Chapter Fifty Five
PEDR
Agasp woke Pedr.
His own.
Every sinew in his body hurt as he struggled to sit, forcing himself out of the vulnerable, prone position. Something heavy threatened to tug him to the ground, but he ignored it as he willed himself to his feet.
The peculiar weight evaporated.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw nothing but a little smoke. He shifted his shoulders and smiled. Ah, how wonderful. The arcane had returned to his body. Oh, how he’d missed the stillness that returned to him.
No more breaths. No heartbeat.
Finally.
The same Hall as before surrounded him, but it had altered. He stood alone in the midst of an expansive area containing untold numbers of reliquaries. This time, the visible shelves retreated behind a protective, gray smoke.
As he regarded the odd situation, an arcane rush caught him by surprise. It crashed through him in a wave. Foggy thoughts cleared. Smells assaulted. Fresh smells, too. Victory and defeat. Life and death. Above all, change. The fresh, floating notes of newness. In a way, it reminded him of Himmel.
Himmel.
Pedr whirled. Where was she? Jordaire?
Recalling the wyvern smoke, the bite in his chest, Pedr wrenched his shirt open.
Teeth marks formed a perfectly symmetrical scar over his breastbone, right where a heart would have beat.
He comprehended the healed wound, the expression on Draven’s face, the awakening, with a quick mind.
Quicker than his ability to think as an Arcanist. It should have been frightening.
Wasn’t.
But the wyvern . . .
Had he . . .
No.
As his thoughts tumbled forward, the persistent weight tugged again. Slowly, Pedr gazed back.
Wings began to form. The top of a wing sprawled to the right and left, cresting like a wave to a far point. It shimmered below, not fully formed, because his arms remained at his side. They tugged upward, threatening to merge.
Alarm ripped through him, and the wings collapsed into smoke. The weight retreated. Pedr stared, upper lip curled.
Well, shite.
When he told the arcane, whatever it takes, I will accept anything to be with her, he hadn’t planned on this.
A bastid wyvern.
The realization led to others, such as Draven sacrificing himself for Pedr to live. Not just his life, but his position in the wyvern horde to make space for Pedr, thus enabling the arcane to fulfill Pedr’s wish. Pedr hung his head in wretched, grateful humility. Draven gave all.
Double shite.
Sucking on his teeth, he set his hands on his hips and gazed around. What now? His future father-in-law sacrificed his own life to make way for Pedr, who stood in an unknown room alone, with the woman he loved parading around dangerous Halls without him.
At least he’d regained his acerbic regard.
Pedr set the obvious aside. He didn’t have time to figure out why Draven had chosen such an idiotic thing, nor his plumbless gratitude for the act. He couldn’t handle the raw emotion of relief, appreciation, and shock that accompanied the understanding. He hadn’t the mental capacity to focus on it.
He had his soul mate to find.
He spun, calling out.
“Mila? Einar?”
A voice floated from the vapors.
“Pedr?”
A stunning vision parted the smoke and raced for him. Mila’s long black curls trailed behind her with every bound forward. His heart did a double take, comprehending her. Alive.
“Mila?”
She leaped, slamming into his chest with a sob. Her legs curled about his waist, her face buried in his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and inhaled, breathing her familiar and life-giving scent. The smell of char floated with her. Victory, certainly, but something . . . else.
A transformation.
She was his Mila, yet more.
Trailing her was Einar, striding purposefully while his eyes skirted the room. The thoughts behind them darted quickly. Something entirely other about Einar sent Pedr’s instincts rising. If Einar hadn’t strolled out of the mist with Mila, Pedr would have shoved her behind him and snarled.
Something wasn’t right.
Pedr squinted and barked, “What happened?”
Einar had the gall to appear amused.
“Nice to see you, too, Pedr.”
“Spare me.”
“I’ll explain it all later.”
“Explain it now,” he demanded.
“Pedr,” Mila whispered, but she didn’t have time to continue.
“You’ll need more than a hasty explanation for it to make sense,” Einar drawled, “and we don’t have time for hasty.”
“Summarize.”
A flare of annoyance sparked through Einar’s gaze, and with it a sense of incredulity. He reeked of power. Pedr dismissed the irritation as quickly as it came. Hands in his pockets, Einar slowed to a stroll, then a stop. He didn’t tear his gaze off of Pedr.
“Onskar died at my hand.” He cut a ruthless smile. “Mila saved you. End of summary.”
Mila sniffled against Pedr’s neck, and tears splashed down his skin. He tightened his hold—if possible—and reminded himself that she existed. Neither of their souls spiraled inside those bastid reliquaries, waiting for release.
Somehow, Einar and Mila had done it.
Pedr studied him.
“And you?”
Einar held up both hands. He studied them with a wrinkled brow, both contemplative and wary. Energy emanated from him. Subtle, at first, and then growing in unexpected, pulsing waves.
“I know what happened,” Einar said softly, “I just haven’t quite wrapped my mind around it.”
Mila whirled around. She didn’t release Pedr when she faced Einar, tears staining her cheeks. Affection stole her voice.
“It’s him, Pedr.”
“What’s him?”
“Einar is the Arcanist of Souls. He took Onskar’s place.”
A chasm opened in Pedr’s gut. He barked, “What?”
Einar laughed.
Pedr poorly grappled with his rampant doubt. It couldn’t be Einar. Wasn’t he a human? But . . . how?
“You have questions,” Einar stated with a knowing stare that deepened Pedr’s dubiety. “So do I. There’s . . . too much to make sense of right now.” Einar put a hand to his forehead. No pain reflected in his face. Nor discomfort. Only disorientation. “But we know enough to end this mess.”
Pedr bit down the urge to ask what mess? The conclusion seemed rather straightforward to him. He had Mila in his arms, so what else mattered? Everything lay behind them. But Pedr hadn’t been present for the final confrontation, so it was time to shut up.
Einar said, “I’ll return us to the Rosenvatten and we can discuss it more there.” Sniffing in Pedr’s direction, he said with an authority that Pedr couldn’t contradict, “You smell like a wet dog. You have your own explanation to give.”
Pedr stacked an arm behind his head. Sunset descended, washing the sky dome with hues of brilliant crimson and orange. A sight he would cherish for millennia to come, if he had anything to say about it.
After they returned to the Rosenvatten, the three of them hashed out the details of all that transpired for hours. Pedr heard of every minute that passed. From the epic dive—where they decided the sea arcane helped the potential-future-Arcanist into the Hall—to the back-and-forth with Onskar.
In the end, only one question remained: what happened to Jordaire and Himmel? According to Mila, souls couldn’t obliterate, so even Onskar sat in a reliquary on a shelf. Presumably, based on Pedr’s strange observations in the Otherworld, so did Jordaire.
Somewhere.
“I don’t know where they’ve gone,” Einar had said, nose wrinkled with deepest displeasure. Everything about Einar had expanded, including the intensity of emotion. He ran a hand through his hair.
“I’ll look,” he promised. “It’s all a really big mess that I need to unravel. Jordaire, Himmel, Onskar . . . I’m not sure.”
Pedr couldn’t fault that truth. Turns out, this was a mess. But not Mila’s mess, nor his mess, as Pedr reminded her every few minutes when her brow ridges deepened and she tried to offer to help. She couldn’t help.
Not this time.
The arcane had chosen three new Arcanists who Einar had to meet, then he needed to work out what were irrefutable arcane laws and what were utter lies after Onskar’s reign.
Not to mention a whole new immortality to understand, and the love of his life to find.
That bastid signed up for this months ago.
Pedr couldn’t believe he made it happen.
Toward evening, the conversation expired. Einar departed to search for the lost Arcanists, their souls, and another soul.
Agnes.
Pedr turned those thoughts away. He was tired of thinking about Einar and his ugly mug, particularly when he had Mila to consider. Pedr rubbed a hand over his brow, drawing his thoughts fully away from the bastid Arcanist of Souls and into the present moment. Mila rested in his arms, humming.
“I thought,” he murmured against her temple, “I might never experience this again. To hold you means . . .”
He couldn’t complete the sentence.
Her arms tightened around him. His fingers trailed through the silky strands sprawled across her shoulders.
Their lovely coils, their intoxicating feel, like threads of silk, teased him.
Her fingertip ran over the scarred bump near his heart—a perfect wyvern wing formed from tiny teeth.
She traced it one way, another, and stalled on top.
He felt the approaching topic all the way in his throat. The lump nearly choked him. She elevated off his pillow, an eyebrow quirked high, and tapped her pointer finger on top of his heart. Or what had been a heart.
“Are we going to talk about this?”
No hint of disparagement or judgment lingered in her tone, but it would—soon enough. When she learned the truth about what had happened, whose spot he’d taken, and what it meant.
Shite.
He had no idea how to tell her.
“My lacking a heart? You should have known about that for a while.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Just as you know what it means, Mila.”
She lightly said, “Supposition,” with a tone that was more lie than not.
“I’m a Wyvern King.”
Her arms tensed, body stiffening.
“In order to be with you,” he rushed to say, buying her a moment to accept it, “I said I would do anything. The arcane took me at my word, apparently.” More gently, he added, “Draven, too.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times, brow furrowing into deepening ridges with each passing moment. The questions wouldn’t form on her lips. He reached up, trapped her fingers in his.
“I’m sorry, Mila. I took Draven’s place. I think?—”
She shook her head, covering his mouth with her hand. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Her firm tone convinced him they weren’t born of anger.
“No, don’t. Don’t apologize. He knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something he said.” She swiped tears from the corner of her eyes with a knuckle. “While you were sleeping. I just . . . I hadn’t realized what he meant. I think he knew all along that the only way to save you was to elevate you in your arcane journey. Onskar said it too . . . at some point.”
“I will honor Draven’s sacrifice forever. I can’t imagine he wanted to leave you. His final act as your sire?—”
Guilt pummeled him to a bloody pulp inside. Pedr was a shite bastid most of the time, and he knew it. He never thought he deserved Mila, and certainly not her sire’s sacrificial death. His raging sorrow was soothed only by her answering smile, her palm flat against the scarred wing.
“Both of us will honor him, my love.”
“Shite, you beautiful piece of work. I don’t deserve you.”
Mila giggled.
Draven’s sacrifice swirled and settled in Pedr’s head, taking second place only to making love to Mila again.
He pulled her close with another frisson of relief.
The Rosenvatten, to his delight, had not altered in his short absence.
If he had anything to say about it, this ship would survive all the eternities ahead with him and Mila on board.
After, of course, he spoke to Tumult.
An urging to find the Father King increased in his chest with each passing hour. Voices swirled in the back of his mind occasionally, speaking to one another in an ancient and terrifying language he’d never learned, yet fully understood. A connection existed there. One he intentionally avoided.
Tumult could wait.
“How do you feel about this . . . wyvern . . . development?” she ventured carefully.
“I don’t know. Relieved, mostly.”
“Are you upset?”
Scoffing, he said, “Not even a little. I’d do more than become a wyvern to be with you forever.”
She melted into his side, her forehead pressed to his neck.
“Thank you.”
He found her fingers, squeezed them. Stars splayed like scattered glass in the velvety dome. He comprehended every inch of Mila. Her naked shoulder, curving hips.
Pedr ground his teeth. As before, she drove him batty. But he slowed the rush to enjoy the moment. Sitting in the open sea air, rocking on the Rosenvatten, just the two of them, was the fulfillment of fifteen years of frustrating sacrifice and work. Every single hope funneled him to this moment.
Worth it.
Every agonizing second.
Mila asked, “You haven’t transitioned to your wyvern form yet, have you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I’ve thought about it, but encounter an obstacle each time. Something in the arcane prevents it. I don’t know what, but I have a feeling it has something to do with speaking to Tumult. He’s the new Father King, apparently.”
He was surprised that the answer came so easily as he spoke. Instinct as much as knowledge.
A knowing.
The Rosenvatten cut through the sea on a current borne of his own making. Effortless, as he desired. He’d gained more than quadruple his ability in the arcane. Mila relaxed by degrees, but it was almost an hour into full darkness before she spoke again.
“What now, Pedr?”
He immediately retorted, “This.”
Chuckling, she inquired, “You think we can stay like this forever? Sailing the seas, never to be parted? You, a wyvern. Me, a siren.”
“You are half-siren, half-wyvern,” he quickly countered. “And yes, we can sail the seas, never to be parted.”
“The wyvern horde you’ve just entered may have something to say about it.”
“They might.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Not yet.”
Another pause, and then, “Pedr?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t need to sleep anymore. I can feel it. There’s no tiredness growing within me, no need.”
“You’ve completed your growth cycle?”
She burrowed closer with a low giggle. “You may address me as Siren Extraordinaire.”
He pressed a kiss into the soft waves of her hair and relished her heat, her closeness, the lingering exasperation in her giggle.
“My siren,” he breathed.