Chapter 23
I wake to find the bed empty.
This is not a cause for alarm, I tell myself as I dress.
He’s always been an early riser. He didn’t show any signs of noticing my finger twitching last night.
In fact, as far as last night goes, we’re going to pretend none of it happened – from the touching, to the argument, to his conviction that he’s unable to fall in love with anyone, let alone me.
Everything is fine. I twist my hair into a plait that I hope says I’m a strong, adventurous person, capable of entering a potentially dangerous temple, and continue to not feel any alarm that Astin isn’t here.
And I certainly don’t sigh in relief when the door opens to reveal him standing in the entrance, dawn rising at his back.
The purple rings beneath his eyes have faded, but his hair remains tangled from my ministrations last night.
It suits him. Black strands sticking up at odd angles, falling in floppy waves over his forehead, the lack of perfection somehow making him more perfect.
Which, on second thoughts, is kind of annoying.
‘Good morning,’ I chirp regardless.
He eyes me warily. ‘Morning.’
‘It looks like it’s going to be a lovely day. The sun must know we’re about to finish our quest.’ I grin so wide my cheeks hurt, and in turn the crease in his brow deepens.
‘Daisy.’ He pulls a handful of berries from his pockets and sets them on the counter. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m preparing to leave. And now you’ve brought us food! What a lovely, lovely day.’
My hand absolutely does not shake as I grab a berry and shove it in my mouth, and if it was shaking slightly, I would say it’s down to adrenaline-fuelled jitters.
‘You’re acting weird. More so than usual.
’ He stops me before I can take another berry – it’s unclear why he brought them if he’s going to let me starve – and I quiver as his hand covers mine.
Certain parts of me clench at the memory of where that hand was last night, and I’ve run out of space to increase my smile.
I simply have no more cheek left to plump upwards.
‘I’m not acting weird. Shall we go?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘You’re not going to start a fight about last night? You’re going to . . .’ He waves at me. ‘Pretend everything’s fine.’
‘Everything is fine,’ I tell him, despite the fact I’m struggling to look at him.
It’s Thursday, and he’s wearing brown. Astin doesn’t wear brown on Thursdays.
But if I think about how wrong that is, I’ll think about the other things that have gone wrong recently, and letting my mind drift to those will make it harder to fake this smile. ‘Shall we go?’
He stares at me, clearly conflicted. If he pushes me on his suspicions that I’m lying, he might be forced to talk about his dreaded feelings some more. Eventually, he gestures towards the door. ‘There’s no sign of anyone else yet. They must still be holed up somewhere.’
Good. That means we have a chance.
Outside, the sunlight reflecting off the snowscape is blinding, but once my eyes have adjusted, I can see the houses we missed last night, a few dozen of them dotted around a level section of the mountainside.
Several are smeared with red paint. The place we slept has been lovingly named Souleater Scum by whoever came here to drive them out, and scorch marks are burned across some of the wooden panels. My smile falters.
As we walk, it’s not just me struggling to keep up a pretence.
Astin is limping. Badly. He hisses and winces underneath his breath, swearing whenever the path is uneven and he places too much weight on his leg, but when I offer him a large stick to lean on, he refuses to admit the injury is bothering him.
He keeps side-eyeing me as though he expects me to breakdown about last night, which I won’t because everything is fine.
I offer another, bigger stick. ‘Being stabbed is bound to take its toll.’ I bounce at his side in an attempt to say, See? This is what not being injured looks like.
‘I’m fine,’ he replies through gritted teeth. This would be more believable if he didn’t have sweat gleaming on his temples and a white-knuckle grip on his wounded leg.
His I’m fine sounds an awful lot like mine.
At the edge of the settlement, we find a set of double doors, standing at least fifteen-feet tall, inset into the mountain itself. Intricate patterns and swirls are carved into the metal – I think they were once gold, but now rust stains them red.
Footprints litter the snow. There’s too many to count, like a small army has made it here before us, but the doors remain locked.
A thick metal bar is clamped over the handles, with no keyhole or padlock in sight.
Chains are connected to the bar, leading to scales hanging on either side of the door.
A small bowl at each end awaits our offering.
If the doors have remained shut, maybe that means nobody found the right items. But that doesn’t explain –
‘There are no footsteps leading away,’ Astin finishes my thought, crouching to inspect the closest print. Futile, considering it tells him nothing and causes him to screw up his face and clutch his leg again, but whatever keeps him busy, I guess. ‘It’s like they went inside and stayed there.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say, suspecting it’s the opposite. It means whatever they’ve found inside hasn’t let them out yet. Or retrieving the cure isn’t as simple as picking it up and putting it in their pocket. ‘There’s still time for us to win.’
‘Hm.’ His brow furrows.
I pull the items from my pocket, and hand him the locket.
The inscription, love is the key, glimmers in the light.
His fingers linger on mine as he takes it from me, dragging over my skin the same way they did last night.
My knees quiver as he pulls away and heads to the far scale, while I position myself next to the closer of the two.
I don’t know if it’s necessary, but it feels right to place the items in unison, keeping our gazes locked the entire time.
Nothing happens at first, and I’m afraid something’s gone wrong, but then both items catch fire.
The scales glow brighter and brighter, as thick streams of yellow light travel along the lifts.
When it’s fully raised, the doors open to reveal a gloomy chamber lit by sconces filled with dancing flames.
They flicker when the wind sweeps in from outside.
I swallow and step over the threshold.
The doors slam shut behind us. We exchange an uneasy glance, but don’t turn back. Until the cure’s in my hands, I’m not leaving.
Aside from the echo of our footsteps, the temple is deathly silent.
Tables and benches are laid out in the middle of the chamber, and a cabinet containing plates and goblets resides on the far end, resting against bare stone walls.
The idea of so many Souleaters in one place, eating and drinking as a community, feels almost unbelievable now.
More footprints cover the dusty floor – and again, they only go in one direction. My neck prickles, like a ghost has blown a whispered breath over my skin.
‘Come on.’ Astin places his hand across the small of my back, warm and reassuring, as we follow the footprints towards an archway on the far side.
This room is smaller, cosier, a few armchairs placed atop a rug facing shelves that have been cleared out.
Astin opens a chest in the far corner, and I expect that to be empty too, but it’s stuffed with an assortment of rubbish the Souleaters must have deemed unworthy of taking with them when they fled the settlement: broken toys, some faded yellow parchment, and old clothing riddled with holes. Astin is set to close it when –
‘Wait.’ I pluck out some of the papers. Just in case. This temple was last used in Ozias’s time; maybe there’ll be something here about how he made that potion. Something that can teach me how to be like the woman in the book I found in Eira’s library.
The first few I unfold are meaningless childish drawings, followed by some kind of potion inventory, the numbers depleting day by day, and never replenishing.
The fifth parchment I try is a letter written in scratchy ink, like the writer was either frantic or in a rush. A familiar name jumps out at me.
To my beloved coven,
I’ve made the last of the calming tonics, but this will be my final shipment to the castle. I need to reserve my strength to do what needs to be done. I’ve already warned the king, and he has asked we hide the child, in preparation for the worst.
I’ve almost forgotten the taste of love.
Clarabelle was so sweet when we met. I do not know how it came to this.
But she has made it clear: she will starve all witches into submission.
She will allow no humans to visit our settlement to trade their emotions.
It grows harder and harder not to join the others in the city, to take whatever feelings I can get, even if they’re dark, even if they’ll make my magic dark. At least I wouldn’t be hungry any more.
Did you hear they’re calling us Souleaters now? A few attacks and they’ve forgotten all the good we’ve done for them, all the good we could still do, if only they would rescind that order. If only they would let us channel their joy once more.
I fear it is too late. You should ready yourselves to run. I will do what I can to fix this, but Clarabelle refuses to listen to reason, and she asks for the impossible.
Ozias
I’m not sure I’m breathing.
Astin hovers behind me, reading over my shoulder, chest brushing my back and palm splayed around my hip. ‘You mentioned magic channelled from positive emotions before,’ he says. ‘Was that your way of telling me you . . . have it? Can you feed on joy, like the Souleaters in this letter?’