Chapter 33 Aethra
Aethra
Iwoke to the light of a single flame. A candle burned on the nightstand, faintly illuminating the man sitting on the bed beside me. I groggily traced his features, remembering the wavy black locks and sharp jaw.
Seth’s fingers were locked around mine, thumb caressing the back of my hand.
Everything hurt. I felt as I did when using magic—drained, pulled apart. Holding up a hand, I turned my palm over, but I was solid and whole. Nearly every inch of my body was wrapped in bandages.
The events at the ball came rushing back.
Fading away, coming unwound . . . the price of my magic.
The reason no Elpis maidens returned from the Empty.
Noticing me move, Seth lifted his head. “Thank the maiden.” He released my hand and cupped my face. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to wake.”
Cracking pain tore down my throat as I spoke. “What happened at the ball?”
“Chaos,” Seth answered, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Nothing went to plan, but . . . everyone heard me challenge Eris, Father’s little spy is dead, and Eris did not emerge the victor.”
“And we stole their gold.”
Seth chuckled, but his face quickly fell. “Gods, you scared me half to death. Had we known this could happen . . .”
I tried to hide my guilt, but Seth glimpsed it in my down-turned eyes.
“Did you know?” Seth asked, eyes darting across my face. “Did you know your magic was killing you?”
“I . . .” Swallowing, I found my voice. “I suspected.”
All the sympathy drained from Seth’s face. Rage twisted his mouth. “You knew? And you didn’t tell us?”
“I didn’t know for certain,” I protested hoarsely. “If I’d voiced my fears, you would’ve tried to stop me.”
“Of course I would have! Any of us would have!”
“Percy knows,” I blurted out. “And he didn’t.”
Those were the wrong words. Shock interrupted Seth’s fury before it rekindled. Softer this time. Cold, smoldering with betrayal. “You knew. He knew. But still, you . . . You said you wouldn’t be mine, that you’d stay away. Why couldn’t you keep that promise?”
His words stung. I looked away. “Why does it matter?”
“Why?” He breathed. “Because if you’d kept your promise, I wouldn’t mourn every time I see a flower you might’ve liked.
I wouldn’t be torn apart every time I imagined the sight of you in a wedding gown, or the children you might have borne, or .
. .” His voice wavered. “Or the house by the lake I might have shared with you.”
Sudden fury washed over me. I was the one who suffered, yet he painted me the villain?
“That stupid house was my dream because I knew it would never come true.” My voice cracked as tears burned in my eyes. “Not even with you.”
Eyes flaring bright red, Seth stared at me for a long moment before he stood and swept out the door, slamming it behind him.
I pressed my uninjured hand to my face and felt a gash along my cheek. Wincing, I tried to tell myself I’d done the right thing.
Only Percy could truly understand me, and he had agreed to keep my secret.
Or maybe I was unfathomably stupid and should have told them long ago.
I didn’t hear the door quietly creak back open, nor notice the figure approaching until they stood right beside me. Sitting up, I whimpered when pain lashed through my body.
“Careful,” Eleos said softly, holding out a hand. “It’s only me.”
Desperate to anchor onto something warm and living, I grabbed at his arm. Careful to avoid hurting me, Eleos took my hand.
“Seth’s right,” he said. “You should have told us.”
“Would you have forbidden me from using it?”
He hesitated. “The rest of us are more than capable. We recruited you for your silver tongue, not your battle prowess.”
“I would have been useless. You would all be dead.”
“That’s not—”
“Who would have saved us from the hydra, then?” I asked. “Or the chariots? The Duat itself? Aeacus?”
“You don’t know that—”
“But I do!” Pain traced down my throat, and I flinched.
Eleos’ face broke, and he sat beside me. “I could’ve done something. Could’ve started looking for a safe way to cast, or—”
“How? Nobody knows anything about Elpis magic. Least of all the kind I have.”
“You first mentioned the pain in Red Bluff. If that’s when you realized the toll casting took, I would’ve had weeks—months—to start helping.”
I closed my eyes, remembering the torrent of guilt he’d been drowning in, after we’d fled Red Bluff. Guilt for trying to save a woman and her child, forsaking me in the process. Guilt for daring to think such selfish thoughts at all.
The depths of his compassion extended as far as his father’s. He wanted to save everyone.
“No, El. You couldn’t have done anything,” I opened my eyes. “You can’t save everyone. And, that’s okay. Nobody can.” Taking his hand, I tried to reassure him. “I made peace with this long ago. My life is a small price to pay.”
His eyebrows wavered, as though he were about to cry. Fingers tightening around mine, he leaned forward, lips parting.
I waited for him to speak, but nothing emerged. Biting his lip, he sat back. “I’ll go get you something for the pain.” Slipping his hand from mine, he left the room—left me—just as Seth had.
Had I said everything wrong? Rubbing my eyes, I pressed back tears.
One thing was certain: I couldn’t use my magic until we reached the Acheron. If I killed myself before we arrived, I’d take the rest of the world with me.
Lowering my hands, I tried to figure out where we were. The room was small, and the bed wasn’t particularly warm or comfortable. An inn? Or maybe a small house.
Nowhere I’d been before, at any rate.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes and thought of Ainwir. Of the shadow I’d kept glimpsing.
Would I see him again soon? There was so much to tell him. So many mistakes he’d chide me for, so many triumphs he would be tepidly proud of.
I wanted to believe I’d see him again—wanted to believe I could do this.
Neither was likely, but . . . I could hope.
A smile tugged at my lips, despite the burning behind my eyes.
Someone knocked on the door. I opened my eyes, waiting.
“Can I come in?” Percy sang. “Or are you sick of the comings and goings?”
“You can come in,” I called.
Gods. It sounded like someone had taken a grater to my throat.
Percy slipped inside, a feathered hat upon his head and lute in hand. “The good doctor says you’re not to move.” He glanced at me. “I’m not sure you can, either. So . . .” He spread his arms. “I’ve brought entertainment.”
Chuckling, I patted the bed beside me. Something told me my third visitor wouldn’t abandon me.
“I know how you feel, now,” I said as he sat beside me.
“Feeling like you’re just waiting for it to end.
” Turning over a hand, I wondered how many more spells I could cast before I ripped myself apart. “I never really grasped it, until now.”
“That it’s coming?” Percy asked. “And so much sooner than you thought?”
“Mhm.”
He strummed a couple of chords. “Nobody thinks about it. I mean, we’ve all been to funerals, seen death.
We all know one day it’ll be us. But . .
. we don’t really think about it. We have our lives, and then suddenly .
. .” He touched his fingers together, then flicked them apart.
“Poof. We’re looking at our own gravestone. ”
I tilted my head. “You never said. Did you decide to sing requiems because of your illness?”
“No, it was before that. Being a soldier wasn’t for me.
My little mission with Seth proved that.
I kept lying awake, thinking about those girls.
Knowing they weren’t going to live a good life.
Knowing they’d probably end up in another brothel, or dead.
” He sighed. “Even the lucky ones don’t live good lives.
They die early; they carry wounds that don’t heal.
So many people are kicked and kicked, and they meet their end without ever knowing happiness. ”
His words described the woman I’d once been, and the people I’d met in that miserable life.
“Requiems are the only thing I can give them,” Percy said. “It’s kind of like . . . songs extend their life. Immortalize them.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
He shifted to face me. “Think of every statue of the Maiden. Every famous bard and writer. They’ve lived long past their deaths. People still utter their name. Songs are like that. Immortal, even if we’re not.”
I nodded. The despair of my previous life had been, in part, knowing no one would attend my funeral. No one would remember my name.
Gone, as though I’d never existed.
“Have you written yourself a requiem?” I asked.
“No.” Percy frowned.
“You should. We’d all be happy to raise it to legend.”
“Hm.” His frown slowly faded, twisting into a smirk. “Now, I like the sound of that. I can’t live to see the future, but maybe . . .”
“Maybe something we leave behind can.”
He grinned. “You’ll need one, too. I’ll be busy in the days ahead.”
“Let’s get to work, then.” I leaned back and folded my hands. “I’d like to help craft my legacy.”
“You could be my partner. All the best bards have tragic stories. Beautiful art cries out from wounded souls. You fit the bill and then some.”
“Maybe I can drum.” I chuckled.
Tilting his head, Percy tested a few chords. “Which notes suit you?” He murmured.
Lying my head against the pillow, I watched Percy with a smile. But a newfound fear boiled inside me. Fear of the shortening hall, of the dwindling sand in the hourglass.
Maybe, with time, the fear would fade into acceptance, and I’d face my fate with strength.
Or maybe the fear would linger, growing ever stronger, until the day came.