Chapter 4 #2
He offers a wry smile. ‘A person of Isthyr will never be forced to enter the Veil, but if they wish to lead our armies, to be held in the highest esteem of our people, or to see the true ability that lies dormant within them, it is something they must face.’
I ponder his words as we continue to walk.
‘The Rite of the Veil has three stages,’ Magnus continues, finally offering me a tangible piece of information, although it causes a new knot to form beneath my navel.
Three stages make me feel like there are three opportunities to perish.
‘And I assume they’re not the same?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. Acceptance is the first part. Some say it’s the simplest. Others say the hardest. Not that you will find an Issen likely to share the specifics of their experience. It is a sacred moment for all involved.’
‘But I only have to be accepted to know – to confirm – that I’m your granddaughter?’
‘Yes.’
Well in that case, I can guarantee I’m not going to do the other two parts.
I have no desire to lead the Issen armies, and as for being held in their esteem, all I require is a person willing to teach me how to use my magic – and I’m fairly sure Toren or even Magnus himself would be accommodating there – so I’m happy to pass on that part too.
Acceptance is all I’m aiming for, although as my mind starts to contemplate exactly what that would mean, something else catches my attention. A sound. A song. A lilting tune so beautiful it causes a prickle in my scalp.
I turn my head, searching in the fading light for the source of the ethereal music I can hear whispering on the breeze, yet I see nothing but snow, shadows, and mountains.
‘That music,’ I say to Magnus wonderingly. ‘What is it? What instrument? It’s stunning.’
The last music I heard was in Galreck, the city of drink and drums. Music there was all about dancing, heavy beats, accented rhythms, and loud instruments that could be heard over the shrieks and laughter of the increasingly drunk patrons.
This is the very opposite of that.
It’s not demanding to be heard. In fact, I’m not sure I would have even noticed it had Magnus and I not been entirely silent with our thoughts.
‘It is not an instrument as such,’ Magnus replies as the gentle tinkling continues. ‘But you are right, it is quite beautiful.’
It truly is. Light and ethereal, if the music had a colour, it would be like the Isthyr we saw upon our arrival – delicate and ephemeral, with pale blues and scattered spectrums.
‘Perhaps tomorrow I can show you,’ Magnus says. There’s more than a small hint of hope in his voice, and it’s not hard to work out why.
Perhaps tomorrow, if I survive.
We have come to a stop near a wall of craggy rock, and even in the fading light I can see the steps cut into the cave before us. I stand before it, shivering with more than cold.
‘Your wolf must stay outside with me, and you are not allowed weapons in the cave. You are welcome to leave them with me or him, whichever you prefer.’
My stomach squeezes as I pull the blade that Dinah gave me before I began the Retterheld out of its sheath.
I may not know everything about it, but I know it’s far from your standard dagger.
Not only did it kill a freaking Myrkr, but it also somehow freed whatever white-haired creature was trapped within the dark beast. I can still hear the dying Myrkr call me Child of Four, laughing as its dissonant voice scraped along my nerves.
And killing a Myrkr isn’t the blade’s only oddity. No one else seems able to hold the blade, instantly proclaiming it to be burning hot.
Then there’s the added fact that High Priestess Mila has an almost identical blade that she used in the vow stage of the Retterheld before the trials even started.
High Priestess Mila. The thought of her is like icy nails being dragged down my skin.
She was the one who stripped my family of our magic, who stood there, without a hint of sympathy or remorse, as Kay and I – children – screamed in agony, and then walked away as if she hadn’t just torn the essence of our souls from our bodies.
Her role in the Retterheld wasn’t that bad, though it definitely required a certain masochistic streak.
Each of us received the same wound from Mila: a stab with the blade through the back of our hand, though the results differed greatly.
For some, like me, it didn’t leave so much as a scratch.
For others, like Jai from the Eastern Isles, the cut produced an unending torrent of blood that caused him to lose his life right there in the Sunken Temple, in front of all the other Rettlings and the spectators.
As the memory holds fast in my mind, I stare at the blade.
Perhaps giving it to Magnus isn’t the wisest idea.
If his hands don’t blister at his first touch, then there’s a chance that he’ll accidentally nick his finger and bleed out here outside the cave, and I’ll be accused of killing the king.
Somehow, I don’t think that his agreement to let my friends leave Isthyr alive is going to stand if he’s pulseless on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
‘I’ll leave it with Fen,’ I tell him. ‘I hope you don’t think me rude. It’s only—’
‘Not at all. It is your choice,’ Magnus replies. ‘I have never seen such a weapon before. It is truly special.’
You don’t know the half of it, I think, although it does beg another question. I thought Dinah said the blade had been left with my mother when she was abandoned at the temple? But clearly it’s not an heirloom that the king has seen before.
You need to guard this, I order my wolf, placing the blade by Fen’s feet. If anyone tries to take it—
I will rip out their tracheas and listen as the sound of their bones crunching echoes off the mountainside.
I was going to say, stop them, I say faintly.
Oh yes. Well, my method would still work.
‘You need to go down those steps.’ Magnus motions to a hollow in the base of the mountain that I can only assume leads to a deeper cave below ground level.
My heartbeat quickens unexpectedly. The last time I was in a cave, I wasn’t there myself as such. It was a vision – a slip into something else, somewhere else – and I saw the cave through the eyes of another. A bird.
A shudder rolls through me as I remember what I saw.
The army of Rottings. And not just any Rottings.
People I knew. My old neighbour Evelina.
Ruben’s mother Noleen. Both of them were there in that underground cave, their skin mottled and green, no pulse beating beneath their ribs.
Something tells me if I’d stayed there any longer, I would have seen even more faces I recognised from the slums.
Are there Rottings down in this very cave with the Veil?
Fen? I ask, aware that the channels between us have been open throughout my panicked thoughts.
I do not believe the creatures dwell here, Little Raven. I cannot sense their putrid aroma.
His assurance is a small relief, but if the creatures are deep enough, would even his acute olfactory sense be enough to pick up their foul scent?
‘Rose, I do not wish to press you, but the whole of Isthyr is waiting for you to do this,’ Magnus tells me. ‘They watch with bated breath. Now go. The first stage, at least, will be short. You have my word on that. You need only to step through the Veil.’
There’s no point telling him that I have no intention of continuing through the other stages if I survive the first one.
Ignoring the king for a moment, I turn to my wolf and throw my arms around him. It is so fucking unfair that we’ve only just found each other. That I saved him, and now I may doom him all over again.
I cling to him, to his warmth, his solidity, and his muscle.
All will be well, he promises me fiercely. The Gods are not done with either of us yet.
I pray to the Mother that he is right.
I send a deep flurry of love to my dire wolf and then, with my heart lodged high in my throat, I turn and begin my descent towards the Veil.
Any sense of the dead ones? Fen asks as my footsteps echo around me, each one lighter than the last as my steps grow tentative.
No, there’s nothing here at all yet, I tell him, although a few steps later I realise that’s not true. There is one thing.
Warmth.
Unlike when I was standing on the surface with Magnus, I’m no longer shivering. The temperature is perfectly pleasant, although a few steps later, that pleasant warmth starts turning into a sweltering heat.
Sweat weaves in rivulets down my temples and pools at the base of my spine, causing my clothes to stick to my slick skin. Unbuttoning my coat, I continue down, only for the staircase to twist and a bright red light to suffuse the air.
It looks just like the city above did when we first stepped through the pyrrhic.
The way the light of the setting sun refracted through the buildings with such intensity that it was as though the buildings were on fire.
Only it wasn’t warm then. The air still held fast to the icy cold of the region.
Now, it feels as if every part of my body is coated with sweat.
Nearly at the bottom, I tell Fen as my lungs struggle with the unnaturally humid air.
A heartbeat later my foot hits the last step and I twist around to find myself standing in the doorway of the cave.
My stomach plummets with such speed that my knees buckle at the sight in front of me.
‘Fuck, no,’ I gasp.