Chapter 21
“You’ll want to take this with you.”
Arianell stands before me, tunic sleeves rolled up to her elbows, flour dusting her forearms. She hands me a parcel of warm bread and a pouch of salted beef for my pack. I thank her with a smile, one she returns so easily, like she’s not quite as hardened as the others.
Meurig and Brioc—the guards from last night—stride into the tent, bearing Taliesin’s sword and my dagger.
They were still standing by the stairwell when I emerged from my room this morning, the red streaks in their eyes showing more exhaustion than their rigid postures.
As Arianell fusses with my pack, Meurig goes to Taliesin, and Brioc comes to me.
He holds out my sheathed dagger, the iron hilt angled toward me. Mine. I’d recognize it anywhere, gifted to me by Seren all those years ago when she first took me under her wing.
“Figured this might come in handy,” he says, his voice a shade less severe than last night.
“Thanks.” I take it and tuck it into my waistband. Finally, it’s back where it belongs.
He shifts his weight, hesitating for a moment.
“I wanted to apologize for Meurig and me. I can see you’re no Order puppet.
Should have shown you a bit more respect.
” He cracks a grin. “Not that this means I fully trust you. Let’s see how you handle this mission first, eh?
Might be you’re just trying to fool us all. ”
His words should rankle me, but I find myself smiling back.
There’s a kindness in his eyes I didn’t notice last night, likely because I was too caught up in my own thoughts, too overwhelmed by everything I learned.
That and the necromancer insult burned through any goodwill I felt toward the rebels. But his apology seems earnest, genuine.
“You better not be flirting with my husband.” Gethin appears beside us with an armed Taliesin a step behind.
Gethin loops his arm through Brioc’s and leans in to brush a kiss on his cheek.
The movement seems so easy, like they’ve done this dance a thousand times, memorizing the shape of each other’s steps until it’s as natural as breathing.
My chest suddenly aches with longing. I’ve never had that. Not with Osian. Not with anyone.
I feel the weight of Taliesin’s attention, and I risk a glance his way. His answering stare is piercing, and for one long, heart-rending moment, I swear he can read every thought going through my mind.
Then Gethin breaks the silence. “Well, I think you have all you need. You should get going if you want any hope of travelling there and back within a day.”
I don’t ask why camping is out of the question. The screams of the dead. Best to avoid them, if possible.
Arianell is still shoving things into my pack—a waterskin now—so Taliesin tilts his head toward the tent flap. “Meet you outside?”
I nod. As he passes, his scent brushes against me. It hooks my gaze to his retreating back and the dark cloak hugging his broad shoulders.
“Isn’t it odd he smells like rowan blossom?” I say aloud before I can stop myself. It was meant to stay in my head. An unwanted heat crawls up my neck.
“He does?” Brioc chuckles. “Can’t say I noticed.”
Gethin leans in and murmurs something into Brioc’s ear, something that is clearly not meant for me. Backing away, I accept the pack from Arianell and follow the others out into the cool morning air. Rhian and Taliesin are waiting for me beside the fire. A tense silence hangs between them.
When Rhian spots me approaching, relief flickers across her face. “There you are. Ready?”
“Ready as I can be, I suppose.” I arch a brow. “Is there anything else we should know? Because now’s the time.”
“Yes. Don’t disturb the god’s sarcophagus.”
The back of my neck prickles. “Why?”
She grimaces. “We’re the ones who found the tomb.
It was a few years back. My sister made the mistake of trying to open the sarcophagus so she could see him.
He would have been the first god anyone had looked upon in…
centuries.” Her jaw locks tight, and she glances away.
“That fucking thing sucked her dry. Killed her in a single heartbeat. I watched it happen.”
My heart pounds.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
She swallows. Once, then twice, like she’s finding it difficult to speak. “It’s why I’m sure the Order being there can’t be a good thing. That place is dangerous. We need to know what they were doing.”
I have a horrible suspicion I know exactly what it is, but I want to confirm it before I share it with anyone.
The Order told me they wanted me to resurrect Arawn the Mighty.
They must have already gone to collect his body, pre-emptively deciding my assignment would be a success.
And that I would never—no matter what I faced out here—consider breaking my oath.
Little do they know, I’m more of a turncloak than even my father. Not that I can remember much of him anymore.
Taliesin and I say our goodbyes and head through the gates.
Beyond them, a path leads into a dense forest, the tall canopy casting a jagged outline across the sky.
To our right, another path cuts a straight path into the valley.
The shorter, less haunted route. But the recent heavy rains have flooded it, so we turn toward the trees.
As we step beneath the canopy, the air turns cooler and the wind thins.
It smells of damp earth, of wet bark, and of petrichor.
The trees stand close. Their trunks are wrapped in lichen, and their ancient roots are knotted around the soil.
A rustling sounds ahead as animals dart into the underbrush, hiding at the sound of our footsteps.
An easy silence settles between us as we walk.
It gives me time to think—and for a few unsettling doubts to creep into my head.
I’m free again. No one’s chained me, at least not in the past few hours.
No one’s holding a blade at my throat. The idea of going home is a temptation almost impossible to ignore.
If I ran, how far would I make it before Taliesin tried to stop me?
Would he still try to stop me?
“Thinking of running, are you?” he says wryly. “I hope you never play betting games, Swynwraig. Your face is an open book.”
I offer him my best glare. “You really expect me to believe the same thought hasn’t crossed your mind?”
Instead of answering, he counters with, “And do you really expect me to believe you aren’t curious about this sarcophagus? Might as well stop wasting energy trying to convince yourself you want to run. We both know you’re going into that tomb.”
“So are you,” I accuse.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Someone needs to stop you from touching the stars-damned thing.”
I open my mouth, ready to lob another retort at him, when a bundle of chestnut fur launches from the bushes.
Bryn chatters angrily. She circles Taliesin’s boots before slashing the leather and racing up his leg.
When she finally settles onto his shoulder with what sounds like huff, she glares at me.
I hold up my hands. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell you to stay out here.”
He rubs beneath her chin. “Nice to see you, too, Bryn.”
I smile down at his claw-marked boots, now a match with mine. “She’s cute. I like her.”
“Of course you do,” he mutters.
We travel for another hour or two before stopping for a midday meal of bread and beef. Bryn immediately investigates Taliesin’s pack, and then—much to my delight—steals his meat and darts up a tree to devour it beyond his reach. And judging by his deepening scowl, he doesn’t appreciate my laughter.
A few hours later, the trees begin to thin, the path widening into a clearing.
A square structure of smooth onyx lurks in its center, its silhouette casting a long, menacing shadow across the ground.
It’s seamless with no doorway in sight, like its built from a single slab of stone.
Before it stands a ring of stakes, each one tipped with a skull.
A tremor of unease runs through me, and Bryn drops to the ground before vanishing into the trees.
Taliesin draws his sword and steps in front of me, silently motioning for me to stay in his rear.
I don’t argue. I’d be foolish to insist on going first.
We slowly make our way through the clearing, parched grass crunching underfoot. I stare at the skulls as we pass them. I feel nothing from them, but droplets of blood stain the ground below and flies dart in and out of their hollow mouths. Whoever created this morbid display did so recently.
I tug on Taliesin’s sleeve and point to the blood. Speaking aloud right now seems like a terrible idea. His expression settles into grim resignation. Then he continues forward, toward the tomb. Reluctantly, I follow.
I dread whatever we’ll discover inside—if we can even cross the threshold. The walls are solid and smooth. Unless Taliesin possesses a power he’s never revealed, there’s no way in.
I’m about to break the silence and say as much when the air shifts. It tightens around us, pulling at my lungs, like we’ve suddenly been plunged toward the bottom of a lake. Taliesin freezes.
“Wards,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on the tomb ahead.
I frown. “That’s odd. Why would there be wards?”
When it comes to Order magic, this spell is among the rarest and the most difficult to perform. Only a High Swynwraig can weave it, and even then, I’ve never known anyone but Lowri or Seren capable of wielding that kind of power. Which means…it was likely one of them who placed it here.
But why? Wards like this can’t keep people out. They’re only meant to keep something in.
Fear rises in the back of my throat in a wave of burning nausea.
Unsettling pieces fall into place, forming a picture I don’t want to see.
This is the tomb of a god. The very god they want me to resurrect.
The Order seeks control of the stars, of all magic.
But to control all magic, they need those who can access it. Those who can funnel it. Gods.
I swallow the bitter lump in my throat. Have they found another way to raise him? Did they trap him here?
Or…wait. My stomach twists. They’ve lied about so much. What if…what if they’ve lied about this, too? What if the gods have been alive this entire time? What if that is how they were able to access enough magic to help the king’s army?
“What’s going through your mind, Swynwraig?” Taliesin glances back at me, his expression mirroring my unease.
“I’m thinking I don’t want to face whoever’s trapped inside that tomb.”
A muscle tenses in his jaw. “All the gods are dead. Besides, Rhian said they found Arawn’s sarcophagus here. It’s how she lost her sister.”
I wince. The pain in her voice wasn’t the kind anyone could fake.
“So why the wards?” I ask.
The tomb begins to rumble. Tiny stones dance at its base. One moment, the surface is as smooth as glass. The next, a narrow slit opens, revealing deep shadows within. A sweet scent curls toward us, beckoning us forward. Order magic. The place reeks of it.
“It looks like we’re going to find out,” Taliesin says darkly.
Without warning, he slips through the crack in the wall.
I mutter a curse and follow my exiled enemy into darkness, wondering—again—how I ended up here.
I should be tucked into my corner window seat, watching the sun sink toward the horizon and listening to the call of the gulls as they sweep over the streets.
Osian would come in after training, without knocking, like he always did, his Order pin glittering at the base of his throat.
He’d settle in beside me and say the sky looks like it’s about to rain.
Then he’d ask if I remember the day we were walking back from a seminar and got caught in the storm that shattered the bell.
I always laugh and say yes. Of course I remember. The sight of his waterlogged golden hair, his flushed cheeks, and his crooked smile has been burned into my mind since the moment it happened. But now that memory feels so distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Sighing, I push the thoughts aside and follow Taliesin deeper into the tomb. The passage opens into a wide chamber. A stone platform rises in it center, a sarcophagus set atop it. Except…the lid is missing. My steps slow.
Chunks of stone litter the floor, like someone smashed it apart.
And worse, nothing lies inside.