Curse of Stolen Flame (Firebird, #1)

CHAPTER 48

Kindra read for the rest of the day, scribbling notes about what she was discovering. After the initial passage about Scaldor, she started to skim, flipping desperately through page after page, journal after journal. She made it through five—not nearly as many as she would’ve liked, but it would have to be enough for now. Possibly enough forever if she never got access to this room again.

Scalya had suffered a years-long internal conflict about Scaldor, about her kinship with him, as she called it. He did not come to her again for quite some time, during which Scalya both hoped and feared that the first encounter would also be the last. It was interesting: in some entries, the young queen would express gratitude that he had not reappeared; in others, she would be frustrated, slighted by his absence.

I hope he leaves me be and never returns, she wrote once.

Did he not find me worthy after all? she wrote furiously another time.

But he did return to her when she was freshly eighteen. The fighting Scalya had grown up with had increased tenfold, and her village had unfortunately fallen right along what would be the original border between Laoruwen and Alverin. Many in her village had signed up to fight for a young man named Novon. He was the son of one of the fierce leaders who’d helped unify the various lords under one cause: to establish a kingdom. Upon his father’s death, Novon took up the banner. He was only a few years Scalya’s senior—maybe twenty-three, twenty-four—but his youth only rallied those around him. A powerful and skilled Firefury, he’d been fighting on the battlefields since he was fifteen.

Does Scaldor come to this Novon, too? Scalya scribbled jealously in one entry. Kindra laughed. Did he find someone else more worthy of his attention?

Perhaps it would make sense, she had conceded. After all, he is leading an army, fighting to build a real kingdom. And what am I doing?

Nothing. I am doing nothing.

That incessant worry that Scaldor had abandoned her for somebody more worthwhile was what pushed Scalya to officially join the fighting. She insisted in her journal that it was her desire to defend her home, but Kindra recognized someone convincing herself of a lie when she saw it.

Regardless of Scalya’s motivations, though, she made a difference in battle. Her power, even without Scaldor at her side, was ruinous for their enemies. She wrote often of how it felt to be the cause of so many deaths, and though sometimes she seemed remorseful about what she’d done, she did not seem to be haunted by the lives she’d taken the way Kindra was.

The second time Scaldor came to her was also the first time she saw Novon.

She’d become a well-respected figure in her modest division of the army. They fought under Novon’s banner, had for years, but Novon hadn’t fought alongside them before. He’d sent generals or lieutenants in his stead, too busy fighting on other fronts to spare time for the journey.

But the border with a budding kingdom called Breyenth had been secured in the last few months, according to the rumors. The fighting had ceased there, both sides coming to an agreement. So Novon was able to journey to other battlefields where the fighting still raged, lending his fire to his armies, who in turn bowed to him like a king.

Exactly as the young man wanted.

The battlefield was a disaster when Novon finally arrived. The enemy—Laoruwen, a kingdom newly founded and eager to establish its territory—was relentless. It was never-ending carnage, both sides enduring massive losses. Nobody knew who would emerge as the victor.

So Novon came to give his people the push they needed.

I assumed he would ask for me, Scalya wrote furiously. I am the most powerful fighter here, and everyone knows it. Surely, he has heard of me. I’ve held the line for us nearly single-handedly. He owes me his gratitude, at the very least.

Kindra wasn’t sure how much of that was truth and how much was Scalya’s arrogance. Regardless, she could feel Scalya’s indignation rippling off the page as she read .

When Novon gave no indication he knew of her at all, Scalya vowed to change that. He will know me soon enough, she promised her journal.

But her plan was contingent on Scaldor answering her call, something he hadn’t done in nearly a year.

So Scalya had to do something bold to get the god’s attention: she had to walk directly into the mouth of death.

When the fighting resumed the next day, she strode onto the battlefield wreathed in fire, as she often did. But this time, she kept walking when the rest of the army stopped. She let the enemy surround her; they did so gladly, eager to defeat their opponent’s greatest weapon. Then, in a situation where even her powerful magic could not save her, she reached for Scaldor.

Later, after it was over, she confessed in her journal that she did not truly believe it would work. A large part of me believed I was going to my death. I vowed to take as many of them with me as I could before I fell and hoped that my fellow fighters would forgive me for what would seem a foolish sacrifice.

But Scaldor did not fail her. I’d forgotten how horrible, and beautiful, it was, Scalya wrote, to look certain death in the face and be able to laugh as you burn it to ash.

She described how it was different this time; she’d been able to shape Scaldor’s power, intertwine it with her own. He did not treat her like a vessel for his power. He gifted it to her, it seemed. When she’d incinerated a quarter of the opposing army, she made her way to where Novon had been fighting—had been, because he and most other soldiers had frozen mid-battle to observe her destruction. Their enemies were fleeing; the battle was won.

I let him see me. I let him look me in my eyes and see that the power I held was not entirely mortal. And then, Scalya continued , Scaldor vanished, and I fainted. By the time I woke up, two days later, Novon had left, moving to the next battlefield that needed him. He left a note, though, expressing his gratitude—and his interest in my ‘remarkable’ gifts. Good enough, I suppose.

After that, Scaldor came to Scalya more frequently, never less than a few months apart, but only when he deemed it necessary. If the god had been at her beck and call, she would have been channeling his power daily. But Scalya knew when she needed him and when she could handle it on her own. Though she wanted to call for him more, she was smart, and didn’t abuse her connection to him .

It still sometimes terrified the young woman—the sheer scale of what she could do with him beside her, the devastation she could unleash. But what scared her more than the power itself was the fact that she’d come to crave it, had started to despise wielding without it. But over time, her terror faded to the background.

Is it possible to become addicted to a god? she wrote at twenty-one, over four years since he’d first come to her. She’d called upon him successfully dozens of times now, had traveled far and wide winning battles because of it. Even without Scaldor, her power was unmatched. He left traces within her, she claimed. Each time he came, he left a piece of his power behind. It allowed for her magic to grow past what was thought possible.

That, too, felt terrifyingly familiar to Kindra.

They called Scalya, “Scaldor’s Chosen,” and “Scalya the God-blessed,” but more than anything, they whispered of her becoming the bride of Novon—King Novon officially by then, Alverin now truly established.

And though Scalya had at first hated the idea, she’d grown hungry. Power—through magic, through title, through marriage—she hungered for all of it.

So, when word spread of Novon’s Trial, she made the journey to Wendrith.

I know he will not choose another , she had scribbled in her journal, her writing shaky from the rocking of the carriage she was riding in as she wrote it. I saw how he looked at me that day three years ago. There is no other in this realm that he truly desires by his side.

The traces of the queen that Kindra had read about were starting to appear now: her irrational desire to win, to conquer; her infuriating arrogance and sense of importance. The history texts had framed these traits nobly, but Kindra had always thought differently. She had hoped that these journals would reframe her perspective, and at the beginning, they had. But Scalya was a different person now than she had been on that first page. If anything, having direct insight into the young woman’s mind only made the stories Kindra already knew of her worse .

Such fantastic qualities she’s passed down through her lineage, Kindra thought drily as she read.

But Scalya’s arrogance wasn’t foolish. She did walk away from Novon’s Trial as his bride and the future queen. She had been right—the first thing he told her when they were alone was that he had never forgotten about her, and he’d been hoping she would come.

The love that grew between them was as fiery and passionate as they were, and their first child very well might have been conceived before the wedding. Kindra grimaced and skipped through the sordid details of their physical affairs.

And then her stomach growled, bring her back to the present.

She blinked, pulling away from the pages. She cleared her throat and coughed, her throat dry. Only then did she glance at the clock. It was nine at night; she’d spent the entire day in the library.

Slowly, as if she was waking from a dream, she came back to her senses. She was hungry and thirsty, and, wincing as she shifted in her seat, desperately needed to pee.

Jasper would be expecting her soon. She’d already missed the dinner hour; she’d have to ask Sala or Cerulle to bring something up from the kitchens.

As tempting as it was, she couldn’t hide in this room forever, putting off actually thinking about what she’d discovered.

Kindra was God-blessed.

Just thinking the words made her stomach turn. She rose quickly, putting the journals back in their place on the shelves. Then she gathered up her notes, tucking them into the belt of her tunic.

The library was dark when she slid out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Only a few people remained, curled up on sofas reading by lantern light. Iris was long gone, the librarian’s desk vacant. On silent feet, she crept out and back to her rooms, mercifully reaching them without being stopped.

“Lady Kindra,” Sala said as she approached the doors. “You’re back.” The Healer scanned her, no doubt noting her pallid complexion and tense muscles. “Prince Jasper said you were in the Great Library today, are you all right?”

“Yes, Sala,” Kindra replied hurriedly, stepping into her chambers. “It was a most enlightening afternoon. I just got swept caught up in the texts I was reading. The day got away from me; I forgot to eat. Could you go down to the kitchens and make me a plate of whatever is left over from dinner? And could you send for Jasper? Immediately, please.” She tried and failed to keep the urgency out of her voice, and Sala’s eyes widened as she noted that, too.

But the other woman said nothing, simply bowing her head before she turned on her heels and was gone.

Kindra practically sprinted to the bathing room. When she emerged, she was dressed in one of her night gowns. She grabbed the notes she’d taken while reading and sat down on the sofa, intending to go over them while she waited for the arrival of her food and Jasper.

But she found it impossible to do anything other than stare into the fireplace. Her head ached from the hours spent reading, her world spun with the knowledge she’d learned about herself.

Well, she supposed she hadn’t learned anything. Rather, she’d confirmed something she’d long fought to deny and ignore.

Jasper burst into the room without knocking. He hurried to her side.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching for her. “Sala said to come immediately.” He froze as he took in the look on her face.

“I read the journals,” Kindra said, voice thin and shaking. She kept staring into the hearth, unable to look at him.

“What did they say?”

She opened and closed her mouth as though she were a fish tossed on land. The flames in the fireplace swelled with her rising panic.

“Kindra.” Jasper’s voice was gentle but urging. “Kindra, what did they say?”

“I can’t—I can’t say it,” she whispered. “I don’t want it to be true.”

“Then don’t say it,” he breathed, gathering her into his arms and holding her close to him. “You don’t need to say anything right now.”

She crumpled in his embrace, the sobs that tore from her shaking her entire body. Jasper cradled her, ran his fingers through her hair, pressed soft kisses to her head.

“I don’t want this,” she sobbed. “I never wanted any of this.”

He stiffened slightly at her words but said nothing. She knew he understood by now that regardless of their relationship, this was not the path she would have ever chosen for herself. That would always be true, no matter how much happiness she found with him.

Sala’s knock snapped Kindra out of her distress. Jasper gently disentangled himself from her, retrieving the food the Healer had brought. Kindra, despite her turmoil, still devoured the meal, though every bite tasted like dust.

The food steadied her, however. She gulped down glass after glass of water. The pain in her head eased from a pulsing throb to a dull ache. Jasper watched in silence, waiting.

Finally, she said, voice raw, “Do you remember when I told you about the first time I killed somebody?”

Jasper’s eyes flashed with recollection. “Yes.”

She took another long gulp of water. “I should have died that day.” Her eyes slid to his face. “I would have died that day.”

He went very still next to her.

“In the last seconds before I lost consciousness, I prayed to the gods. To Scaldor, to Cyrie, to Yvangil and Aspa—I prayed to all of them. I didn’t need the god of fire in particular to save me, but I did need some act of divine intervention.” She closed her eyes. “Scalya said that the first time Scaldor came to her, it was as though some ancient power touched her soul. She said that it asked for permission, and in her desperation to survive, to save her loved ones, she granted it.” She shuddered as she remembered, all these years later, how it had felt. “I granted it permission, too.”

“Kindra.” Her name on Jasper’s lips was little more than an exhale.

“I thought I had imagined it,” she confessed, staring once again into the fireplace. “When it was over, and I was safe, I thought it had been an adrenaline rush or a power surge.” She swallowed. “I think… I think I always knew it was something else, though. I tried to ignore it, but… reading Scalya’s journals made it abundantly clear that it wasn’t just something else.”

“It was Scaldor,” Jasper said for her.

She nodded, taking a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

“So, you’re really…?” He trailed off—he would not say it before she did, before he knew she could handle hearing the words.

Kindra wrenched her gaze from the fire. She looked her betrothed in the eyes. And then she said it, for the first time, though the words felt like stones in her mouth.

“I’m God-blessed. ”

She stiffened. She forced herself to say it again. And then, on the third time, when her body began to shake with the force of her sobs renewed, Jasper held her for as long as she needed him to.