Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

44. Cyara

44

CYARA

The limitations of Diana’s magic made Cyara miss Veyka even more. Diana could only take them a few hundred miles at a time, with rests to recover in between. Those rests became longer each time she cast the spell. Every new line of fatigue that appeared on Diana’s face sent Percival raging. Cyara forced herself to endure it without a single word in her own defense.

She had her reasons. But she could not expect Percival to share them. He only remained for Diana’s sake. Diana, who even after all she had endured, insisted she would help. She refused to remain in the safety of Eilean Gayl, cloistered away with the priestess and healers. What Cyara admired more was the unimpeachable goodness inside the human woman—while her own understanding of herself continued to crumble.

After three agonizing days, Diana was not the only one buckling under the ever-present weight of exhaustion.

But then, the Isle of the Dead materialized around them.

Diana sank to the ground, sucking in one ragged breath after another. Percival kneeled at her side, rubbing wide circles across her trembling back. Only Cyara stayed on her feet.

The isle was barren, not a single stalk of plant life visible anywhere. But Cyara could not banish the sense that, despite that, the island was very much alive . Magic was here. Strong, like Avalon, but different. Sinister. An irrepressible urge to flee took root in her chest, blooming as it stretched out into her limbs and curled its tendrils along the intricate network of her veins.

“We should not be here,” Cyara whispered.

“Too fucking late for that,” Percival sneered, tugging his sister to her feet.

Diana was calmer. “It is the vestigial magic of the island,” she said. “It pushes you to leave, but to me… it calls.”

Cyara shivered despite the humidity that hung in the air. They were at the far southern end of the continent, on what would be the elemental half of the realm, if they could open a rift to Annwyn.

“Do you feel it, Percival?” Diana wandered forward a few steps, toward the center of the island.

Her brother frowned, scrubbing a dark red-brown hand through his already unkempt tangle of black hair.

“Maybe.” His hand rubbed across the stubble darkening his chin. “Following it could be dangerous.”

“This entire place is dangerous,” Cyara murmured. Percival’s face contorted into a scowl.

She should not have said that, not after all she’d asked of Diana in order to get them there. But the compulsion to flee was visceral, embedded in that place in the center of her back, below her nape and between her wings, that ruled with instinct rather than logic.

The urge to take flight back to the safety of the continent, to leave her companions behind…

“We are here,” Diana said with uncharacteristic calm. “We must follow.”

One hand gripping her heavy purple robes, she started into the interior, all exhaustion seemingly forgotten, lost to the compulsive call of the island. Percival ran to keep up with her, no hesitation.

Cyara’s wings tensed. Her thighs. She could shoot into the air and be away from this place. She pinned her hands to her sides to cut down on resistance—but one collided with the hard bulge in her pocket.

The communication crystal.

Her wings sagged, realization and relief coursing through her. She’d almost lost herself to the witch magic. Never again.

She must remain in control.

She dug her feet into the sandy ground, running to join the pair of humans.

She must save Veyka.