32. The First Harvest #2
I’ve heard this story a thousand times. My father is a fervent believer in the gods, and I have attended more temple ceremonies than I can count.
But Evelyn isn’t done, and as she continues, her story takes a turn I’ve never heard before.
Normally, this is the part where the priests and priestesses remind us that the number of Marked Ones dwindled over time.
As the gods-blessed became fewer in number, they became more revered.
It’s why they’re Given to the gods in their twentieth year, as an act of thanks to the Mother.
Evelyn does not say any of that.
“As time went on, people began using their magic differently from how the gods had originally intended. It was meant for good and to be used in a manner that would benefit others.” Evelyn looks up, her eyes sharp. “Magic, at its very core, was always meant to help life flourish.”
The seer opens her hand, palm facing up. Her fingers twist, and her Mark radiates light. A long moment passes, and then purple mist hovers above Evelyn’s outstretched fingers. It morphs into a tree, complete with a trunk, gnarled bark, and branches laden in violet leaves.
“When it is good, magic helps. It is a tool that can improve life for us all.” Evelyn wiggles her fingers, and the tree is replaced by a bouquet of flowers in full bloom. Some are a dark purple, others are so light they’re nearly white.
“But the problem is, humans are never happy. There were some who wanted more. They saw what their magic could do, and they yearned for what wasn’t theirs to take.”
Evelyn frowns, and the flowers wilt. Petals drift towards the floor, vanishing when they hit the carpet.
“What happened?” Wren asks, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it.
A rose, complete with thorns, sprouts from the seer’s hand as though grown from her flesh.
“There were some who had darkness in their hearts.” The rose wilts, and mist flows from the seer’s palm.
It twists and turns, darkening until it’s more black than purple.
“They were discontent with the world as it was.” Petals as dark as a starless night descend one by one, floating towards the floor where they remain.
“They wanted more power. More wealth. More, more, more, even at the expense of others.”
“Who did this?” I ask.
Evelyn sighs. “People who believed they were better than others. They saw those who were born without magic, and they hated them.” The purple mist swells, a dark, inky mass swirling around our feet.
“They allowed their darkness to bleed into every part of their beings. Their hearts, bodies, and even their souls.”
A long pause as the seer lifts her gaze to mine. Her eyes are heavier now as though she carries a burden on her shoulders. “You are very familiar with that darkness, Hunter.”
And with those words, she confirms what I’d already suspected—she knows who my father is, what he’s done. Did she see him in my memories? Witness the way his eyes seem to absorb light?
I cannot remember a single moment when King Andreas Bloodthorn was anything but cruel. My back aches with phantom pains as memories of hundreds of lashings run through my mind, bleeding together.
I should be worried that the seer will reveal my secret before I’m ready, but something about the way she’s looking at me tells me she won’t. Still, this is a reminder I must tell Wren soon. This isn’t something I can hide forever, not if I hope to keep the trust growing between us.
“Yes, I am very familiar with it.” I tuck Wren closer against my side, needing to feel her. “We both are.”
Wren didn’t grow up in the palace, but she’s seen my father’s darkness. Witnessed his rage, been the target of his fury. Things I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy, let alone the woman who has stolen my heart.
The seer sighs, the sound filled with years of pain.
“The darkness festered and grew, a starving monster that was never satisfied.” The mist thickens. “It was, and is, a living being. When it first took root, hundreds of years ago, it started eating away at its hosts. Ravenous, it devoured every piece of goodness in their hearts until none remained.”
My stomach writhes. This story can’t have a good ending, but something within me warns I don’t know the worst of it.
My bond with Mist stirs, and I can sense my familiar’s curiosity. I assure her that I’m all right and that I’ll see her tonight before returning my attention to what’s unfolding in front of me.
More mist contorts above Evelyn’s hands as she spins her fingers.
An opaque dagger made of magic hovers above her palm.
It looks so real that if I hadn’t seen her form it, I never would’ve guessed its origin.
The thin blade is over a foot long, silver in color with a faint purple sheen, and wilting roses are engraved on the hilt.
“After that, it wasn’t long before the first Harvest took place. When the first drops of blood were shed, darkness rooted itself in the land. It grew like a weed, and it hasn’t gone anywhere.”
Plucking the dagger out of the air, Evelyn runs her index finger along the hilt. A heaviness settles upon my shoulders, and drawing air is difficult.
“I’ve heard that term before,” Wren murmurs. “A Harvest.”
The seer pauses, her finger tracing the silver blade, but she doesn’t look up. “I know.”
“But I thought . . . I thought it was a dream.” Wren touches the half-inch raised pink scar on her neck. “Or a nightmare,” she adds in a hushed whisper.
Evelyn inclines her head. “I saw that in your memories. But it was neither of those.”
Wren swallows, her hand prodding at mine. She laces our fingers together, clinging to me as though I’m the only thing keeping her on this side of sane.
“What is a Harvest?” My words are quiet, and my stomach churns as dread fills me. I have a feeling I already know the answer, but I need to hear it out loud—need her to confirm the depths of the darkness I already suspect exist in my father’s heart.
“You know what it is, Hunter Moreau,” Evelyn says sternly. “Both of you do. Only, you know it by another name. A false one that plays on the gods’ gifts to us, one that was created long ago to appease the masses.”
The walls shudder, closing in on me. Everything seems too tight. Too small.
It’s funny, because I swear that some of the fear I’m feeling comes from outside myself. Terror coats my tongue, so thick I can barely open my mouth, and I’m not sure that it’s mine.
Then Wren says in a strangled whisper, “The Giving Ceremony.”