Chapter Twenty Two
MILA
Pedr collapsed.
Mila followed him to the ground with a cry, hands pressing his slack face.
“Pedr!” Her voice echoed in the vaulted chamber, which she hadn’t bothered to scan.
The moment she stepped into the cavernous space, she’d spotted the burning torches, his broad shoulders and brilliant burnished hair, and her entire world quaked.
Mila shook him, pressed on his chest, slapped his cheek. No signs of life availed.
“Pedr! No.”
Her wail grew to fill the room. Frantic, Mila leaped to her feet. She had to go somewhere and find someone and do something to bring him back. Why would he?—
A firm voice interrupted her panic.
“He is not yet gone.”
She spun.
An old man stood there, arms at his side.
He had white hair, downy as cotton. Rheumy eyes gave way to a curious glance.
His clothes resembled her own: dirty and a little tattered.
Mila smelled something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place it.
Notes of Mother wafted in a light trickle of air from behind him. She smelled the arcane.
Mila placed herself between Pedr and the stranger.
“Who are you?”
“A friend of Pedr’s, so to speak.” He tilted his head to the side, regarding Pedr’s slack body. “The final layer of a Noxaris curse has activated, I would wager?”
“I . . . I think so?”
“I can smell defeat on him, and he is an Arcanist who should be celebrating a prodigious win.” The man glanced to the side. “Considering.”
A surge of hope caught her by surprise. This man must be a wyvern if he could smell defeat. She should have been afraid, but no fear arose. Stinna made wyverns out to be absolute abominations at all times, but like most things Stinna said, they had little grounding in truth.
“I think that’s what happened,” she managed to say.
He tilted his head higher, nose in the air.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured. “The burn of the curse rings with notes similar to Amalia. She has a specific . . . brine scent. . . when her work activates. She did love doling the Noxaris curse out, you know. Before,” he tacked on, as if that should have been obvious.
Mila had no idea what he meant. Her aunts spoke of no before. Only the castle. Only caring for Mila and avoiding men and living in the Westlands in defiance of the ocean they craved, but wouldn’t return to.
Discomfited by an unexpected situation, and beyond the ability to speak, Mila simply stared. The man gave no sign of impatience. His curiosity might have rivaled her own.
She struggled to know what to say, and saw no immediate reason to panic. Not yet. Concern for Pedr ranked too high on her priorities. She couldn’t help wondering if she should believe this man’s calm demeanor, but something in her wanted to move closer to it.
“Please,” she heard herself plead. “Please help me? I-I don’t know what to do.”
His expression lowered from regard to tenderness.
“So very polite,” he whispered, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “And humble, too. You’re altogether unexpected, Mila. A miracle, set against what you must have endured. Though, if the hints of Stulla lingering about you means my assumptions are correct, you’ve had good care.”
Drawing himself together, he widened his shoulders and said in a reassuring tone, “Of course, I shall be happy to help, though there’s little recourse. Pedr will wake when he wakes, and we cannot speed the process.”
“He will wake?”
“Of course.”
“Is this part of Amalia’s curse?”
“I would assume so, but I only know what I can smell. Can you share more to enlighten me?”
Grateful for an ally, though wary, she sketched a brief review of the particulars.
He listened with what seemed to be exaggerated attention.
She didn’t care. She wanted Pedr back, and she’d surrender any information a Wyvern King desired in exchange for his help.
Her aunts and Mother certainly couldn’t give aid.
She’d seen the wyverns carrying her aunts off, to anchor and curse them to the sea for a thousand years.
Her hasty explanation lacked depth and clarity, but would have to suffice. She hadn’t spoken to Amalia in fifteen years, and Mother pretended Pedr didn’t exist. Stinna tortured Mila over her memories of Pedr, and Stulla avoided the topic with impressive, matronly tactics.
Mila summarized with, “Some of what I know about the Noxaris curse they gave him is based on my own conjecture. I wasn’t present when Amalia finalized it, and this is the first Pedr and I have seen each other in fifteen years.”
The thought almost choked her.
Fifteen years and Pedr hadn’t given up on her.
She couldn’t fathom it.
Turning away, Mila admitted, “My mother and aunts didn’t tell me much about that horrible day.”
“I know the feeling.”
Unable to help herself, she asked, “Which wyvern are you?”
“An old one. Regarding Pedr, can you tell me when he collapsed?”
“Just now. When he kissed me.”
He nodded. “Of course, of course. Amalia had an affinity for curses that were activated with shows of affection.”
“How do you know Amalia?”
Smiling gently, he said, “History between the Kings and Queens extends far longer than the last one thousand years. Though the last ten centuries are a sore spot in our history, they are not all we own.”
Deep down, she knew that, but she didn’t know it.
Like everything else, her aunts and Mother kept the world at bay, including their own history.
They locked her in a room, trapped thereafter, and for what purpose?
Certainly not due to her arcane prowess.
She’d utterly failed them there: the arcane still didn’t respond to her commands.
She’d long resigned herself to the obvious.
Her abilities had no purpose. A locked cabinet. A chasm. A disappointment.
He clasped his hands behind his back and began to stroll back and forth, mumbling.
He seemed perfectly at ease in this cavern under the earth, wet and slick with mud.
She watched him, taking the opportunity to observe more completely.
A tingle of familiarity swept down her body, telling her she did know him. Somehow.
Who was he?
No signs of danger became apparent, but she edged closer to Pedr, who remained unchanged. Something brewed behind this man’s aged eyes. Besides, she’d need help to haul Pedr out of this place.
“You see,” the wyvern continued conversationally, “the Noxaris curse is a foul thing, but a very structured foul thing. It has three distinct layers, each progressing with intensity and restriction. Historically, breaking the third and final layer of the curse results in death.”
The blood drained from her face, and a wave of nausea broke through her. Mila whispered, “Death?”
“Fortunately, Pedr is an Arcanist, which means he cannot die again in the traditional sense.”
The rush of fear calmed, but not for long.
“There’s a chance,” he continued hastily, “that Amalia has structured the final curse layer to remove Pedr’s soul from the arcane.
Unanchoring, it’s called, and it reportedly causes obliteration of the soul.
It’s doubtful Amalia did it, as Onskar wouldn’t allow such a thing to occur without his consent, but not impossible. ”
He stopped to regard her. “Were they truly as possessive of you as you indicate?”
She nodded.
“Then I would imagine Amalia’s intent was destruction. We must assume that Pedr’s soul will be forfeit in the next seven days, unless we can fix the situation.”
“Seven days?” she squeaked.
Solemnly, he nodded. “It’s the way of the Noxaris.”
Tears surfaced. They’d lodged there for the past several days while she sought Pedr, scrambling through rock and debris and mud.
All the mountains smelled like seawater, and the wyverns winging overhead forced her into hiding several times.
She couldn’t hold her emotions in, and didn’t try.
She wiped tears free with the back of her wrist.
His rheumy gaze softened. “He’ll have a few days of lucidity before he lapses into unconsciousness. As the arcane bond erodes, so will the support to his soul. Once the arcane anchor is gone . . .”
When he paused, she demanded, “What? What happens?”
“His soul obliterates.”
“What does that mean?”
His matter-of-fact statement wrapped an ice sheet around her. “Onskar reports that obliteration removes the soul from existence. No remnants. He will not live here, in the arcane, nor in the After.”
Terror unlike any she had ever known swelled up in her stomach. She gagged, but her stomach had nothing in it to spill. Instead, she swallowed all the rage and pain of years past. If there was anything she did well, it was holding herself inside.
Containing all that misery within.
Deep, deep inside.
A reservoir for pain, a sanctum. She held an impossible amount of suffering and power. Because, after all this sacrifice, terror, and work, she wasn’t free. Not truly. Until Pedr was also free, Mila had switched from one siren-created prison to another: life without Pedr.
“I won’t have it,” she snapped.
The man lifted his brows quickly.
“You won’t?”
“What do I do?” she asked, stepping closer. The light, fragrant smell of surprise filled the air between them. “Please, I will do anything. Anything at all. He fought to set me free for fifteen years, and I will do the same.”
“You do not have fifteen years. You have seven days.”
“Fine. How do we stop his arcane bond from eroding?”
The old man pulled in a breath, among the few that she had observed. Like most arcane beings, he did not need to breathe unless he desired to smell. Was this a carryover from his previous human life, or a chance to better scent the room?
“First, we must return to his ship. We have a better chance of rousing him there, as the familiar arcane might reach him before we could. When he awakens, we’ll confirm our suspicion. If it is, in fact, obliteration that awaits, Pedr will know.”
Mila could barely comprehend what happened next. The man transitioned to a wyvern before her eyes.
Bones and arms became elongated sinew and strength. Wings sprouted and widened with shocking rapidity. The dormant cavern teemed with life, and the flames bent over sideways as he carefully flapped his wings.
With great gentleness, the wyvern clasped Pedr in his claw, and swung his giant head to peer at her. The same wisdom and care from before existed in his stare, even as an animal. Notes of majesty blazed from him. She couldn’t help her sense of awe.
He electrified her, this wyvern.
His . . . presence.
From down the way, shouts and deep gnars resounded.
They reached something inside of her. Something .
. . dormant. Familiar. Her mind almost tripped over itself as recognition dawned.
She knew this wyvern. Of course she knew him.
She’d never met him, but her heart understood what her mind hadn’t caught up with until this moment.
This wyvern was her father.
His sympathetic voice pierced her thoughts. Climb on my back, Mila. I will take you to Pedr’s ship. His lips didn’t move, nor did she hear with her ears. The sirens could do that, too. It formed a small, arcane bond between them. Or did the bond already exist because he was her sire?
An arcane flare burst through her chest with a pop and twinge, as if something had been set free. Heat flooded her ribs, leaking down her torso. It entered her blood, wheeling around. Mila’s breath raced. The arcane swirled, surging in a new way.
What’s happening? she almost asked, but withheld. Questions later, Pedr first. She eyed the wyvern’s rigid back, the flowing spine leading to a tail and two powerfully strong legs. He used his wingtips like arms, balancing with graceful ease.
At Pedr’s ship, there awaits a young man named Einar. He will help you with Pedr. I have found him to be wise, resourceful, and driven—everything we shall need to save your Arcanist.
“O-okay,” she stammered, “Sorry. I . . . I just . . .” She shook her head.
Are you experiencing something?
A hint of knowing graced his tone, but Mila hardly noticed. As his words slipped into and out of her conscious mind, the arcane brightened anew. A candle flame gaining ballast. A slow burn to wild fire. This was bigger than the first time she recognized the arcane inside of her.
Bigger than any other time. It created greater depths. Fathoms deeper than she comprehended before. Mila was . . . more.
She pressed a hand to her fluttering chest. She swallowed. “Yes, I am experiencing something. But I don’t . . . it isn’t . . . Please, what’s your name?”
My name is Draven, Father King of the wyverns. There is much to discuss, including what you feel right now, and we shall conduct that conversation at the ship. Einar deserves the information as well. Climb my leg, if you please.
She barely remembered scrambling up Draven’s back leg, his wing supporting her, as she padded to his neck and lowered.
His hide was warm, and tough. Muscles rippled beneath.
He didn’t sway side-to-side. Each movement felt certain and intentional.
She splayed her fingers and pressed her palm to his neck.
“I’m ready.”
Hold on.
Her heart leaped to her throat the moment he raced from the rock-strewn chamber and into wider caverns.
The journey through the mountain terrified her.
The dark, dank space, filled with rot and wet and dust and grime when she worked through it alone, had been awful without wings.
While careening up and down, completely at the mercy of an unknown wyvern, it was horrifying.
Mila curled her shoulders down, but kept her eyes fixed ahead.
For Pedr.
Surely, he’d endured all kinds of horrors for her. She would do the same for him. Draven’s wings beat the air with undeniable ease as they soared closer to movement ahead. More wings and shouts. Other wyverns.
Off to the side, the rock wall split wide, spilling sunlight and fresh air. Draven banked toward it. Other scrabbling, livid wyverns calmed as he soared past, watching him closely. Mila remained hidden on his back when he canted his body.
Into the wild, they ascended.