Page 13

Thirteen

Ayna

“He’s insane.” It’s not the first time I’m repeating myself, and it won’t be the last.

The surprise in Royad’s expression at hearing me in his mind through the link Kaira graciously provides has eased into one of acceptance at my opinionated caws.

“He can’t offer Shaelak his blood. Blood sacrifices have never led anywhere good.” Not that I have much experience with them, but I’ve read stories and heard tales the way any Tavrasian child does about what happens when people offer their blood to Eroth. “And why didn’t he tell me? Why sneak out every night?”

Royad gives me a sideways glance, assessing the tension lacing my bird body, the slightly angled wings, cocked head. “Perhaps he didn’t want to give you hope only to see you crushed if he fails.”

“Hope for what?” There are so many thoughts I have on how it’s not Myron’s place to decide what I should or shouldn’t know, how much hope I could bear without breaking if it’s in vain, that I swallow all of them rather than spitting and cawing at the male who has nothing to do with Myron’s false sense of protection. So I launch right back into the topic of the other bad choice Myron has made by offering blood to a god.

“At least, he wasn’t offering it to the God of Death,” I amend, the threatening panic drifting a bit farther away at the reminder that Myron sacrificed his blood to Shaelak instead. “Or he’d either be surrounded by the vengeful dead, or Eroth would open his eyes to him and bring him right behind his veil.”

While Royad gives me an incredulous look, Kaira nods her agreement. She’s heard the same stories.

“What was he even trying to achieve with his morbid sacrifices?” Trust Kaira to ask the hard questions.

Luckily, Royad isn’t Myron, who would try to hide whatever he’s up to, spilling his king’s secrets instead.

With a sigh, he sits on the stairs in front of the altar, waiting for me to flutter down from the stone table and land on his knee, while Kaira remains standing in front of us, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a mother waiting for the explanations from a naughty child.

“When it became clear that Vala wouldn’t release you from the bird form, Myron decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.” Dread pools in my stomach at the look on his face when he studies me—then the few spots of dried blood beside him on the stairs. “He decided a blood offering was the right way to get Shaelak’s attention and that Shaelak is the right god to address since he’s the creator of our kind.”

“The god’s attention…” I repeat, trying not to remember, exactly, that god’s attention. Useless creature spitting cryptic comments.

Strands of brown hair come loose, swaying as he shakes his head. “I wasn’t there to follow the ritual, but I’m certain the request was his blood for your ability to shift back. The god apparently never deigned him worthy of his response.” What he doesn’t need to say is that Myron would probably have given so much more than his blood had Shaelak demanded it.

Part of me uncoils with relief that I’m the only one Shaelak has been talking to, and I whisper a silent order in my mind for the god not to get any ideas and ask for Myron’s life instead.

The responding quiver running through the temple tells me Shaelak isn’t done with me, and the way Royad and Kaira both reach for their weapons, then drop their hands once more when the temple remains empty, tells me they’re ready to fight whatever threat Shaelak sends my way.

“I doubt Shaelak would go for something as simple as that,” I eventually respond to Royad’s revelation. “If his behavior from the forest is normal, then we can’t expect a straightforward solution.” I’m still thinking the word solution when I realize that, for the first time in weeks, I actually believe there might be one.

Fluttering from Royad’s knee to the edge of the altar, I survey the tall candles along the back wall, covered in dust from what must be decades. “Can you light these for me?” A few wingbeats have me perching on the shoulder of a carved figure with swirls of what looks like wind rippling from his palms, my beak pointing at the gray wax.

Royad is on his feet before Kaira can ask, forming a small orb of silver power for her to siphon a flame from, and I watch her float the flickering orange form from candle to candle, sparks flying as the dust catches fire, burning away the layers of forgottenness. Within moments, shadows are dancing along the temple walls with the sway of the flames, and what looks like a small space expands into a realm of light and darkness, of contrasts melting together at the center of the room where the altar sits like an island frozen in time.

Myron might be a fool, offering his own blood, but he was on the right track. Shaelak is the correct god to address. And I am the one who has a bone to pick with him. So I fly back to the carved stone soaked in my mate’s blood and caw my frustration at the God of Darkness, Creator of Crows.

“Careful what you’re saying,” Royad hushes, even when I’m not using words—not even in my mind—and he can’t understand them. It’s the way the air in the room seems to grow denser and the smell of dust and blood and melting candle wax is turning thicker, almost tangible?—

Until the form on the wall—the one whose shoulder I’d sat on a moment ago—starts moving and peels away from the carved rock to melt into a nondescript shape that’s neither human nor fae or bird but rather wind and darkness and the void between the stars.

Royad is on his knees so fast I can’t even turn my head to see it happen. Even Kaira is sinking to the floor, one knee touching the hard stone, head lowered and hands on her daggers.

I have the distinct feeling I should be terrified, but there’s something familiar about the smoke coiling and wafting around the edges of the creature.

“You have come to ask questions, mortal,” a deep, male voice reverberates through the temple, and I gasp for air as I recognize Shaelak—darkness given form.

“I have come to demand answers,” I blurt.

Behind me, Royad half chokes on a cough at my tone.

“Demands, Ayna, are for immortals. Who are you but a human stuck in the body of a bird?” Like ink in water, his voice carries on the dark smoke, quivering and spinning before it dissolves on a phantom wind, but the creature before me is sharpening, growing. He’s half the height of the temple now, eyes of onyx peering down at me like pits of eternity.

“You sounded a little different last time you reminded me I’m the Queen of Crows. Mate to an immortal king.”

Is it stupid to provoke a god like this? Absolutely. But I can’t help it. I need answers. I need to turn back into my human form.

“Queen of Crows, indeed. But still mortal.” He bends forward, bringing that otherworldly focus closer until I’m gobbled up in that darkness and Royad’s shout of warning frays like ash on a gust of wind. My heart leaps into my throat, beating so violently my little bird body might fall apart, but I hold my ground, staring down the deity who has forged my path as much as the Sister Guardian—Vala.

“Mortal or no, you’ve gifted me your power. You’ve made a Crow. It’s not you who got me stuck in this form; it was your sister.”

Perhaps a little quarrel among siblings might help him make up his mind.

In the background, Kaira’s calling my name, but I can no longer see beyond where Shaelak ends. I’m not even in the same room as I was before. The night sky stretches in the god’s eyes, silver stars glimmering in the darkness like beacons, and I understand that the power the Crows wield is the light of those stars given form.

“My sister didn’t get you stuck as you call it. You made a choice to use her power while in the form I gifted you. It’s the law of nature that requires balance. Only true immortals can wield their powers as they wish. Unless you step into your destiny, you will remain in this form. You will age in this form and die in this form, and your immortal mate will die of a broken heart once you do.”

My throat is too dry to even whimper a caw.

“My sister cannot help you, neither can I. You need to find your path on your own.” The darkness flickers around us as if Shaelak is beginning to withdraw back into the carving of his form, but I find my voice.

“So is this my destiny then? I need to become truly immortal?” However that is even possible. I hadn’t allowed myself to ponder the implications that being a Crow might have on my lifespan. Perhaps I’d assumed that already made me Myron’s equal in every way. That I’d at least have an extended lifespan if not immortality.

Apparently, I was wrong.

“Not wrong, Ayna. You are his equal in every way that counts, or I wouldn’t have made you into what you are. But it’s only you who can take that final step. It’s only you who can choose to leave the mortal world behind.”

His words clang through me like iron chains in a bucket of water, spilling and splashing and taking up entirely too much space in my mind.

As fast as he appeared, the darkness withdraws, and the candles wink out, leaving behind the thin afternoon light filtering in through the slits high up in the walls. I don’t even get to object before the carving of the male with whorls of what I now know to be the blackest night reappears on the wall, and the temple turns silent except for my thundering heart.