough to keep running despite all the obstacles she came against. Strong enough to continue fighting even after her friend was murdered and we had to leave her sisters behind.
An ember sparks in my chest as I glance at Wren. She has been through so much, this gods-blessed who changed my life, and she is mine.
Alaric directs Wren and me to a small bench near the fire before he steps back, falling in line with the others who entered behind us.
The bench is close to the wall, and I tug Wren to sit next to me.
Even though I’d like nothing more than to be back to my old self, the time I spent in that dark, empty space is taking its toll on me.
Letting my muscles rest, I survey the room. It comes to me as easily as breathing—as a Hunter I was always paying attention, always looking for the next threat. Even though I broke my vows, that part of me hasn’t been erased.
Two dozen rebels are present, and all of them are armed save for the seer. A few of them glance at us warily, but for the most part, they seem to have accepted our presence.
Touches of life, reminders that there are people other than soldiers here, decorate the hall.
An abandoned stuffed bear lies forgotten under a bench near the back of the room.
A blue blanket sits on the edge of a table, haphazardly folded.
A cup teeters precariously on the lip of a bench near the back door.
It’s clear that this space is well used, and something about that helps me relax a bit. Not entirely, though. I’ll never fully let my guard down, not while my father is searching for Wren.
Several minutes pass before the sound of a book closing echoes through the otherwise silent hall. Fabric rustles, and a cane smacks rhythmically against the floor.
I look up, slightly angling myself in front of Wren as the seer makes her way towards us. She moves with slow, methodical purpose, claiming the bench across from us.
Alaric and two others I don’t recognize form a loose line behind the elderly woman, clasping their arms behind their backs and settling into a relaxed stance every soldier I’ve ever encountered seems to know.
The seer directs her gaze to me, heavy and weighted. Wrinkles decorate her aged face, a testament to what she’s endured in life. She may be old, but her very presence commands respect.
King Andreas would despise her, perhaps even more than he would Wren. In the same way I always trust my gut because it’s never been wrong, I know that even if this woman weren’t Marked, she’d never be welcomed in the king’s court.
And that, more than anything else in this room, makes me feel at ease.
“Hello,” the seer says after a few minutes, breaking my stare to look at Wren and place a hand over her heart. “The circumstances of our last meeting were a little tense. I’m glad to meet you under better conditions now that my people have . . . adjusted to your presence.”
That is a rather diplomatic way to refer to how they kept us at a step above prisoners. Still, I won’t begrudge them for that treatment since they kept Wren out of the king’s hands, which is why I brought her here.
“It’s nice to meet you again,” Wren says. “Your people have been very kind to take care of us both, especially with Gabriel’s illness.”
“Yes. The Hunter.” The seer’s gaze returns to mine. “I heard you fought valiantly with my people.”
“Yes, ma’am. I vowed to protect Wren, and that’s what I did.”
“Your fated.”
My chest warms, and that thread inside me thrums, a presence refusing to be ignored.
The seer’s Mark burns brighter. Violet light washes over us as she studies Wren’s and my joined hands. “There is much I’d like to discuss with you, but first, I’d like to perform a reading.”
My brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“It won’t take long, but it will show me what you know.” She looks at Wren’s Mark and frowns. “Or rather, what you don’t. The number of lies you’ve been told, the web of falsehoods that still need to be unraveled.”
“All the fucking lies,” Wren mumbles, her hand tightening around mine.
“Exactly.” The seer nods.
Wren rolls her bottom lip through her teeth. “Is the reading safe?”
A moment’s pause. “It will not cause permanent harm.”
Evelyn’s clever wording has me sitting up straighter, and I exchange a glance with Wren.
“But it might hurt,” my gods-blessed clarifies.
“It could, but it won’t last, and it’s not real,” Evelyn says.
Not exactly words of reassurance.
“This is the easiest way for me to find out what you’ve been taught,” she adds. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can properly teach you. Isn’t that why you came here?”
She’s not wrong.
Wren looks up at me, violet eyes wide. “Gabe?”
“I’ll do it if that’s what you want.” For her, I’d do just about anything.
I get the sense Wren hears the true meaning of my words. She inhales deeply, and a look of understanding passes between us before she dips her chin.
“Okay.” She presses her thigh against mine even though her words are directed to the seer. Burning suns, a simple touch has never felt so good. “We’ll do it.”
A smile pulls at the seer’s lips, and she rises, claiming the seat on Wren’s right. “Wonderful.”
The seer holds out her hands, wrinkled palms facing up. “Place your hands in mine.”
We comply. Her skin is paper-thin and wrinkly, lacking warmth. Bony fingers wrap around mine. The seer’s Mark pulses steadily, drumming to music I can’t hear, and she murmurs something under her breath.
Violet sparks hover above our hands, increasing in number exponentially, fluttering around like fireflies. They land on my skin, but rather than burning, they tickle.
Her fingers constrict, pinning us in place with a strength that a woman her age shouldn’t possess. Her Mark is a pulsing, brilliant star, and purple light flows from her in waves.
“Hold still,” she says, her eyes flitting up to meet mine, then Wren’s, before they drop back to our joined hands.
The light comes faster until violet has consumed my field of vision.
There’s a tightness in my chest, a prodding as if someone is trying to look into my soul. It’s uncomfortable but not painful, and it continues for a few minutes before it stops, apparently satisfied.
Rather than pull away, the seer’s muttering gets louder, her fingers clinging to mine, and it feels like my bones are a moment away from breaking. Her Mark is resplendent and blinding, and for one long moment, it’s all I can see.
Then, as quickly as it first appeared, the light vanishes.
When my vision returns to normal, Evelyn is swaying on the bench. The rebels have moved back, their mouths thin and bracketed in white lines.
And then I look at Wren. My breath catches, and worry weaves around me like a vine, squeezing tight.
My beautiful gods-blessed doesn’t appear to be alert. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and she’s rocking back and forth in her seat, sharp tension radiating from her body. Even when I say her name, she doesn’t react.
It’s then I wonder if allowing this was a grave mistake.