The Songbird and the Heart of Stone (Crowns of Nyaxia #3)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I t was getting so, so cold.

We carried onward toward the Sanctum of Psyche. The path became increasingly convoluted, our stretches of easy travel within the bounds of Morthryn’s crumbling halls growing shorter. Frost now coated the walls, and the ivy that crawled over every surface was ice white. I could not feel the sun at all.

As we encroached upon the Sanctum of Psyche, the nightmares grew unbearable. I no longer dreamed of Eomin—maybe even my subconscious sensed that he was now at rest. But my other ghosts followed me relentlessly. I dreamed of Saescha and a thousand different terrible versions of her terrible death. I dreamed of Malach and his breath on my throat. I dreamed of Atroxus and his divine rage. I dreamed of Raihn and Oraya, crushed beneath the armies of the House of Shadow or by the wrath of Nyaxia. And I dreamed of the future Atroxus had showed me—not of the grand disasters, but the mortal costs that lived within them. All those invisible souls, just like I had once been.

Naturally, I tried to sleep as little as possible.

Instead, Asar and I tended to the gates. We went out every day now. There was so much that needed repair. We ventured through collapsed rooms and crumbling tunnels. The desolate landscape of the Descent beyond leached into them, frigid snow or dusty sand or tepid, trickling blood rivers seeping through the cracks in the walls and floors. Most of the gates had partially collapsed, the wards so long abandoned that they were thin and fragile as cobwebs. Sometimes, we would arrive at a gate to find that it was totally nonfunctional, ghostly wraiths wandering around the hall like they’d forgotten where they put their glasses.

Even the wraiths were directionless out here—sad and confused rather than angry. Asar said that any who made it out this far between the Sanctums had been lost for a long time. “They’re tired, and they’ve been gone too long to even remember what they’re looking for anymore,” he said. “They’ll be more of a threat once we reach Psyche.”

It struck me as such a devastating end—no end at all. Eomin’s fifty years of suffering were agonizing to think about. These souls had languished for many times longer.

“Can’t we help them?” I asked. “Like you helped Eomin?”

A pained look flickered over Asar’s face, though he turned away quickly.

“I can’t release them all. We’re too far out. It would expose us too much. And besides, their path through to the underworld might not even exist anymore.”

This, I quickly learned, genuinely troubled Asar. I could feel it every night we worked together—every time he linked his magic to mine to close another gate. Each night, he would kneel beside each broken hold, inspecting for damage with all the gentle care of a stablemaster assessing a lame leg on a prized, beloved horse.

Sometimes, I would watch him and marvel at the fact that this man tutting like a mother hen over a cracked wall was, in fact, the Wraith Warden .

One time, he caught me staring at him and scowled at me. “You could be helping, Iliae, instead of sitting there gaping at me.”

I’d never been good at controlling my mouth. I couldn’t help but ask.

“Are the things they say about you true?” I asked.

He scoffed. Asar had, I’d learned, a delightful variety of sounds of displeasure. The man could express the deep woes of being surrounded by idiots without any words at all. It was really impressive.

“ They say all kinds of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

I bit my lip. I knelt beside him, helping etch some fresh glyphs into the doorframe. The silence stretched out between us.

Maybe I didn’t want to know. But I’d never been good at restraint.

“They say you could kill a thousand men without lifting a sword,” I said. “They say that you collapsed entire rebellions without anyone ever seeing your face.”

He remained intently fixated on his work. Maybe I imagined the hesitation before his answer.

“It isn’t hard to kill lots of people. If you find just the right hearts to stake or leaders to compel, just the right weak point to exploit, you can kill ten thousand with a single stroke. It’s a terrible measure of greatness.”

“But is it true?”

“I’ve killed many, many people, Iliae. Yes.”

I was quiet. We worked at the glyphs.

Then he asked, “Does that disappoint you?”

“I knew who you were.”

It was true. Still, as I watched Asar’s delicate fingers work at the metal with such obvious, thorough care, it amazed me that that same deliberateness had been used for destruction. The very same skill, wielded to the opposite end.

“I was young,” he said. “I had nothing else to offer to make myself worth keeping. My father killed all his other bastards. I was eight years old when he met me, and apparently he saw some potential to be honed. I committed myself to being very, very good at my role.”

I thought of myself, eight years old, standing upon the altar of Atroxus.

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” I said. “A past doesn’t define a future. I’d be a terrible missionary if I didn’t believe that.”

“It isn’t a justification. It’s an explanation.”

An odd thought struck me. I sat back on my heels, frowning, brow furrowed.

He caught my eye. “What?”

“Asar, do you actually care what I think of you?”

He turned back to his work and didn’t answer.

A slow grin spread over my face. “You do .”

This felt like a triumph.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered. “Arrogant of you. Get over here, Dawndrinker. Help me with this.”

I dropped the subject, though I intensely wanted to tease him about it. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to. The victory felt fragile and precious, and, at the same time, deadly sharp.

Later that night, when I was alone, I thought of the wraith’s words:

He likes you. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

But he will ruin you all the same.

They followed me when sleep finally took me. I dreamed of Asar’s hands, skillful, artful, thorough. I dreamed of how they might feel on my breasts and throat and inner thighs. I dreamed of his breath on my mouth and a kiss that tasted like damnation.

But in the distance, I heard the call of Atroxus. I reached out, and the sun pulled me away. He was dim, far away, calling to me from far beyond the veil between the mortal and immortal worlds.

We are running out of time, a’mara, he told me. Darkness looms on the horizon. You must complete your task.

I thought about telling him that it was beautiful down here, in a haunted kind of way. That so much could still be saved. But to say it seemed like it would expose a black mark on my soul, a weakness I was desperate to hide.

I will, I promised.

He kissed me, a scalding promise, and I prayed he couldn’t taste the blood on my lips.