Page 46 of The Arrow and the Alder

S eph stepped through Süldar’s broken gate and into a courtyard left to mist and ruin. Statues stood about the old cobbles like ghosts of the past, and Seph spied depraved perched upon the broken turrets, like ghouls keeping watch over this court of nightmare.

One of Massie’s bone-masked kith shoved her after the witch, who strode determinedly through the courtyard.

Seph followed, with the impostor Alder keeping close behind.

They eventually passed through a pair of old and enormous doors that creaked as they opened into a round, cavernous hall, where dozens of floating lights illuminated an impossibly high and arched ceiling. Half-moons capped the tall, stained-glass windows lining the walls—all scenes of Canna, depicting every province, from tidal blues to weald greens to palisade white and silvers.

Seph remembered the tapestry at Basrain’s. Those images of a world lost, given over to depraved.

“Move it,” snarled the guard behind her as he shoved her forward.

Seph would have tripped, but Fake Alder caught her arm. His grip was strong and firm and steadying, and Seph jerked her arm away, glaring at him as if to say, Don’t touch me.

Fake Alder’s lips thinned, and he glanced away.

A grand and double stair rose before them, sweeping outward to where it joined at the platform above. The witch was nearly at the top, and as Seph ascended the marble stair, she could not stop thinking that this had been her grandfather’s home. He had lived here, in this once-magnificent castle.

This was her birthright.

Stay .

Her vision flashed.

She saw her grandfather, with his black hair and mischievous smile, walking down the stairs to intercept a group of distinguished-looking kith who waited at the entry. Children laughed and ran past, giving chase out of the atrium, nearly bumping into a servant carrying a tray of food. Music lilted from somewhere far away, like a memory, and then it all faded away like ghosts, leaving her with only shadow and mist and ruin.

Leaving her with the present.

Seph reached the platform, but the witch had not stopped. She passed briskly through a marble archway and into a long dark corridor that disappeared into shadow, where she stopped at a door.

It was wide and embossed with an elegant display of metalwork, like vines made of silvery white moonstone. The witch raised her palms, but she did not touch the door. She breathed out, and the vines moved . They untangled themselves, melting and pooling upon the marble floor into a puddle of liquid moonlight. The witch pushed the door in, stepped through the puddle, and where her feet touched, the white turned black, as though drops of ink had been spilt, curling and mixing into the white, corrupting it, before she ascended the narrow and winding stone stair on the other side.

Seph stepped over the puddle, feeling a strange hum of power, like a note slightly off-key, and ascended the stairs after the witch and Massie, with Fake Alder right behind her. The witch pushed through another door at the top of the steps and strode into a space that reminded Seph a little of Basrain’s tower, but smaller.

Like Basrain’s, this room was round and totally open to the elements, capped by a dome that had a hole at its center to let in the sunlight, except this dome was made of glass . Stained glass, to be exact, and these pictures were much different from those in the atrium.

These told a story.

Of a star standing before three figures: one who possessed only a mouth, another ears, the last eyes.

The Fates: Speech, Sound, and Sight.

In the next image, the Fates of Speech and Sight walked on, but Sound remained, conversing with the little star.

Touching the little star.

The next image was of the star falling—colliding—with the earth in an explosion of eloit , creating a crater and a very familiar arch at its center.

A chill swept over Seph, head to toe. Her gaze slid quickly to the next image, one of the little fallen star creating its kingdom, erecting a fortress—Süldar, it was unmistakable with its many spires—and flooding the land with her glorious light. But darkness seeped in, first at the periphery, then over the two princes depicted as bathing in vats of blood.

One of those princes wore a coat. Her grandfather’s coat.

Seph’s next breath lodged in her chest.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” the witch said rhetorically. She, too, was gazing up at the stained glass. “I gave her everything she wanted, but she could never quite shake her origins, though she tried. Even this place—her own personal sanctuary—was designed because she could not forget, could not stop pining for it, and she had hoped that putting the past here, giving it a safe place to exist, for her own enjoyment, would be enough. But once one tastes the power in the heavens, nothing in the world will satisfy.”

Seph stared at the witch, but the witch’s attention fixed on one image in particular: the one of Sound touching the little star.

Little star.

It was the name the witch had used to refer to Abecka, and also Seph.

Seph’s heart beat faster.

“Tell me, daughter of Light .” The witch said Seph’s title with a strong note of sarcasm. “Have you never wondered how the kingdom of Light became so powerful? Why they were given more than any other court?”

Seph’s breaths were coming in shallow gasps now.

The witch smiled at her, and the expression on her face was vicious. “You like stories, do you not? Let me tell you one that I daresay you have never heard before. Once upon a time, there was a little star. She gleamed bright and brilliant, watching all that transpired over kith and mortal worlds. Watching real stories unfold before her watchful eye.

“This little star grew discontented, no longer satisfied with watching others’ stories but wanting one of her own, and so one day, she visited the Fates. Of course, you know of the Fates.”

Seph stared at the witch while her entire body began to tremble.

A gleam lit the witch’s eyes. “That little star asked the Fates—the weavers of destiny, given their power by Demas himself—if they would weave her destiny into those of the kith below.”

Seph took the smallest step back. She was going to be sick.

The witch continued, delighting in Seph’s turmoil. “The sister of Sight told her no. That it was too dangerous to weave a celestial power with those born of dust. That mankind—both kith and mortal—were not designed to hold it, and it would overwhelm them in the end. But our dear little star was ever the determined optimist, and so she visited the sister of Speech.

“The sister of Speech’s answer was no different. She told the little star that the language of the heavens was too dangerous uttered by mankind’s mouths. That they lacked the ability to control it, finite and fickle as they are, and it would eventually destroy them. Still, our dear little star was ever the optimist, and her hope shone bright, and so she visited the third and last sister. The sister of Sound.”

Seph’s heart thumped against her rib cage.

“The sister of Sound did not say no. She had taken great interest in the little star; the little star gave this Fate a new kind of hope. That, perhaps, if the star could find a way to exist on the earth, perhaps this Fate might also find a way to take human form and dwell amongst humans. And so Sound made a bargain. She said, ‘I will give you form, and I will weave your hair from starlight. I will give you a kingdom and write your destiny into life below, but in exchange, you will give me your second-born son. He will be mine—my vessel and my servant, to use as I see fit.’”

Horror bloomed within Seph, and she stared at the witch while the witch stared back, a cruel smile upon her lips.

No, not the witch.

A Fate .

This was why she had such great power. She was Sound, and the little star was…was…

Seph’s great-grandmother.

That was why Abecka had recognized the witch in the tower.

Seph’s stomach turned over violently, and she thought she was going to be sick all over the floor.

The Fate approached Seph and pinched her chin firmly, her face contorted with fury. “My sisters cursed me the day they cursed Canna. They banished me to this world the day they stole back the light I had given. They left me without form, with only a fraction of my power, and no way back. I was left to feed off this land like a common parasite, and I am fading away. Light is my only hope now, Josephine Alistair, and I will tear this world apart before I let you take it from me.”

Seph stared at the witch—the Fate—her heart pounding hard and fast.

“She tried so hard to hide her Jakobián from me,” the Fate continued. “She realized the depraved were my own creation and that it would not be long before my children overwhelmed them all. All she needed to do was hand over her son, as promised .”

Just then, another bone-masked kith appeared at the top of the stairs, winded and heaving, and the Fate’s face whipped around.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty, but Prince Alder…” He paused to catch his breath. “He is here.”

Seph’s world spun to an abrupt halt. She looked at Alder—the one standing beside her—who had gone pale. His gaze met hers, albeit briefly, as if he hadn’t meant to.

“The Weald Prince is here ? At the gate?” the Fate demanded.

“At the bridge, Your Majesty,” the kith replied.

“ How is that possible ?”

Seph wondered too: How had Rasia managed to hide the truth of Alder’s location from this Fate?

The messenger gave no answer, but Seph’s hope surged. Alder had come.

Alder was here .

“How many are with him?” the Fate snapped.

“Somewhere around five hundred, Your Majesty.”

His words settled in the silence, and the shadows warped and thickened.

The Fate looked at Massie, who stood beside Fake Alder. “If anyone gets through that door, you will regret the day you were born.”

Massie’s silvery scar tightened as he bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He caught Fake Alder’s gaze before sprinting through the door.