Chapter 24
Petra
We’d been so determined, we’d forgone a carriage and made the idiotic, sleep-deprived decision to make our way to Noros’ temple on foot.
After the first mile, I considered simply curling up in the middle of the street and falling asleep.
It was around the second mile when I started thinking about curling up in the middle of the street and dying, instead.
Despite the late hour, the city was alive around us.
Music seemed to be playing on every other street as pubs swallowed patrons and spit them back out stumbling drunk.
Merchants pushed carts through the city, shouting about the fabrics or jewelry or pastries they peddled.
I heard passing murmurs of the prophecy and the Daughter of Katia, of the Saints and drivas.
“One of them picked me up in their talons and dropped me three streets over,” a man slurred from an alleyway. “I swear it!”
“Horseshit,” another man answered, and I fought a smile. I could tell Cal was fighting one off, too .
I peered through the dusty windows of a crowded pub as we passed, and I couldn’t help but smile as I watched couples spinning around, arm-in-arm, heads thrown back with laughter.
And then the sorrow crept in, souring the warm feeling in my gut with cold, bitter reality. These people had no fucking clue what was coming.
“Fancy a moboqini?”
I turned to see a vendor walking behind us, his cart laden with flowers, their delicate petals the color of butter. The words Moboqini Blooms, Three Pence were painted on a piece of wood nailed to the front of the cart.
“Fuck off,” Miles snapped, continuing his walking.
“No, thank you,” I said politely, as if my words could be a bandage over the sharpness of Miles’.
“Oh, come on,” the merchant said, unbothered by Miles’ refusal. “It’s bad luck not to lay a flower at the feet of the Lost Heir on his birthday.”
Cal and I halted immediately. Even Miles slowed, coming to a hesitant stop and turning back toward the merchant.
“The Lost Heir?” I asked, my eyes narrowed.
As if he thought our attention was confirmation, he pulled three stems from the bunch, using a blade to carefully cut away the thorns on the first stem.
“Take it you’re not from Nesan. The Lost Heir, Saints rest his soul,” he said quietly before moving on to the next stem.
All three of us were silent, unsure of this man’s intentions.
“You’re here on a very special day. The Lost Heir was a man of the people.
When he died, the city mourned. But when his next birthday rolled around, people celebrated his life rather than mourned his death again.
Became a tradition. Queen Irli had a statue erected in the square just down the way. ”
Cal and I exchanged a glance. “Did the Lost Heir have a name?” I asked.
His head shook quickly. “We don’t speak the names of those who meet untimely deaths here in Nesan.
Keeps their spirits restless. Here,” the merchant said, thrusting the flowers in our direction.
“A gift. Pay him a visit. Some say he grants good fortune from beyond the grave to those who give their respects.”
The Lost Heir. King Laion and Queen Irli’s son. Is this who they’d been talking about when I overheard them in the corridor?
“Hmm,” Cal hummed beside me, his eyes glued to the merchant’s face as he took the flowers. “Thank you, sir.”
Not one of us said a word as we walked in the direction he’d nodded, turning a corner and finding a small square, just like he’d said.
It was surrounded by quaint row homes with small fenced courtyards, many of which were occupied with people drinking and smoking and laughing.
And in the middle of it all stood a bronze statue of a man.
He pointed a bow and arrow to the sky, the bowstring pulled taut beneath his finger, as if he were guarding the city from some invisible, skyborne enemy.
The contours of the statue flickered and glowed in the light of dozens of candles that surrounded its base.
And sure enough, flowers were piled right alongside those candles, hundreds upon hundreds of moboqini blooms.
I squinted at the face on the statue, but it was obscured by his hand and the bowstring. “Have you ever heard of Nesan’s Lost Heir?” I asked, leaning in to Cal.
“Yes,” he answered, his eyes still on the statue. “But he died long before I came into power. I don’t know much about him.”
We made our way through the few people milling in the square, to the plaque at the base of the statue. I was happy to see the engraved words were large enough to read from where we stood, because the amount of moboqini blooms left at the statue prevented us from getting within six feet of it.
The Lost Heir of Nesan, Eternally Remembered by the Country Who Loved Him Dearly.
In all honesty, I’d assumed Miles would be hanging back, impatiently waiting for us to finish gawking, so I was surprised when I heard him murmuring beside me. “The Lost Heir. ”
I glanced at him, the look on his face unreadable. “What’s wrong, Miles?” I asked cautiously.
He shook his head, his lips pursing as he turned away. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
◆ ◆ ◆
The temple soared above the city, just as imposing as the other dedicated temples we passed as we trudged through the streets.
Even cloaked beneath the shadow of night, I could tell how beautiful the structure was.
Massive pillars jutted out of perfectly manicured grounds.
Vines heavy with deep red blooms snaked their way up each pillar.
From afar, it looked like dripping blood, as if the building itself was a beast that had been slashed open.
Despite the crowded city streets, the grounds of Noros’ temple were empty.
“Okay,” I breathed as we ascended the staircase to the doors. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Torchlight sent shadows dancing over the cavernous hall.
I squinted at the artwork and carvings that covered every square inch of wallspace, but they weren’t what grabbed my attention.
No, my eyes were pulled to the massive altar at the front of the temple, an inscription carved into the marble above it.
We walked between rows of benches, the three of us silent as we read.
The broken may weep
At Aegrabane’s sweep
Humanity bears its stain
It cannot be evaded
Only worsened or aided
For to know love is to know pai n
They do not stand apart
Two halves of one heart
Love and pain always call again
Love and pain. There was no Saint that presided over love.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to dissect each line, trying to understand anything I could within its cryptic words.
“Aegrabane’s sweep,” I murmured to myself before I stole a glance at Miles.
His eyes wandered, moving over the artwork that lined the walls like it held the answers we were looking for.
I read through the inscription again, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would extract meaning from the words before me. They wouldn’t be carved into the wall of the temple if they didn’t mean something. “Please,” I whispered. “Just show me something. Give me a hint. A sign. Anything.”
I stared up at a sculpture that sat at the side of the altar.
A massive carving of a man standing tall on a pedestal, as if it were Noros himself watching over his temple.
A silent scream rent from his open mouth.
His sword was raised to the sky, the rubies twinkling in the hilt the only bit of color on the otherwise white marble.
Did I know that grief-stricken face that was carved into the stone?
Had I seen it before? Passed it on the streets in Eserene?
No. The features were generic, lacking the details that would make a face definitively identifiable.
And it made sense, since the artist hadn’t known what Noros looked like.
But…did I?
Noros came to the Human Realm to protect me. Had he been one of the people I felt watching me since I was a child? Had all the people who’d watched me been sent by Malosym, except one? If he could identify me as the Daughter of Katia, did that mean I could identify him as the Saint of Pain?
I lowered myself to one of the benches, cradling my face in my hands. Cal and Miles sat down on either side of me, their eyes still moving around the inside of the temple. I had no idea what to do next, and that fact crept in like an uninvited, unwelcomed guest within me.
When I turned to Cal to ask if he had any ideas, my surrender caught in my throat. His face had drained of color, his mouth parted slightly. “No,” he murmured, turning to the other carvings that adorned the temple. His eyes moved wildly around the room, his head beginning to shake.
His stricken expression sent dread straight to my gut. “What?”
“It’s a coincidence,” he murmured, wearing a disbelieving smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Miles’ gaze was set hard on his brother as Cal turned back to face the altar.
He scanned through the inscription again, and I watched as his eyes moved back and forth over the words. Then they moved to the statue.
“What’s going on?” Miles asked, his jaw tight.
When Cal finally spoke, each word was shaky, like he couldn’t catch his breath. “Look at Noros’ sword.”
I turned, narrowing my eyes on the sword carved from stone.
My eyes caught on the rubies in its hilt again.
I turned, finding a painting on a nearby wall, and even though it was dim in the torchlight, I could see the stones inlaid in the handle.
Another painting, more rubies. Another carving, more rubies.
My brain was spiraling in on itself, because that sword was familiar.
Too familiar, and I couldn’t figure out why, until it hit me.
I stared down to Cal’s sword, sheathed at his hip. The same sword he’d carried since I met him. He gripped the pommel, his thumb moving back and forth over the three rubies in the hilt.
“There’s no way,” I whispered. Lots of swords had rubies in their handles.
Right? I had a diadem modeled after Katia’s.
Cal probably had a sword modeled after Noros’.
I knew nothing about swords or weaponry, but surely, Cal’s couldn’t be the only one crafted with rubies.
We were grasping at straws, and this was a strange, cruel coincidence .
But nothing in my life had ever been coincidental. Everything had been meticulously planned. Meeting Cal. Moving into the castle. And the rubies that glittered in the torchlight.
Our eyes locked, a thousand words passing between us in a beat of silence. “Where did you get that sword?” I asked.
Cal remained silent as he moved to pull the blade from its sheath, but a quiet voice sounded from the bench behind us.
“You know better than to unsheath a weapon in a temple, King Belin.”
Cal shot to his feet, instinctively moving in front of me as his sword came flying from his hip, poised to strike at the stranger who’d spoken.
Miles was right behind his brother, his sword aimed directly for the man’s throat.
My heart beat wildly, pounding against my ribcage as I stared at the man, half hidden by the bulk of Cal’s body in front of me.
“What. The. Fuck ?” Cal ground out.
I shifted to the side just enough, and every thought in my head tumbled to the floor, because the face I was looking at was one I’d seen before. Many times, in fact. It was the last face I would’ve expected to see here.
Staring up at Cal from the end of his blade was a man I’d last seen outside the throne room in Eserene, standing at the back of Lord Evarius Castemont.
Tyrak.