Fall of Thrones and Thorns Page 6

  I resist the urge to rub my eyes and blink hard at her.

  Mad, indeed.

  The water from the statue’s fingers splashes down to my feet, great, fat drops the size of my body, and I leap back in an attempt to avoid them. They crash to the floor in a wave that submerges me, and I am left—soaked from head to toe, hair flopping into my eyes, a crab in a puddle of water—dumbstruck as I look up at her.

  “I don’t suppose you’re some sort of advanced marionette or some other very easily, scientifically explainable thing?” I ask weakly.

  The great stone lady grins. “My people called me Kyrene,” she says. “I was one of them…until I wasn’t. And my patron would like me to have a word with you.” Her voice is a rockslide. Stones scraping together, tumbling down a mountainside.

  I swallow. “And your patron is…?”

  “The Mother, of course.” She says it so very-matter-of-factly.

  Well, then.

  I have to credit my father with the fact that my legs stay firm beneath me, despite the fact that my head suddenly feels as though it may be airborne. Stone scrapes as the woman kneels down toward me, gently gesturing for the water to race from my clothing back to her sure fingers.

  Strangely enough, the dry clothing grounds me. I close my eyes and breathe through the moment. When I open them again, my head has returned safely to earth.

  Kyrene waits expectantly. “Better?” her gray face asks.

  I nod. “Quite. Thank you.” I debate with myself for a moment, and she pauses, giving me space to speak. I find that words do not come easily in the face of an inanimate object suddenly animate, but finally, I manage, “Why now? Why me?”

  “It isn’t simply you. The Makers have presented themselves to others amongst your group in different ways. My descendant in your party—called Breena now—was gifted with dreams. They were meant to be warnings and glimpses into the truth of things. But they became muddled by her own subconscious. Twisted in a way that did no one any good. The path of those chosen by the Makers is never an easy one, but hers has been the hardest. And between her visions and the lingering souls surrounding her…”

  Lingering souls? I push aside that question for a later date.

  Kyrene pushes aside a tuft of stone-hair that falls into her eyes. “Breena already thought she was going mad. My patrons were concerned that—should they appear to her directly—they may actually drive her there. The young princess you grew up with has a part to play as well, and they will both need your support in the coming days. But in the end, you are the one who will have to make a sacrifice.”

  A creeping realization twists into my stomach, thorned ivy infesting a garden. I don’t know why I ask when I am certain of the answer, but I do. “My father?”

  Her chiseled features move up, then down in an unmistakable—if regretful—nod.

  “Him or someone else whom you care for. It cannot go on the way that it is. There will always be darkness in the world, but he is polluting it so far…” She trails off, rocky brows slamming together with a loud thunk, and shakes her head. I wince as the scraping sound reaches my ears.

  “There must be a balance in the world. Your father’s presence tilts it too far. Much further and the Makers will see this world very like the last—too corrupted to continue on.”

  A chill claws its way up my spine. We are speaking of more than war.

  We are speaking of an apocalypse.

  “The Makers have their hand on you. On all of you. Ordinary people, each extraordinary in your own way.” She winks. “But I think they were tired of being predictable and always choosing Elementals to speak with in the stories.”

  The bit of lighthearted brevity is appreciated, and I manage to choke out a strangled laugh.

  “It will happen soon,” she says. “The Mother’s hands have been thick in this thing from the start, her twin elements of fire and water at the center of it all. But soon, the Father will take a greater role. They don’t wish to see their gifts corrupted. You must put a stop to it.”

  Her face grows even more somber. “As for me…this island was my home while I was a mortal, able to walk its shores. They’ll tell your story one day, too, young Prince Caden. From one character to another, I implore you—help your ladies save it. Save us all.”

  My heart pounds, the stakes even higher than they’d been moments before. If it’s not Father, it will be Bree or Aleta. If it’s not Father, it will be all of us before long.

  Kyrene takes a few steady steps back, spinning her hands, until the water flows seamlessly from one of her fingertips to the next. She straightens, locks her gaze forward, and stills.

  A statue once more.

  Nine

  Aleta

  It is a blessing that I have had so many years of schooling my features into impassivity, for if I hadn’t, I suspect Trycia’s latest customer would be wearing his meal. Or be blistering from a tongue-lashing. Or blistering from the powers I hold in check. Makers, if he had any idea who I was, it would wipe that smug look right off of his arrogant—

  Trycia clears her throat, and my eyes snap to her.

  “Your face says ‘I wonder what I’ll eat for lunch,’” she whispers quietly, passing by me and carefully giving my shoulders a soft squeeze. “But your fists say ‘I wonder what color you’ll turn when I throttle you.’”

  I relax my fingers slightly. “Apologies,” I say.

  “I wonder that you managed to utter that word without your tongue turning to stone in your mouth for the lie,” Trycia says. She taps the metal tray I clutch to gauge the temperature and, judging by her wince, finds it hot to the touch.

  Her easy manner with me reminds me suddenly of Breena, and the realization is like a quick blow delivered to my stomach.

  I miss her. I miss my friend. I haven’t completely forgiven her for keeping her secrets, but I think the distance has done me—done both of us—some good.

  “Why don’t I…” Trycia lifts the plate off of the tray, careful not to touch the tray itself. “I’ll bring this to that fellow and come back so we can have us a chat, Fance.”

  A chat, she says. Hmm.

  The ground rumbles as if humming its agreement, and I feel that twinge again. The one telling me that I should be doing something about it. The quakes are minor. But they’re still not…right. And I can’t escape the feeling that if we don’t do something about them, they will grow into something considerably more substantial. Something considerably more deadly.

  I do as Trycia asks and retreat to the back corner of the shop, standing stiffly as I wait, not so much as brushing against the wall for support. It doesn’t take her very long to make her way to me and she surveys me, something in her expression soft.

  “Fancy,” she starts.

  And, somehow, I know what this chat will be about before it has the chance to begin.

  “You don’t need me anymore, do you?” I ask. It’s rhetorical, of course.

  Trycia slowly shakes her head. “Found someone to rebuild the oven. They’ll have the job done by tomorrow.”

  I nod, blinking hard. Were I a different sort of person, I imagine the blinks would keep a few, reluctant tears at bay.

  “Hey,” Trycia says. “You’ll always be welcome here. But…Fance—“

  I realize in the silence that comes as she struggles for words that I never did tell her what I call myself.

  “It’s not just that I don’t need the help anymore,” she says. “It’s that—” She stops, makes a tch noise deep in her throat, and goes on. “It’s that…I think you were looking for a place to hide out and that coincided well with what I was looking for. But I think that time has to end now. You’re not getting what you need here. I think you’re meant for something bigger.”

  I’d thought I had, too.

  “I—”

  She holds up a hand, granting me a fond smile. “You know I’m right.”

  Is she, though?

  My throat feels thick when I admit, “I don
’t know if I can.”

  “People like you drown in simplicity,” she says. “And I want to see you swim.”

  ~

  We agree that I’ll finish out the day. Trycia at least has that much need for me. I’m just dusting the ash from my hands as we close up shop and Tregle enters.

  My spirits lift when I see him and I don’t stop the smile from drifting across my lips.

  “Hello there,” I say at the same time he says, “Hi.”

  We grin as our words collide, smashing apart the load that rests upon my shoulders.

  “It’s a relief to see you fitting in so well here,” he says as he approaches the counter.

  My middle drops, crashing to the ground. And as simple as that, the load nestles itself onto my back once more. But it isn’t Tregle’s fault. How could he possibly have known that my services are no longer required here? How could he have known that, even here, among ordinary people, I do not fit?

  He continues, ignorant of the small explosions happening in my stomach. “It makes me think—” He ducks his head, suddenly shy with me.

  “Yes?” I manage to croak out.

  He twines his fingers with mine. “It makes me think of how things could be. You know. In the future.”

  Are my palms moist? Slick with sweat? Because I suddenly feel as if I am running too hot. I lick my lips nervously and slither my fingers from his grasp.

  He frowns, brow furrowed as he looks down at my freed hand, but the look of worry vanishes when his eyes flick up to meet mine and I manage what must be a convincing enough smile.

  His voice drops as he looks at Trycia. “How are things going here?”

  Makers, he looks so hopeful.

  For that very ordinary future that I cannot give him.

  “Superbly,” I say. The smile firms in place and his shoulders relax with my lie.

  My conscience niggles at me for it. And here I am, still angry with Breena for keeping secrets. I can’t even bring myself to tell the man I care for how I’m feeling.

  “Perhaps, when all of this is over…” He trails off and I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart quickening.

  The door swings open, and I look up, thanking whatever deities had a hand in Caden walking through the door at that moment. He blinks around, distracted for a moment from his cause by his fascination with Trycia’s place, but finally, his eyes light on the pair of us and he brightens.

  “Aleta,” he says. I wince, looking around for Trycia. I’ve no wish to explain the complicated circumstances of my name now. “Tregle.” He nods.

  Caden rocks back on his heels. “May I have a moment?” He asks me, not Tregle, which I appreciate. Though he does do Tregle the courtesy of tilting his head toward him and saying, “I don’t wish to interrupt.”

  “You’re doing no such thing,” I say. Tregle frowns, perhaps disagreeing. At any rate, it’s a welcome interruption as far as I’m concerned. I leave the counter, and unfairly using it to distract him, I deposit a hurried kiss onto his cheek and squeeze his arm. “I’ll see you back at the domiciles,” I say.

  His brow furrows, and his eyes drift back to where Trycia is. “Don’t you need to…?”

  I all but herd them to the door, like the shepherd of wayward sheep. “I shall see you soon, Trycia,” I trill airily, light hands on each of their backs, gently guiding them to the street.

  Tregle lets me play this game and leaves Caden and I in the street. We watch his retreating form disappear between the buildings and slip around the corner.

  As soon as he’s certain Tregle is out of earshot, Caden’s eyes narrow on me. “What are you up to, Aleta?”

  There are certain disadvantages to growing up with a person. The most notable is that they grow very used to how you behave under ordinary circumstances. If I am an illegible journal to most people, Caden can usually manage to squint and make out a word or two.

  I ignore his question with one of my own. “Did you have reason to seek me out today, Caden? Or did you simply miss my company?”

  He widens his eyes and spreads his arms in a playful shrug. “Can’t it be both?”

  I simply raise an eyebrow and wait until he lets his facetious manner fall by the wayside. “It’s not all meant in jest, Aleta. I thought to—”

  “Check in on me?” My eyebrow stays lifted.

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Isn’t it? I won’t shatter like glass.”

  “Ah, but even stone can chip,” he says.

  Something is different about him. I tilt my head, assessing what, exactly, it may be. He has the same inquisitive manner he’s always had. The cloud that his father has cast over our lives remains. But if I’m not mistaken, he looks…inspired?

  “Walk with me,” he says.

  Ten

  Bree

  I’m not a god—so why, in the Makers’ names, did I agree to this?

  I shift within Kyrene’s seat and dismiss the supplicant before me. The first time I’d sat here, Aunt Helen had roused me before dawn and we’d made our way into the acropolis as the horizon meandered to sunrise, sky shot through with oranges and pinks. We’d entered the temple from the rear, while some of the Wielders cleared the previous day’s offerings and my heart tried to escape the cage of my chest. I’d been daunted by the throne before me, to say the least.

  Aunt Helen had squeezed my shoulders gently. “You will do beautifully,” she promised and tapped my hip. “And I will be right here, should you need me.”

  I’d had absolutely none of her faith. The entire walk there I had been unable to keep my eyes from climbing the mountains to the temple that was being slowly reduced to rubble.

  But I’d agreed. I’d agreed to be a part of this Nereid tradition. I’d stopped myself from giving into the urge to squirm when the first worshippers had lifted awe-filled eyes to me. I’d resisted the temptation to tell them that I was just a girl. Just a person. Just like them.

  Not a god.

  But since then, I’ve realized that, even if I wanted to, I can’t tell them that I’m just like them. I’ve changed since the day that I could claim that. My existence is no longer a simple one.

  So I’d straightened my back. I’d learned to give them kind words when it seems like that’s what they need. When nothing but luck can help them.

  “I will pray to Kyrene and the Mak—the Great Ones on your behalf.”

  When it is beyond my expertise, I defer to Helen. And, true to her word, she stays, hands folded serenely before her, standing just below the throne’s arm, at my beck and call.

  “We will speak to the governors and see if your interstate conflict cannot be mended by them,” she says.

  I am thrown, however, by our final visitor this evening.

  The woman’s clothes are threadbare and worn as she approaches. Little more than rags. She clutches a bundle to her chest.

  When it squirms, I’m appalled to realize that it is a child.

  “Your Majesty—” Her lower lip trembles and I see her throat bob. My own breath catches between my teeth. “I am so pleased to see you alive and well.”

  “Thank you,” I say, not sure I’ve found the correct words. “What brings you here today?”

  She lifts the child in her arms, and they shake with the effort. When she is satisfied that I have taken this in, she gently places him before the steps to Kyrene’s throne. “This is my son,” she says. “Rastus. He has been ill for some time now.”

  “I am…sorry to hear that,” I say. A small noise escapes Aunt Helen below me, but when I look, I can see no change in her from my vantage point. “What ails him?”

  Rastus draws a slow, rattling breath, and her eyes fix on him, helpless, before snapping back to me.

  “Please,” she says. “Please help him.”

  I am not a healer, but that is where my thoughts go first. I lean forward intently, elbow resting on my knee. “Have you sought a healer’s aid?”

  She shakes her head, ragged strands cat
ching on her chapped lips. “They can do nothing for him but temporarily ease his suffering.”

  I truly wish that there was something I could do. But I have no healing skills. I’m only just gaining mastery over the abilities that I do have. All I can offer her are my well wishes.

  “On your behalf, I will pray to Kyrene and the—”

  “No, please,” she cries. She makes to race up the steps, but Helen steps in her path and shakes her head, a forbidding hand outstretched. The woman takes a few stuttering steps backward, hands raised to show she means me no harm, and she retreats back to her son’s prone form.

  “If anyone can save him, it’s you,” she says.

  How in Egria does she suppose that’s the case? My stomach flips.

  “If you would just touch him,” she begs. “That’s all I ask. Just a palm laid on his forehead. A finger on his arm. Show the Great Ones that you favor him as they favored you and they will bring him back from the threshold of the Beyond.”

  I simply stare at her. When I can find my voice again, all I manage is a tremulous, “Aunt?”

  She floats her hand toward the exit. “Please wait on the temple steps while the queen deliberates.”

  The woman’s eyes flick from Helen to me, but she seems buoyed by the fact that we have not denied her request outright. She gathers Rastus back into her arms and rushes out, where, I am certain, she will be praying as hard as she has ever prayed before.

  I wish that there was a way I could make her prayers come to fruition.

  “What in the Makers’ names was that about?” I run uneasy fingers through my short curls, stopping when they thunk into the tiara Helen had foisted upon me that morning.

  “I had feared this,” she says. She nods an order for the Wielders to leave us to talk, and they file obediently out of the room.

  “Feared what?” I ask when we’re alone. For some reason, she doesn’t seem to want anyone else to overhear us.

  “They think you’ve come back from the dead.” Her smile is apologetic. “And so they think that power, that gift may transfer over to save the citizens who are on the brink of it.” She shakes her head. “I’ve seen this disease before. There is no saving that boy.”