59. BLOOD OF MY BLOOD
Once we were back in Calledan, sleep claimed me quicker than it had in quite some time. But strangely, I didn’t feel at rest. Didn’t feel at peace. My mind was too quiet. Too still.
Every nerve ending prickled. Chills spread down my spine . . .
I wasn’t alone.
That same sinister presence that had recently plagued my sleep, drew nearer. It slithered in the space around me, clawing at the nape of my neck. But I didn’t run. I stood still, bracing for confrontation.
I looked down, finding the dark stone of The Keep beneath my bare feet. Niall wasn’t here this time. It was only me and this thing. This entity that seemed keen on tormenting my dreams.
A soft, sinister laugh rose from the darkness.
I reinforced my mental shield, dipping down into my power to ensure the stone wall in my mind didn’t falter. But there was no attempt on my mind this time. No inky black hands. No claws or talons . . . that I could see. I only felt the atmosphere around me shift.
“Who are you?” I asked. The echo of my own voice fell upon my ears as if the space I stood in was hollow.
I turned, eyes wide in the darkness, trying to decipher a form or a face.
Nothing.
“Show yourself.”
Silence.
I lifted my foot and took a step. When my toes hit the ground, a light flickered to life in the distance, so small it must have been a single, flaming candlewick.
With every step I took toward it, the ground grew warmer .
. . and then it became wet. My feet slapped on the stone, squelching against a mysterious liquid that felt slightly too thick to be water.
As I neared the candle, I stiffened. It was tipped over on its side, as was the gold chamberstick that held it.
The candle itself was red, the wax forming a puddle beneath it that resembled blood.
I knelt and reached down to stand the chamberstick and candle upright, and when I did, the flame pulsed, illuminating the immediate area.
I sucked in a breath, realizing the candle wasn’t dripping wax.
It was, indeed, dripping blood, and it had bathed the ground and my feet in crimson.
A cold panic washed over me. So much blood—seeping between my toes, glinting in the candlelight. It reminded me of the day my parents—
No. No, no, no . . .
The slick black stone under my feet suddenly shifted into wood-paneled floorboards, and I stumbled backward, gasping for breath, blinking at the familiar scene, knowing whose bodies were lying in my peripheral vision.
When my boot met something firm yet soft behind me, I knew what it was.
Unable to help myself, I turned and stared down at the blood that spilled from the hole in my father’s chest. Watched it soak through his shirt and flood the wood floors.
Then, my tortured gaze drifted to my mother, to the angry slice that marred her chest. Her blank stare was fixed on my father, her lifeless hands still clutching her fatal wound.
My pulse quickened.
“Steady.” A mocking voice came from the darkness. The same voice that had come to me before, in my nightmare.
I found my footing and whipped my head up, scanning the dark dreamscape. A glance back down revealed that the wood floor had vanished, and polished stone shone back at me again, no longer coated in red. The blood on my feet, however, remained—like a stain on my very soul.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Right now, nothing more than a figment of your dream.”
I wouldn’t exactly call this a dream. It was starting to feel more and more like another one of my nightmares. “Why do I keep encountering you like this?”
“Because we are connected, you and I.”
His words unsettled me. “What do you want?”
He released another laugh, amused and cold-hearted. It flooded through my mind and under my skin.
My hand twitched at my side, searching for the cold kiss of my blade . . . and finding nothing but air. I curled my empty fingers into a fist and reminded myself that I didn’t need my sword for every battle. That I was a weapon.
“I would like to meet you, face-to-face,” he said.
I weighed my next words carefully, but did not have time to speak them.
The candle flame shot into the air, revealing a large tapestry several feet away, suspended in the dark.
The image was monotone, woven with shades of brown and white and gray, depicting a barren landscape, littered with rocks and boulders.
Yet, in the center, stood the lone remains of a tree, dead and twisted, its petrified branches curling downward, toward the earth.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The place where you can find me,” the voice answered.
I stared at the scene in the tapestry, recognizing the tree, but wary of trusting anything in my dreams anymore. Each time before, there had been an attempt to penetrate my mind. Half of me was hesitant, the other half was itching for answers.
The presence lingered, as if watching me from afar. Waiting for me to make my move.
To port.
Whoever this voice belonged to, I knew they wouldn’t stop this harassment until I put an end to it—face-to-face or otherwise.
So, I focused on the gnarled tree, and disappeared.
The stale scent of parched earth greeted me as I steadied myself with a hand against the cracked bark of the tree.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted. The moonlight was bright, illuminating the land I’d ported to.
Crumbling hills lay in the distance, capped in silver light.
Dirt and jagged stones pressed into the soles of my blood-stained feet.
A terrible screeching sound tumbled through the air on a warm breeze from somewhere beyond.
It grounded me—brought everything into focus.
I was in Salterra. The Wastelands. And the presence I’d sensed before . . . it was here. It was . . . tangible.
I turned and froze.
A figure stood in the distance. A dark cloak hung from his shoulders, lifting in the wind.
I couldn’t make out the details of his face from where I stood, but I knew without a doubt who he was.
I didn’t need to be close to know that I was in the presence of the fallen god—every one of my senses warned me.
Fallen or not, the air of authority that surrounded him was so potent, it was almost overwhelming.
“You came,” he said, something like genuine surprise lining his voice.
I managed a swallow.
I had come. But at what cost? Had I been caught up in such a dreamlike delirium that I’d negated all common sense?
My hand remained on the tree, its bark biting into my palm, a startling reminder that this felt all too real and much too dangerous.
Lyceius stared across the space between us. He approached slowly, as if he was just as wary of me as I was of him. As if I would spook too easily and disappear if a single rock rolled beneath his boot wrong.
The closer he neared, the more prominent his features became in the moonlight.
He looked to be only five-to-ten years older than me, but I knew that wasn’t true.
Gods didn’t age past their prime, and yet, his hair was silver.
It fell in healthy waves to his neck, just grazing the pointed pauldrons that covered his shoulders from which his long cloak fell.
Even his eyes were a piercing silver, swirling and churning like a storm.
His face, with all its sharp angles, could have been chiseled from stone.
“Do not come any closer,” I warned him.
He stopped not fifteen feet away and continued surveying me. “You can’t blame me for being curious, can you?” He lifted his arms and gestured toward me. “Blood of my blood, in the flesh . . . and yet . . . you’ve been so far from me. A rarity such as yourself should be holding rank within my army.”
The words were a pretty lie. I was a threat.
The only threat when it came to his mortality.
The only one who could kill him without breaking divine law.
That ancient woman managed to hide her daughter, therefore providing the bloodline that Karios would use to ultimately create me.
I threatened all that Lyceius stood for and wanted to achieve.
Giving me a place in his army? No. He’d be a fool to keep me alive.
“Looks like the fates had other plans for me,” I said.
He let out a low, mocking laugh. “They were never fond of me. Time has only served to prove that. Such a shame though. I consider myself to be a rather reasonable god.” He paused.
“I was fine with it, you know. With one of my own being kept from me. But when I discovered what Karios had done, how he’d created something from my blood and altered your allegiance .
. .” He looked me up and down again with nothing but scorn on his face.
“He gave you a dose of his power, in the hope that you’d be the one to end what he couldn’t. A desperate fool’s mistake.”
“You’re bitter because he outsmarted you.”
“Bitter? I was betrayed.”
“So was he. You tampered with his creation. You are just as—”
“Careful,” he said, deathly quiet. “Do not play like you understand the whims of gods.”
“Is that what they are? Whims? You started wars and killed countless innocents all because of your whims?”
A pulse of inky darkness spread across my mind so quickly and with such force that my legs gave out and I fell forward. The skin on my exposed knees split on the jagged rocks. Black talons dug into my mind, grinding against the stone of my mental shield.
Lyceius didn’t move. He held my mind at his mercy. “I don’t expect you to understand. In the end, you are but a human—regardless of the power that runs in your veins. And I will not see that power used against me.”
The claws dug in, punching small fissures in the white stone in my mind. I let out a sharp cry, gritting my teeth as I pushed my power against it, digging deeper to reinforce the cracks. I needed more—needed to descend deeper into my well.
“You’ve been training,” Lyceius mused. “Your shield is stronger now.” For a moment, he almost seemed impressed. “I can feel the power in your blood. It’s a shame you haven’t been shown how to really use it.”