“For how long?”
“Until the end.” Until I freed Veronis from his prison and Aillira from the otherworlds, and the gods released me. “I’m part of this. The wars between Gwylor and the Fallen Ones, between the clans of Glasnith and Iseneld.”
“No. This is not your war, and I’m not Torin. I won’t let you wind up like Rhys.”
So this was how it would be. Garreth and I loved each other as much as any brother and sister could, but we’d spent most of our lives at odds—Garreth watching over me, training me to defend myself, but never giving me space to use that training. He’d never understood me, never believed in me. Not like Rhys had.
“You’re right,” I said. “You aren’t Torin. You are not my chieftain, my commander, or my father. I’m under no obligation to obey you.”
Garreth opened his mouth to yell, then caught himself, glancing toward the audience of nomads just beyond the ruins. He was still out of sorts over the news his envoys had brought days ago—some of the clans had accepted the offer of an alliance, but most had refused. Out of fear, these clans had already pledged allegiances to the self-proclaimed high king of Glasnith. Our traitor uncle, Madoc.
My brother’s shoulders dropped in resignation. “You have two days to find whatever it is you’re looking for, and then we head into the Boglands. All of us.”
Garreth could think whatever he wanted. The nomads were his people, not mine, and I wasn’t leaving until I found the key.
Once he was gone, I pressed my palm to the first stone.
By the time the sun set, my head pounded, my ears rang, and I’d watched the sacking of Aillira’s Temple hundreds of times, through hundreds of stones. The stones were less overwhelming to read than any living being—they didn’t have souls exactly, just imprints left by all the souls that had surrounded them—and with practice, I’d learned to pull myself out of the memories, but it still felt like I was being ripped apart.
I’d come to realize it wasn’t my gift that was broken. My abilities were stronger than ever—I didn’t observe the destruction, I lived it, the crushing heat of the fires, the stench of sweat and tears and blood. It was more like my gifts were warring with one another, trying to break me.
Other memories slipped through the stones too—they had witnessed much and they held stories of every god-gifted girl who’d passed through the temple’s halls. These glimpses of their lives were threads connecting me to the Daughters of Aillira, past and present. Though they were strangers, they were still my sisters.
Quinlan came looking for me and convinced me to take a break. He sat down, passing me a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese, filling me in on the latest argument between Garreth and Zabelle. My brother was still bent on resettling in the Boglands, but Zabelle wanted to stay in Taloorah. “She makes a good case,” he said. “The land is good. We can repair the walls, rebuild the cottages. Make it a home.”
A home. We. I’d been thinking of Quinlan as an outsider among my brother’s people, like me, but I was wrong. He was on his way to being fully nomad. And I was still a temporary trespasser.
“No luck finding the key?” Quinlan asked.
“None.” After a few more bites, I put my food down and went back to the wall. “You should go. I have to keep searching.” The sooner I found the key, the sooner I could move on to other things: freeing the Daughters of Aillira, killing Draki, bringing Reyker back.
Quinlan followed. “I could help you look.”
“You don’t know what you’re looking for. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.” Quinlan kept talking, but I was stuck on that notion—What am I looking for?
I thought I kept seeing the destruction of the temple because it was the strongest imprint on the thorntree and the stones, but what if it was because that was the memory I expected to find? The other memories from the temple had only surfaced when my concentration slipped. And I hadn’t been able to isolate a single image inside Andrithur’s soul because I didn’t know him, didn’t know what to look for, and the intensity of my newly enhanced gift made it difficult to focus. If I expected the memory I needed, if I wielded my gift instead of letting it wield me . . .
“Show me the key,” I said, pressing my hand to a stone.
A young woman rushes into the tower, her violet hair flowing around her. The head priestess is waiting.
“Do you have it, Iona?” the priestess asks her.
Iona pulls a box carved of black rock from beneath her cloak. “Brought on a ship that just arrived from the Frozen Sun.” She opens the lid.
Inside is a dagger forged of what appears to be pure crystal, glowing
bluish-white as the sunlight streaming through the window hits it.
“The key,” Iona says. “Gwylor left it with his sister Ildja to guard. The serpent-goddess gave it to her mortal lover years ago as a token of her affection, and he gifted it to us. All he asked in return was a potion from our healers to save his new bride. She took ill on their wedding night—likely a curse from Ildja.”
The priestess takes the box from Iona. “It’s just as the Forbidden Scriptures described. The key must be kept safe until the time comes to use it. We’ll protect its whereabouts with our lives.”
“Where will you hide it?”
“Where none would think to find it, where none would see anything amiss.” She runs her finger over the crystal blade. “In a place born of the pain it caused.”
Iona and the priestess turn to the window, their gazes drawn to the same place: Aillira’s thorntree.
My hand fell to my side and I sank to the ground.
The woman working with the head priestess, who brought the key to Veronis’s prison here to Aillira’s Temple. The woman, Iona . . .
. . . was my mother.
I knew Mother was from Taloorah, that she must have visited the temple on occasion, but the priestess seemed to know her well. Was it possible she was a Daughter of Aillira? What did she have to do with the Fallen Ones and the key?
The key!
Quinlan called my name, trying to help me to my feet. I pulled away from him and ran to the corpse of the thorntree, picking a branch and running my fingers over every long white thorn, searching for one that didn’t belong. When I finished that branch, I moved to the next, ignoring the pinch of needles jabbing into my skin, the blood coating my fingertips.
Behind me Quinlan was talking, but I pushed the noise to the corner of my mind, closing my eyes, focusing all my senses on the thorntree.
My fingers traced another needle. “No.” Then another. “No.” Then . . .
This one was different. Smoother. Warmer, like something simmered beneath its shell. I felt the phantom of my mother’s touch upon it. I felt the burn of a goddess’s wrath.