Chapter Twenty-Six
Theron is on the far side of the island, helping them build stronger homes that can weather the harsh winters.
For so many years, we have worked together to protect the people of Rahvekya, but I will leave him soon.
My successor does not remember the goddess, and she has never seen Theron laugh.
She has barely seen him smile. The younger generations revere him, but they are not his family.
Soon he will be alone, bound to this island by his final promise to our goddess.
I am the one dying, but I grieve for him.
The lost journal of High Priestess Tona
Aleksi knew what was coming.
He also knew that nothing would divert Naia, so he waited patiently until Einar’s footfalls on the stone path faded into the darkness.
Once they had, she stepped close, her head craned back so she could hold Aleksi’s gaze. “You told Einar that he will not lose me again. And you never make a promise you cannot keep.” It sounded like an accusation, not an observation.
“It was a reassurance, that is all. One he needed.” Could she sense the desperate thrumming of his heart? Taste his lilting determination?
Perhaps she could, because she shook her head in slow reproach. “You cannot sing this song to me, Aleksi, and think I will not hear it. I wrote it, remember?”
Of course she would see. “Naia—”
“How?” she demanded, turning to pace across the vividly colored tiles. “Knowing the dangers we now face, how can you reconcile this vow with the one you already gave us? When you said we would have you for as long as we . . .” She trailed off.
Aleksi wanted to deny it, this thing she had not yet said, but he could not.
“You lied with the truth.” She turned to face him once more, her dry eyes burning with that indescribable swirl of colors. “You can say, with a clear conscience, that we will have you for as long as we need you because you don’t believe that we do.”
“I believe what I see when I look at the two of you, love.” He closed the distance between them, because he needed to touch her, as if that and only that could convince her of his sincerity.
“The way you and Theron left things, that’s a wound across time, one that needs to heal.
For that, you need your second chance. If I can make that happen—”
“That is not your responsibility.”
“Is it not?” He grasped both of her hands in his. “I love you, and I love Einar. Who would I be if I would not do anything and everything within my power to keep you both safe and whole?”
“I’m not a hypocrite, Aleksi. I understand sacrificing oneself for love.
I did it once for my people, and I will do it again for you and Einar.
” She cut off his soft noise of protest. “If I must. But I’ve learned my lesson, and I need you to learn it, too, right now.
That is what it would have to be—necessary. No other possibilities. No other way.”
“I don’t want to die, love.”
“Neither did I.” Her words were clear and steady. “But I did not fear or fight it as much as I should have.”
This was not an argument he could win, because they were both right. That was the most heartbreaking thing about it. “Fine,” he told her finally, dropping her hands and taking a step back. “We should find the others—”
He stopped short as Naia gripped his forearm with shocking strength, and his ancient goddess had no stars in her eyes. She did not stand before him with blithe, naive assurances that everything would be fine, simply because she wished it.
This was the woman who had, with serene and brutal pragmatism, decided that this fight would be theirs, alone. Not because she fully believed they would win it . . . but because she understood on a visceral level that they might not.
“Promise me,” she whispered fiercely. “I want the words, Aleksi—but only if you mean them. Plainly spoken, no clever lies hidden within the truth.” She swallowed hard. “Please.”
Her gaze held him, and it was like having his own supernatural powers of discernment turned toward him.
In that moment, he could not have denied her or told her a sweet lie, even if he had desperately wanted to do either.
“I promise, Naia. I will not easily sacrifice my life. Only if there is no other way.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then she broke, exhaling with a choked sob, as if she had been holding back her pain in an attempt not to influence—or, worse, manipulate—him into making the oath.
“Thank you.” Her dark eyes gleamed with welling tears.
“I worry, that’s all. I just worry that you say you know, that you understand, but you don’t believe. ”
“Believe what?”
“That you mean as much to us as we do to each other.” The tears spilled over. “That we would be left with an empty place shaped like you.”
“Naia, no.” He pulled her into his arms, and she clung to him so tightly that her fingernails pressed through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I could never doubt your hearts. It’s just that your connection, your history . . . It’s bigger than me, that’s all.”
If they had not been embracing, he would not have heard her whispered words. “Don’t we get to decide that?”
“You—”
Naia went rigid and turned her head. “He’s back.”
“Sorin?”
The answer came from everywhere. From the island itself. And he is not alone.
The floor fell out from under Aleksi’s feet as the world spun away. Having Naia carry him through the island’s heart felt different this time. Not like a warm, comforting blanket, but strong, protective arms that folded around him with an intensity that stole his breath.
They landed on the outskirts of Aynalka, the village nestled near the foot of the hill, below the temple and close to the ruins of Gwynira’s palace.
This was where they had attended the Flame of Life Festival, where a charmed Naia had listened with indulgent amusement as an old man related the legend of how the goddess had met her lover.
Dawn was not long past, and the sleepy village had just started to stir.
In the harbor, however, the expansive network of wooden docks splayed out before Aleksi.
They already bustled with activity as fishermen prepared to cast off in pursuit of their catch.
Farther out, on the periphery, larger vessels like cargo and passenger ships also swarmed with crew.
The Kraken was out there, too. Aleksi whispered a quiet prayer for Einar’s safety.
Naia strode forward as Gwynira and Isa exited a long, low building with Arktikos and Inga, who was still dressed in her nightclothes, in tow.
For just a moment, Aleksi glimpsed the Naia who once had been—flashing green eyes and hair like the rising sun itself.
Determined and fierce. Ready to stand, unmovable and unmoved, between her people and danger.
“Forgive me,” Gwynira said. “I have not arranged quarters for you. I assumed you two would sleep on your ship with . . .”
She trailed off as Isa squeezed her hand. “No, Gwyn. I think it’s time.”
Her lover went pale, but did not waver. “I believe you’re right. Arktikos?” Her voice cracked. “Sound the alarm.”
Aleksi dreaded facing Sorin again. How much worse must it be for Gwynira and Isa? For good or ill—mostly ill—Sorin had created them. As horrific as he could be, he was the closest thing they had to a father.
He began to reach out, to offer words of comfort, but a huge shadow passed over them.
And then all hell broke loose.