38. Oh, Brother Where Art Thou
CHAPTER 38
Oh, Brother Where Art Thou
Melinda Mayweather
Dreams? I scrunch up my face, trying to wrap my mind around the concept. "How do you eat a dream?"
"The Upir are dream-walkers," he explains, his voice taking on a teacher's patient tone. "It's a gift, but it can also be a curse to those whose dreams we walk in." He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table edge. "When we dream-walk, we steal energy from the dreamer. We can take a little or a lot." His eyes cloud with shame. "A healthy Upir only needs the smallest amount to be satisfied, but–"
"You're eating more than you should?" I finish for him, the realization dawning.
"Yes," he says with a slow nod. “I cannot control myself. And I take much more than necessary.”
“What does it do to the person?” I ask tentatively, curious about the answer.
Wraith's eyes meet mine, heavy with guilt. "It exhausts them and depletes their magick stores, much like what happened to you this morning." He pauses, his jaw clenching. "And if we're not careful, we can kill them." His shoulders slump at the admission, and he looks down at the plate in front of him, as if he can't bear to see our reactions.
A chill slithers down my spine, but warmth blooms in my chest—a surge of empathy for Wraith's struggle. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to reveal.
"I know how that feels," I say, my voice growing stronger with each word. "And it is scary as fuck." The words tumble out, bitter and sharp on my tongue, yet somehow freeing. "My magick has killed people since I was a child."
I look around the table, meeting each person's gaze. "It's only since I arrived here, with help from Kellan, Siva, and all of you, that I've begun to gain any semblance of control."
King Theon stares at me, his eyes wide with shock. His mouth opens as if to speak, but no words come out.
Beside me, Hawke leans to the side, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. His love and reassurance flow through our bond, wrapping around me like a warm blanket.
Wraith looks up from his plate, his expression grim but with a glimmer of amusement and understanding in his eyes. "Yes, Lady Melinda, it is scary as fuck. That is the most accurate description I've heard."
The door bursts open.
I jolt in my seat and Hawke puts a steadying hand on my arm.
Queen Isolde hurries in, her skirts swishing around her ankles, a small ornate bottle clutched in her hands. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, and she's slightly out of breath.
"I have it," she announces, holding up the bottle. It's about the size of her hand, made of what looks like glass and polished silver carvings covering its surface. A soft, golden glow seems to emanate from within.
Boaz, who has been silent throughout the conversation, lets out a shaky breath.
"This is all I have," she says, her voice tinged with worry. "I hope it will help tide you over until Ares gets back with more."
“It will, thank you,” Boaz tells her.
I lean forward, holding my breath.
Isolde unfastens the top from the bottle and hands it to Boaz who takes a long drink from it. Within seconds his stone hand, lying motionless on the table, glows like an ember and returns to normal.
Amazing, I say to Hawke through our bond .
Ambrosia is the food of the gods–life energy in its purest form, Hawke answers back through our bond.
He flexes his fingers and breathes a sigh of relief. “Queen Stormblood, I can’t thank–”
“No,” she cuts him off. “You’re more than welcome and I’ve sent my personal maid to search out more from my friends in the city. Most people keep some around. We should have at least that much for all of you by the end of the day.”
“We are most grateful, your majesty.”
She nods and slips back into her chair next to her husband. “Now I have a coronation and wedding to plan. And has anyone seen Destrien? He wasn’t in the tower. And none of the staff has seen him either.”
The wedding . Right. My breath catches in my throat. Somehow in the craziness I’d forgotten that was happening.
A chorus of head shakes ripple around the table. An uneasy silence falls over the group.
A weird sensation of suspicion floats through my bond with Hawke.
You think something is wrong? I ask silently, pushing the question to him.
Hawke’s answering words slide ominously into my mind. I don’t know yet. But Destrien often has selfish reasons for his actions.
“I’m sure he’s fine, my love,” the king pats his wife’s hand. “Destrien is nothing but resourceful.”
“I know, I just worry about him. I want all my family safe within Vandimoor’s walls.”
"I'll send some runners to look, but I'm sure he'll turn up later today." King Theon signals to a nearby servant, who hurries off without hesitation.
A young messenger runs through the doors of the great hall, his face pale and slick with sweat. He gasps for breath, clutching a crumpled parchment in his trembling hand.
"Your Majesties!" he cries, his voice cracking with urgency. "Forgive the interruption, but?—"
"Speak, boy," King Theon commands, rising to his feet. "What news?"
"Sire, Prince Destrien has sent word from Lunaris. He will be arriving in Vandimoor tomorrow with his bride–the lady Vencia Darkwood.”