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

Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I smelled salt and the sea.

A dream, I thought dimly.

It had been a long time since I’d had a dream like this—a dream of my home. The sand was soft against my skin, my cheek resting on my crossed arm, stomach to the dunes, just as I had napped countless times on the beaches south of the Citadel. The sea rolled in and out with the steady comfort of a mother’s shush. The sun was so, so warm.

My lashes fluttered. Opened.

Closed.

Opened.

I saw sand. Smooth, white sand.

I blinked.

And still saw sand.

My brow furrowed. I let it run through my fingers. I realized I was still wearing Esme’s silk nightgown, bloodstained and wet. I knew I was injured, but I didn’t feel any pain.

“What the hell?” I whispered.

This was not a dream.

But it couldn’t be reality, either.

I pushed myself up to my hands and knees. A breeze caught my hair as I blinked hard against the fine spray of sand. But gods, the scent—salt and lilies and damp soil. Home.

I lifted my head and froze.

Home. Yes, it was home. The white beach gave way to the forest line I knew so well that even now, decades later, I could have drawn the exact shape of it. The greenery was so unbelievably lush, framing the distant shape of the Citadel rising into the sky.

And there, standing at the brick pathway that led into the forest, was Eomin.

He looked exactly as I remembered him from those days. He wore the loose white pants from his Dawndrinker garb and no shirt, fair hair still plastered to his neck, like he’d just gotten out of the sea.

He waved at me and grinned.

I waved back, confused.

Was this Eomin’s spirit? The one Asar had set free? He wasn’t a wraith—he had no wounds, and he definitely didn’t have the particular air of mournful discontent that the wraiths did. He also was solid, with no transparent shimmer.

He waved at me again, this time more frantically. He pointed out to the Citadel, then to the sun, then beckoned to me. I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t just calling to me—he was far away, but not too far to shout. Still, the message was clear: Hurry up, Mische, we’re going to be late.

Late for what?

The answer dawned on me, blatantly obvious. Evening prayers. Of course. I wasn’t supposed to be out here this time of afternoon. If we didn’t make it back in time, my absence would definitely be noticed. I scampered to my feet, then frowned down at my dirty gold nightgown.

What was this? Why was I wearing this?

I blinked, and the silk slip shifted to the familiar drape of my Dawndrinker robes.

At the edge of the forest, Eomin waved at me again hurriedly—as if to say, we are really, really, really going to be late.

But I didn’t move. Just kept staring down at myself. I touched my robes. I’d tied them up so the bottom wouldn’t get wet, but they were slightly damp anyway.

No…?I’d been wearing something else.

The gold slip.

The—

My head hurt.

I needed to look for someone. Who?

Saescha? Saescha was probably at the Citadel, ready to scold me for sneaking off. Or was she? Wasn’t she somewhere else? I needed to find?—

No, not Saescha.

Raihn? The name skewered my head, the pain unbearable. No. No, there was no one named Raihn with the Dawndrinkers. A brief memory of a rugged grin and a hug that felt like home flashed through my mind, then withered.

No, someone else. Someone important.

I touched my bare arms. I ran my fingers over unmarred skin.

I closed my eyes.

And just for a second, I thought I felt something else on my arms.

I felt warm breath, and soft lips. A voice whispering, It should feel like this.

And someone who had looked at me like I was the sun.

My eyes snapped open. Asar.

With a stab of pain, the memories burst through the fog.

Ahead, Eomin started toward me, face drawn into annoyance. I hesitated as he approached—was he real? Had I died? Was this my chosen afterlife?

I blinked, and suddenly Eomin was closer than it seemed like he should be in so little time. Up close, something just seemed wrong about his face. It was a little blurry, like his features were shifting between countless, minuscule variations.

No, this wasn’t right.

I turned to the shore, looking for Asar?—

Eomin grabbed me.

I screamed. I looked down at myself to see the warring realities clashing—scars and wounds flickering. Eomin’s fingers dug into an open gash.

I tore myself away from him and ran down the beach. Now that the dream—was this a dream, or a hallucination?—had shattered, the pain of my broken body was unbearable. I could feel bones grinding, muscles straining, wounds tearing with every footfall. My gaze found a lump of black down the beach, lying motionless as the water washed over it.

Asar.

I had no weapon. The thought of calling my magic, either of light or shadow, seemed impossible. I was too weak. All I could do was run. Eomin followed, matching my steps. My breath came in choked gasps, but Eomin—no, he was not Eomin—was silent. I could feel him nipping at my heels, the scrape of his fingernails against my back.

I drew closer to Asar. He was face down. The lap of the ocean pulled his wet clothes against him. His fingers loosely wrapped around the hilt of his sword, which seemed to vibrate against the cream of the sand, as if the two realities refused to mesh.

I skidded to the ground and grabbed the hilt.

The swell of power that came with it disarmed me. Gods, was this how Asar felt every time he touched this thing? A sudden burst of energy coursed through me as I threw myself to the sand, practically tripping over Asar’s unconscious body, and whirled around in a clumsy roll.

The thing that was not Eomin loomed over me, his mouth open a little too wide, his eyes slightly too far apart, nostrils flaring, teeth sharpening. He reached for me?—

And with an animalistic cry, I swung Asar’s sword straight through his face.

The creature drew back with an inhuman jolt and a high-pitched squeal.

I went in for another strike.

And this time, he simply collapsed around the blade. His body burst into countless formless shreds. The scent of ash filled my nostrils.

I was on my knees in the sand, blade still raised, panting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asar pushing himself up with a curse.

He lifted his head, then stilled. He didn’t move for a long moment.

I collapsed back onto the beach.

Everything hurt. Badly. Very badly.

Asar ripped his stare away from the horizon with what seemed like great struggle. There was something odd about his gaze—glassed over. He seemed startled to see me.

He didn’t speak.

“Thank the gods I found you.” I rolled over and dragged myself closer, looking him up and down. “Are you alright?”

He blinked hard and shook his head. “I’m—yes.”

“Are you hurt?”

We both looked like shit, and it was hard to tell what was aesthetic and what was structural.

“I’m f—” His eyes fell to my body. The glazed-over look vanished in an instant.

“What happened to you?”

I looked down at myself. Gods, there was more blood than I remembered.

“There was—” I actually didn’t know how to describe what not-Eomin was. “I saw Eomin, but it definitely wasn’t Eomin.”

“It hurt you?”

“I’m great, ” I said cheerfully, even though I did not feel great.

Asar looked like he was struggling to focus. He rubbed his eyes.

“Careful with the sand,” I said.

He gave me an odd look. “What?”

I grabbed a handful of sand and let it fall through my fingers. “Sand. Don’t rub it in your eyes.”

He blinked at me. Then looked around. Realization fell over his face.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“What do I?—?”

“Where are we right now?”

“This is Vostis. Which, by the way, why are we in Vostis?”

“So this is a beach for you?”

It took me a moment to realize what he was asking.

“Are you telling me,” I said, “that you don’t see a beach right now?”

“No. I do not see a beach right now.”

“What do you see?”

I wasn’t sure why I expected a straightforward answer from Asar. He ignored me and stood, brushing himself off. He swayed halfway through the movement and frowned down at his wounds like they were a frustrating inconvenience.

The breeze blew, and I got a lungful of his scent, which made me dizzy. My gaze snapped to the patch of bare, bloody skin revealed between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his trousers, and I had to suppress the overwhelming urge to lick it.

My stomach hurt. My veins hurt.

With great effort, I dragged my gaze back to the Citadel in the distance.

“So this is all…?not real?” I asked.

“It’s real. In a sense. I think the terrain is all the same, but the skin it wears is different.” Despite his obvious weakness, Asar still seemed intrigued. “The Sanctum of Secrets is all about desire. Shame. The things mortals hide from themselves.”

Great.

“Didn’t we just do that?” I asked.

“Psyche primarily holds memories. Secrets holds emotions.”

“There were plenty of emotions in Psyche, too.”

Asar shot me an exasperated look. “Once we resurrect Alarus, you can let him know your critiques of his design of the Descent.”

I wasn’t sure why Asar’s casual use of we hit me in a strange place.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“What you see here might change as we go deeper into the Sanctum. The souleaters get more intelligent the scarcer their prey becomes. They’ll wear faces they pluck from your mind. It sounds like you witnessed that firsthand.”

Eomin. Not a wraith. Just a souleater, luring in prey with kind bait.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Esme’s house burning. And that silhouette emerging from the flames.

I’d recognize her anywhere.

“So what we saw at Esme’s…?those were just souleaters?”

I sounded hopeful, despite myself. But Asar shook his head.

“No. Those were wraiths. Souleaters can do mimicry, but not good ones.”

Gods, I felt sick.

“So we might see them again?”

Asar misread my concern. “Malach? Likely. Esme could hold him off, but I doubt she’d be able to finish him. I never saw him in the chambers. I’d hoped it meant he just passed through. Or maybe I hoped a souleater got him.” His face hardened. He touched my shoulder. “But he will not hurt you, Mische. I swear that.”

My chest ached at the sincerity in those words. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I knew he’d see the truth in my face.

Yes, I was terrified of Malach. He was the monster that haunted my nightmares. But he wasn’t the regret that haunted my waking hours. That put my fear to shame.

“Right,” I mumbled. I rubbed my temple. “So what now? We walk? Find the—the Secrets relic and be on our?—”

I stood up and promptly tipped over. Asar caught my arm just in time. Luce jumped up and looped around my legs, as if to help support me.

I gave her a weak smile and a pat on the head. Good girl. The best girl.

I could feel Asar’s eyes running over my body, taking inventory of my injuries. He was still touching my arm, and I didn’t like it because it meant he was very close to me. The smell of his blood was intoxicatingly distracting.

I pulled away and managed to stand on my own. I was still holding his sword, which I offered back to him. He shook his head. “You keep it.”

“I don’t want it. It’s yours.”

“You need it more than me right now.”

I wasn’t sure that was true. I didn’t like holding it. I felt like it was whispering to me in my mind, a caress against all the parts of myself that connected me to it—vampire, Shadowborn, Turned of the bloodline that had forged it. It felt too right, and I disliked that.

But I wanted to start walking before I keeled over again. The sooner we started moving, the sooner we could make it out of this chamber. Maybe if we moved fast enough, I wouldn’t have to see Saescha’s wraith at all.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Let’s just walk.”

We followed the brick path into the forest. It was incredible how realistic this hallucination was for something that was apparently not real. The plants were the same, the rough feeling of the bricks under my bare feet, the grit of the sand. The smell really got me—it brought me right back to my childhood, that perfect mix of the ocean and damp earth and the fresh flowers, even mixed with just a hint of the ceremonial smoke from the Citadel when the breeze blew the right way. It was everything that I thought of when I remembered Vostis. And yet, now that I knew it wasn’t real, the glaring inaccuracies also jumped out at me. Asar was right—it was a skin, not even an actual memory. The path didn’t go in the right direction, and the placement of the monastery above wasn’t quite right. The terrain was different. All of this somehow seemed inconsequential, easy to dismiss, when held against that alluring familiarity that coated my thoughts in the saccharine comforts of an old home. But when I was looking for it, it seemed so obvious I couldn’t believe I didn’t spot it right away.

We were following the terrain of the chamber. “You see a big building up there?” Asar had said, pointing.

“The Citadel,” I’d said.

He blinked, hesitating before nodding. I again had to wonder what he saw—was it something that he yearned for as much as I yearned for the monastery?

“I think we have to make it up there,” he said. “It feels like the epicenter of this Sanctum.”

So we started walking. Luce remained close to me, watching carefully. Nausea churned in my stomach. My headache was becoming unbearable. Sweat beaded on my skin.

I noticed Asar looking back at me more and more often. Eventually, he slowed so that he wasn’t leading me, just walking alongside me at my clumsy, stumbling pace.

“We need to stop,” he said.

Luce made a snort of agreement, as if to say, Obviously.

“I’m fine,” I said.

I didn’t want to look at him and see him notice the lie on my face. Every shred of my energy was going toward keeping my stitches together, putting one foot in front of the other. I couldn’t sacrifice any to distraction.

“You—”

“Let’s just get through this,” I snapped, harsher than I meant to.

But what felt like an agonizing eternity later, when I tripped over a root because I was barely managing to drag my feet along, Asar’s patience ran out. He spun around so abruptly that I nearly collided with him.

“This is ridiculous. We can’t continue like this.”

He was swaying, too. His blood had been leaving a trail on the bricks as we walked, despite his attempts to stop the bleeding. I knew because I paid terrible, involuntary attention to every single drop.

Asar reached for me, and I jerked away.

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile, which seemed to enrage him.

“You aren’t helping anyone by doing this, Iliae,” he snapped. “Enough with the self-sacrificing missionary role. It gets tiresome. Let me help you.”

The self-sacrificing missionary role.

Here, in this place that smelled so much like the home I’d ruined myself for, with the image of my sister still burning in my eyes every time I blinked, that categorization stung like the barb of a whip.

My jaw snapped down so tight it trembled. My brain was so fuzzy I couldn’t think of an appropriately venomous comeback— though, even in the best of times, that had never been my forte. Instead, I yanked my arm away from him with as much force as I could muster.

“You want to get through this,” I said. “So do?—”

And I promptly fell backward into the trees.

My vision sputtered in and out. Everything was blurry. For a moment I thought I saw a gray, lightning-dotted sky and bloody mist, before I blinked and was back in the forest, Asar leaning over me.

He no longer looked annoyed.

He looks beautiful, actually. This thought was the only one that emerged through a sea of gummy sludge.

“Get up, Mische,” he murmured. “Come on.”

Dimly, I noticed Luce dart off into the trees.

I gave Asar a weak smile. “You only say my name when you’re worried about me,” I tried to say. “It’s sweet.”

But the darkness took me before I could get the words out.