Chapter 39 The Minaret of Whispers
Daphne
The Minaret of Whispers
I was falling. Wind tore at my hair and dress, cold as knives against my skin. I opened my mouth to scream—
“Are you hurt?” Camille asked. Was there a tiny flicker of concern? I shook my head. “That’s great. Don’t throw up on my dress, please. It’s new.”
I opened my eyes. Bright sunlight pierced them painfully.
What in the name of all saints was that?
I risked a glance down. We were flying over an archipelago of oddly shaped islands covered in indigo grass. Yellow flowers rippled in the soft breeze. Clumsy six-legged buffalo lay among them, some following us with large, shimmering eyes.
“Don’t look down. Look at me, girl.”
I obeyed and focused on the two birthmarks over her full lips. “You’ve traveled through the Dusk Roads before, right?”
I nodded. “Emrys—he’s in danger! We need to go back and—”
“You really think a few dozen Hollowborn could harm Emrys Ravenborn?” She snorted. “Damn it, girl. You’re a fun one.”
I tensed in her strangely strong arms. “Relax. We’re almost there.”
Relaxing was the last thing I had on my mind. “You don’t understand. He can’t take the Dusk Roads. He’s… weakened.” I decided to keep the details to myself. What if that was the last time I saw him? What if he never makes it to this place?
She studied me for a long moment, her dark wings beating the perfumed air. “Hmmm. Seems you really care about him.” A pause. “Don’t worry—he’s with Orren. Now, hold on tight, young one. We’re almost there. And don’t—under any circumstances—throw up on my dress.”
Orren. I remembered Emrys mentioning him. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut.
The surrounding air changed. It became warm and dry, with a scent of spices and sun-warmed stone.
Then—thank God—the solid ground beneath my feet.
She released me. My knees buckled.
“Welcome to Cairo, Daphne.”
Dear Lord. So, this was the real power of the Dusk Roads. We crossed the sea within minutes.
The sun hit the old walls at a different angle than back home. The air trembled like a mirage, and the dusty street was drenched in white light. We stood before a weathered door leading to a tower. No one was around, but the sounds of a busy city spilled over the surrounding walls.
“It’s a safe place,” she said over her shoulder while fiddling with the lock. “We call it the Minaret of Whispers.”
The old door creaked open, and cool air rushed out.
“Come on. Orren and Emrys will join us soon.”
We stepped inside.
The hush hit me instantly. Not empty quiet, but a deep, bone-deep stillness.
The air chilled my skin, scented with old wood, dried flowers, and something sharper—ozone and stone.
The floor beneath my shoes was tiled in worn mosaics, faded by time and footsteps, though I could still trace the shimmer of ancient patterns beneath the dust. Strange, geometric shapes danced at the edge of my vision—but when I tried to focus, they vanished. Wards.
The hallway was dim, lit by sconces. Dozens of keys lined the walls, hanging from hooks or threads from the beams—some rusted, some gleaming, some with teeth too strange to open any normal door. One near my shoulder turned slowly as I passed, clicking once like a lock being tested.
“Don’t touch them,” Camille said without turning. Her wings were gone, but the back of her fashionable silk dress was ruined.
We moved deeper. A low chime rang somewhere ahead, not from a clock but from the bones of the building itself.
One door opened on its own, revealing a long corridor bathed in golden light.
It led us to a chamber that looked half-temple, half-war room.
Sunlight spilled through latticed windows in slender columns, casting patterns across shelves and writing tables.
Dust motes drifted through the beams. The walls were lined with drawers—tiny ones, each marked with a different glyph or sigil.
“This used to be a place of worship,” Camille said, gesturing around. “It still is, in a way.”
I walked to the long brass table cluttered with arcane tools, maps, black candles, and dried flowers. A hearth burned low in the far corner, and Camille sank into a chair facing it.
“They should be here soon. Come, sit with me.” She patted the cushion of the chair next to her. “I’ll make us some tea, and you’re going to tell me why Nibble appeared out of the blue, interrupted me singing Lamento della Ninfa, and begged me to help Emrys.”
My brows climbed. “You performed Monteverdi?” I asked. Instant guilt stung me. I was sitting here, talking about music, while Arthur was somewhere at the bottom of the sea and Emrys was fighting for his life.
I should’ve been trembling, falling apart. Instead, I felt… numb, like my body had decided to keep going while the rest of me floated somewhere behind, still trapped on that ship.
Her blue-green eyes delved into mine, warming up. “Lascia ch’io pianga...” she hummed, her voice so deep and velvety that shudders ran down my spine.
“Mia cruda sorte.” I finished.
She reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it.
“Great voice! Daphne, right? That’s what Nibble called you. There’s more to you than meets the eye. Now, tell me—what in the seven hells is happening here?”
Probably, it was her sincere interest. Or the jasmine tea. But the story I was carrying within me filled the quiet room. She listened without interrupting me. And when the tears came, she just pulled me in, offering me something I never realized I was missing—a shoulder to cry on.