44. Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Two
Mairenn sprawled on the bed, cup in hand and bit her lip. “What do you think they’re doing now? Drinking pubs dry, I’d wager. I seriously fear Caedmon can’t go three streets without being recognized, even under glamour.”
Branwyn’s gaze stayed on her cup. “And Tairngire will have him lying through his teeth before the first pint’s gone. The trick is finding who here still serves Neit’s coin.”
That name turned my stomach. “Why is Cindraloch so divided? If the King of Ash somehow gets his hands on me…” My throat closed. “If he unravels the Weave, none of the realms will stand a chance.”
Silence. Then Branwyn’s dark eyes locked with mine. “That’s exactly what some want.”
“You mean—”
“He has allies here,” she said flatly. “Some would rather see the Weave burn than bend to another house. Or another god.”
The room swayed. I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the pressure weighing down on my shoulders. Tairngire’s caution—the gates, the split, the strict orders—snapped into place. He wasn’t just protecting me. He was protecting this mission, at all costs.
And yet, the realization made me feel no freer.
I stared into my cup. My reflection glinted back. My Sight, my safety, the weight of every realm balanced on me.
And gods, how I hated that notion.
Chained to Fate.
Chained to him.
I leaned against the headboard and exhaled. Hard. I would press this again, fueled by intoxication. “Mairenn…your consortship with Caedmon. It’s…unnatural.” I met her eyes, wary. “He is your kin.”
I couldn’t let it go.
“Still on about that?” Mairenn raised her brow.
Heat flushed my cheeks. “I just don’t understand why.”
“Because the royal court always chooses consorts from their own house,” she said, unbothered. “The divines want their bloodlines pure, untouched by other gods. Consorts keep ruling blood in power.”
My stomach twisted as another realization hit me. “So you…have to bear his children?”
Her lips curved into a half-smile. “To be the king’s consort is the greatest privilege."
I nearly spilled my wine. “Gods above, that’s abhorrent…”
Branwyn couldn’t help it anymore. She doubled over with another wave of laughter. I glared at her. How could she be so nonchalant about this?
“But why you?” I protested. “Why doesn’t Scáthae birth another half-born to rule? Isn’t that easier?”
Mairenn shook her head. “No. A divine can only sire royalty once. One spark, from one mortal line. That’s it. The bloodline fixes forever.”
My mouth nearly dropped open. I knew that the divines sired multiple children, I just assumed that they were the only ones who could create a spark, but half-borns could carry the line.
Mairenn smirked like she saw where my mind had just gone. “The half-born must carry the spark forward. They’re the only ones who can. Gods may lie with mortals, but those children never rule. They lack the first spark. Once given, it binds the house forever.”
Her eyes flicked up, sharper now. “That’s why they guard their lines so tightly. Even if blood dilutes, the spark does not.”
My chest hollowed. “But…how? How can half-born create what only a god can?”
“The same way mortals do with blood.” Mairenn shrugged. “Not every half-born bears the divine spark, but those born with it always do. Their bloodlines are ruthless. The spark stays.”
She tipped her cup, swirling the wine. “But it’s harder for us.
Pregnancies are rare. Decades can pass before one succeeds.
That’s why you don’t see many children here.
There hasn’t been a birth inside Scáthae’s house in a century.
And when it fails…” Her voice tightened.
“Sometimes, the child dies. Sometimes, the mother. Our lives may stretch millennia, but our bodies carry different burdens.”
I stayed silent. It seemed cruel—to keep their spark alive by forcing heirs to breed with each other. Mairenn smirked over her cup, eyes glinting. “You’re still thinking like a scholar. Only King Caedmon’s blood carries the royal mark. It must pass through him.”
I frowned. “What if the child is female?”
Her laugh rang out, sharp and wicked. “Then that, Aurenya, is how a queen is born. A king may rule now, but if his child is female, it is her womb that carries the spark.”
The thought struck me harder…because half-born could die. But before I could ask, Mairenn cut in, her words already on my tongue. “And what if the king or queen dies before siring an heir?”
I stared at her, then pressed on. “Then the bloodline ends?
She smiled lightly. “Not quite. When a spark-bearer dies heirless, the Fates snatch the spark and seal it away. Then begins the Trials of Succession, the only time blood may spill within its own house. Siblings against siblings. Whoever wins the trials takes the spark, and the line continues.”
I looked at her, wide-eyed. “That’s cruelty incarnate.”
She only shrugged. “It’s what most houses wait for.”
Branwyn leaned forward, shadows dimming her usual brightness. “I’ve seen it in my own house. Nothing left but ash and crowns.”
I sat back, mortified. Yet the next question tumbled out anyway. “Who was Caedmon’s father? Who created Scáthae’s first divine spark?”
Mairenn’s grin was all teeth. “Cain.”
The name hit like a smack to the face. My mind jolted through memory to a tome I bought from a traveler in a market. “Cain,” I whispered, nearly laughing. “I read that once, in a book mortals call The Bible.”
Branwyn arched a brow.
“It was their creation,” I muttered, rolling the stem of my glass. “Stories they claim came from some holy place. They cling to them as truth. And now—” My stomach sank. “Now, I know at least part was. Cain and Abel. The first murder of Morhaven.”
Mairenn corrected, factually, “The first blood spilled after the last purging.”
I remembered Tairngire’s words, that the Old Gods had purged Morhaven bare before. The land was never as it seemed.
“His soul was too steeped in violence to fade,” Mairenn went on. “When his mortal shell broke, my mother claimed him. From him came her first half-born. From him came our line.”
Branwyn tipped her head, lips quirking. “The mortals wrote their book to bind their realm in fear. Fear is control. Morhaven learns it after every cleansing. In time, they forget how much of their ‘myth’ bleeds from truth.”
I shook my head, half laughing, half horrified. “So while mortals pray to their God for salvation, your mother claimed the first killer?”
Mairenn raised her cup in mock toast. “And turned him into a blade.”
The weight of it pressed down like temple chains. I sighed. “I thought I knew things,” I whispered. “Books promised truth. All they gave me were shadows.”
Mairenn’s smirk softened, eyes steady. “You were chained to parchment, Aurenya. You read of fire but never felt the heat. You carried stories without blood. I pity you for that.”
I stared into the fire, thoughts clawing. I ignored the pang of annoyance her pity induced. “So…what happened to Cain? After?”
The air shifted. Mairenn faltered, lips parting, no words. Branwyn set her cup down slowly, wit muted for once.
For the first time tonight, I’d asked a question with no immediate answer.
Mairenn shook her head. “His name began Scáthae’s line. His violence shaped her house. But his end?” She exhaled, frustrated. “Even my mother does not speak of it.”
Branwyn’s brows drew tight, her voice hushed. “I’ve heard whispers. Not from her, from others. From shadows. That Cain’s soul did not remain in Karthmor. That his soul was too restless, too dangerous. Some say he wanders. Some say he was bound.”
The firelight caught the gold in her hair, her expression grave.
“Bound to where?” I pressed.
They looked at me wide-eyed, silent. The hush was worse than words—like to name it would make it real. Which meant the rumors said he was chained to Dorchadas. The realm nobody would name, out of fear its shadows would claim them.
I leaned back, watching candlelight flicker against the stone. “If Morhaven was spun by the Godhead, and purged every few thousand years…what was Cindraloch before it existed? Before mortals existed?”
Mairenn frowned and her brow furrowed, like she was unsure of the answer herself.
Branwyn answered, voice lacking her usual confidence. “My mother told me that Cindraloch was not always…this.” Her hand swept vaguely, as if pointing to something beyond castles and crowns. “Before mortals, before half-born…Cindraloch and Morhaven were one. The Forge of Souls.”
Mairenn’s eyes caught the firelight, as if everything was coming back to her. “A place where the Old Gods tempered themselves. Where the first sparks were struck. Blood was tested in fire, steel beaten against steel. Creation itself was hammered here.”
Branwyn’s voice dropped lower. “There were no mortals then. Only trial. The land was a crucible for the divines.”
My heart hammered in my chest. A forge. A crucible. No wonder the ground itself seemed to bristle, as if demanding something from anyone who walked upon it.
“When mortals came,” Branwyn continued, softer, “the forge was reshaped by the Fates. Morhaven became a trial for mortals, and Cindraloch became the place of bloodlines. Of bonds. Of war.”
Mairenn smiled, humorless. “We are their steel, Aurenya. Tempered in the same fire but bound to bleed wherever they point.”
The thought hollowed me. That this land, with its beauty and crowns, had been born only of fire and ash.
That divines could forge children, make them in their image, for no other purpose than to be sacrificed in a war they didn’t ask for.
It was cruel, but the Fates had a purpose for it… they had to.
“So Morhaven was balance,” I murmured. “And Cindraloch…was born for war.”
Neither denied it.
The silence stretched for a while before Branwyn broke it. “If we don’t let her sleep”—her gaze fell on me— “the Forest God will surely break down this door, and none of us want that temper tonight.”
Mairenn snorted into her cup, her laugh pulling Branwyn’s with it. Sisters in spirit, if not blood. Their laughter wasn’t cruel—it was warm. Still, I let them win, sinking into the pillows, too heavy to resist.
The bond seemed to pulse. Once. A faint drum through my chest, a ripple in my bones. Not a vision. Something else. A response.
I froze. Had he heard that?
Heat rushed to my cheeks. If he’d agreed with Branwyn’s teasing. If he’d heard her words, then…Gods. Could he hear me even now? Here in this inn, beside women who had become my anchor and my chaos both? How much of me did he know without me speaking a word—because of this wretched bond?
The weight of it pressed into my ribs, tangled with exhaustion. For a moment I wanted to scream across it, to test, to know.
But Branwyn’s voice gentled. “Rest, Aurenya. Your fire’s needed tomorrow.”
Mairenn hummed her agreement, curling at the foot of the other bed. I let out a slow breath, chest buzzing with the thread’s lingering pulse, almost like a heartbeat. Almost like I was feeling his.
And then the darkness lulled me to sleep.