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

50. Cyara

50

CYARA

Night fell quickly on the Isle of the Dead.

Cyara wondered if the stars would even dare to shine their light on the forbidden island of Tirbyas as she followed Diana and Percival for what she thought was the third hour. She had not thought the island to be big enough for that. But as far as she could tell, they were not walking in circles. Just continuing over the unremarkable, barren ground. Eventually they’d come to the sea on the other side, she supposed.

Prayed was more accurate.

Cyara prayed to Nimue, to Accolon, to all the other Ancestors. They’d left a mess for Arran and Veyka to sort through, it was true. But she still trusted them more than the witches that had occupied this island and the eerie magic they’d left behind.

Diana and Percival were both quiet, speaking neither to her nor to each other. But whatever call Diana answered, it must persist, because the woman did not hesitate in her steps. She did not stumble, not once.

Cyara kept her wings tucked in tight, ready to take flight at any moment. She’d seen the Gremog leap out of its tunnels in the Effren Valley to protect the goldstone palace. There was no telling what sorts of protections the witches had left behind to guard their ancient island. Or what sorts of tests Merlin had contrived, if she had indeed stored the grail on the island to await its worthy wielder.

The moon had just appeared over the horizon when Diana stopped. Percival came to her side, his head tipping back to admire the stars. The first of those had appeared as well, hanging midway in the pale purple sky.

Cyara pushed down the knot of unease that had taken up residence in her chest, forcing herself to take the steps to come stand beside them. The sand made no sound beneath her boots as she—

“Ow!” Cyara screamed, her forehead colliding with stone. She fell backward, crushing her wings at an awkward angle behind her, sending a slice of pain up the left one. She tried to roll, ripping out her own feathers in the process. “What in the Ancestors?”

“What is wrong with you?” Percival squatted down at her side, his eyes drawing together until his thick black brows formed a single line across his forehead. Diana only half turned, gave Cyara a cursory glance, and then turned back to the sky she’d been looking at before as if it held the answer to every question she’d ever wondered about.

Cyara squinted over Percival’s shoulder at the pillar of crumbling stone “It just appeared out of nowhere.”

One second, there had been nothing but open space in front of her. The next, she was on the ground, her head throbbing and wing aching, and a half-tumbled down white pillar stood in the space directly next to where Percival had been standing.

Percival’s unibrow shot upward, his dark eyes blowing wide. “How hard did you hit your head? What do you think we stopped to look at, the two stars that are just barely visible?”

Cyara blinked. That was exactly what she thought. But as she got back to her feet, mindful of her aching wing and the bruise already forming on her backside, she was forced to reconsider.

“I don’t think she can see it, Percival,” his sister said quietly. Dreamily. Just above a whisper, but not like a secret. There was almost a melody to the cadence of her words.

The ball of unease that had lived in her chest since they’re arrival on Tirbyas sent a tendril snaking down her spine.

Percival watched Cyara shiver, then looked back at his sister. Then back at Cyara. “What do you see?”

Cyara rubbed her forehead. “Until I smacked into it, I didn’t see anything. Just the sand and the gray. And two stars,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Now… I see ruins. A mighty temple once stood here. There are... five pillars. But only one of them looks like it is still at its full height. They look like sandstone, maybe.”

“Moonstone,” Diana corrected.

Cyara squinted through the falling darkness. She took a tentative step forward, then another. No new structures sprung up to knock her back. The ones that had appeared remained sedentary. But once she was close enough, she could confirm. Definitely not moonstone. At least, not to her eyes.

Diana hummed low in her throat.

“You see something different,” Cyara realized. She spun back to the ruined temple, trying again. But it appeared exactly as it had a moment before.

Diana swayed gently on her feet to the rhythm of a music that only she could hear.

“I see a glorious temple. A reservoir of magic. Five pillars, just as you saw. But they stand tall, supporting arches between them engraved with the most beautiful carvings. There is no ceiling, it is open to the heavens. And it is glowing.”

Her eyes had gone dreamy, misty—like they had when they’d found the circle of standing stones left behind by Accolon and Nimue. Her gift was foresight, the ability to let her mind travel through time and space. They’d exploited that very gift to allow them the painful little jumps to get to the island at all.

Cyara swallowed. “Percival?”

He frowned. “I see what Diana sees.”

Cyara nodded; she’d expected as much. They were witches. This was a witch temple.

“So, which is it?” Percival asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Cyara reached out to touch the pillar of sandstone. She paused, glancing to Diana to see if the woman would protest. But she continued to hum away dreamily.

The stone was cool, like the air around it. Smooth beneath her fingers. The pale stone reflected the rising moon, but it certainly wasn’t glowing. Not like it would be if it was moonstone.

“Does it have to be one or the other? Maybe we are seeing different plans of existence,” Cyara mused. Either the unease in her chest was subsiding or she was getting used to its constant presence. At the very least, she no longer had the urge to immediately take flight.

“So we command the void now to?” Percival scoffed.

Cyara shrugged, then regretted the motion as her a jolt of pain shot through her wing. “Not all magic can be explained.” Like the harpy within her. Yes, it had emerged after her sisters’ brutal murders. But how had it survived in her bloodline at all? According to her mother, no family lore mentioned the harpy. The females of their line carried wings, but those were beautiful and white feathered. Nothing like the monster that Cyara became when she needed to protect those she loved.

“Magic does not owe us an explanation,” she said.

Percival snorted and turned away. Cyara breathed in softly, hesitant to disturb Diana’s endless murmuring.

Except that she’d stopped. It was silent.

“It calls to me.”

The unease sprang back to life. But it awakened the other seed that Cyara had been carefully nurturing these past weeks—hope. “The chalice?”

Diana did not answer. She stepped forward into the ring of pillars that formed the exterior of the temple, moving toward its center. All Cyara could see was more barren sand. But by now, she had stopped trusting her eyes. Mindful to keep her hands extended in front of her, she stepped past the worn pillars.

It felt like stepping through a wall of water. Inside, the pillars were the same. Crumbling, unremarkable sandstone. But at the center of the temple stood a matching altar.

Diana and Percival approached it as well. Whatever they could see, it was similar enough to draw their attention.

“What do the carvings mean?” Percival asked, leaning in closer to the flat circular top.

“I don’t see any carvings,” Cyara admitted. She skimmed her fingers over the stone rim where Percival focused his attention. “If there were any here, they’ve been long since worn away and obscured. At least for me.”

“I see them,” Diana confirmed. Her fingertips caressed the strip of stone tenderly, tracing patterns that Cyara could not see. “They are instructions.”

Cyara held her breath.

“They tell us how to find the grail.”