Page 51 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

My father abandoned my mother and me on Ithlon Realm and chose to live his life on Mera without us.

Agon chose cloistering at the Abbey of Mount Devour instead of helping his sister to raise me.

Zephar’s ego and impatience cause him to question my leadership and identity.

Even after I’d made him king, Syrus Wake chose Danar Rrivae as his god.

Danar Rrivae aims to kill me because he wants my realm…the perfect revenge against my father.

Jadon’s choice will be to either obey Danar Rrivae and live, or disobey Danar Rrivae and die. If Jadon chooses to live, both of his fathers will use him to conquer Vallendor…and other realms known and to be discovered.

In each of these cases, the man chooses himself.

Walking this trail beside me, Elyn Fynal looks golden, strong, and worthy of an alabaster statue.

The Adjudicator is not of Vallendor, not with those gold eyes and barely there wings only visible in this dying light—but she, too, has a stake in this fight.

Her mother is Grand Steward of Vallendor.

If we can’t stop Danar Rrivae—and find Jadon—no one will ever be of Vallendor again, including Sybel Fynal.

“And I’m not letting that asshole destroy my mom,” Elyn says, her enunciation slurred.

“You drank a little too much wine, huh?” I ask, also a little unsteady.

She snorts.

I squint at her. “You’re talented, you know that? You draw like a real artist. You draw better than you fight.”

She holds out her arms. “I fight pretty damned good for a judge.”

“You know what would help me fight better?” I say. “Wings. And I’ve proven myself, haven’t I by now? Don’t I deserve to fly again?”

“Talk to the manager,” she says, pointing to the sky. She narrows her eyes and looks back at the Temple of Malik Sindire.

“What’s wrong now?” I ask.

“That guy back there. Who is he and why is my picture in his creepy book?”

“He’s a visitor to Vallendor,” I say. “A Dindt who travels––like Dindts do—and he collects shit from across the realms—like Yeadens do. Why does it matter?”

“How do we know that he’s telling us the truth?” she asks. “About catherite and linionium, about Celedan Docci transferring his power? About the ink on Jadon’s hand?”

“How do we know anyone’s telling the truth about any of this?

” I say. “We all know that catherite isn’t as strong as fucking linionium.

As for Docci?” I shrug. “We saw that something happened, which is why we’re here and why dead gods now litter the abbey.

” I point to her. “You’re starting to sound like me, questioning everything. ”

She widens her eyes. “No!” We both laugh.

Her smile fades, and now she looks small, too young for all this chaos, for certain death. It’s her job to decide who lives and who dies across nine realms. But she also decides the fate of immortals on these nine realms who’ve made the wrong decisions. So much power too young.

Maybe I am, too.

“He worries me,” Elyn says. “And I don’t like my likeness everywhere.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s in a book . And if I had to count how many times my likeness—”

“Well, I’m not you,” she says. “I’m nobody’s lady or guiding light. And! I know of no arms-trading Dindt named Malik Sindire,” Elyn says, her voice tight. “And he didn’t wear any amulets worn by the Dindt.”

Bees, spiders, beavers, hammer, angles…

“And you know every Dindt throughout the sixty-seven thousand realms?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.

“Yes,” she says. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You need to worry about one pendant,” I say, “the one that we need to snatch off the traitor. Then we need to destroy him and then destroy Jadon before the freed linionium finds him and makes him unstoppable.”

“One last thing,” she says, holding up a finger. Her eyes are clear, sober now. “That name, Orewid Rolse. I’d heard it said before.”

I nod, also suddenly sober. “And?”

Her face darkens. “He’s dangerous, Kai. He hasn’t swung a sword once to defend the Aetherium nor has he rebuilt any destroyed realms. Yet he goes around telling Mera that they are the master order, that Mera can’t be proper warriors if they love outside their order, that the Mera bloodline must be protected at all costs.

“And he finds Mera men like Zephar, who are already experiencing some kind of…” She flicks her hand. “… identity crisis about who they are and who gets to lead and…Orewid Rolse riles them up so much that they’ll kill whoever they think threatens them.”

My heart jolts. “And what happened to those Mera who killed for his cause in other realms?”

“They were either destroyed or jailed in the abbeys on their realms.” Elyn pauses, then adds, “There are some who argue that total destruction of these fanatics is for the best.”

“Who is ‘some’?”

“Your father. The Mera leadership. The majority of the Mera people.”

“Why hasn’t someone stopped Orewid Rolse?” I ask.

“Because he never swings the murdering blade himself. Because he can’t make someone do something that’s not already in their hearts or minds. Because he’s never around long enough to be caught.”

Elyn and I don’t speak again as we rush toward the Misty Garden.

Our breaths catch as we enter this beautiful yet mortal place.

Mist curls around our ankles like hands pulling at us to slow down.

I want nothing more than to give in and enjoy the quiet, the aroma of plums, the pristine waters, but we need to hurry. The Sea of Devour awaits.

We reach the temple, and our first task is retrieving Jadon.

A discarded ochre robe with embroidered sleeves lies rumpled at the temple’s entryway.

I hold out my arm. “Don’t move.”

Elyn stops in her tracks. “Shit.”

Wrapped in that robe is a body, lying motionless on the tile floor—one without an amber or blue glow. The only light on this body comes from a torch reflecting off the robe’s thread.

“Oh, no.” Elyn kneels beside the dead Sister.

I scan the empty chamber before us. Panic sets in as my eyes track slow-moving amber figures throughout the temple. They’re sick, dying.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I whisper.

The Gashoans had been blessed again. They should be carrying offerings to the altars in the courtyard and up to the belltower.

They should be preparing for nighttime prayers, lighting candles and replacing old fruit and flowers with fresh ones.

These amber figures should be blue. These amber figures shouldn’t be this still.

“What’s happening, Kai?” Elyn whispers.

I shake my head and tiptoe ahead because we must retrieve Jadon. “I don’t know.”

Elyn and I come upon another crumpled Sister, pale-faced with blank eyes, slumped against a wall. She doesn’t move; she doesn’t glow.

My nerves flutter beneath my skin as we approach another body at the base of the alabaster columns. Another sister has collapsed at the entrance, and one more against the temple’s golden-brown walls.

Elyn gasps as we discover more new dead.

I’m shaking and shaken by the time we reach Jadon’s temporary quarters.

At the chamber’s threshold, I cry out, “No!” and run to the open door of the small room.

Ancress Mily Tisen lies on her back with a bouquet of water lilies and orchids clutched to her chest. A teardrop still glistens on her cheek. She’s now a hollow shape without the warmth of life, lightless.

I fall to my knees beside her and pull the young woman into my arms.

Elyn whispers, “Oh, no.”

I free Mily Tisen’s curly hair from her headscarf. Unlike those flowers in the meadows, my tears falling on her face don’t bring her back to life.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into her hair. No harm should’ve come to her or anyone in Gasho. This town, this temple, was supposed to be safe.

Elyn crouches beside me and touches the young woman’s face. She whispers, “Thu lojh if shos rualum haus faukuk fir hur.” The light of this realm has faded for her. Then she leaves me to mourn.

I shake my head, unsure of what to do with her. I can’t just leave her here.

“But you must,” Elyn says. “There’s no time, Kai.” She points to the chamber where we stowed Jadon. “You must see this.”

I kiss Mily Tisen’s forehead and gently lay her back on the stone floor. I leave those flowers in her hands.

Jadon isn’t inside the small chamber, but there is a plate cluttered with olive pits, heels of bread, and a honey-dipper.

An empty carafe of wine and a dirty cup sits on the ground.

There, on the trunk: the folded clean clothes the Sisters left for Jadon to wear.

On top of the clean clothes is the balled-up blue tunic and breeches that Jadon wore as he left the abbey. But there is no Jadon.

Shit.

A horn sounds, deep and commanding, cutting through the deathly silence. Zephar’s call! Startled birds burst into flight against the nighttime sky, their bodies dark against the pale light of the nightstar.

“What’s happening?” Elyn asks me.

“Trouble’s found us,” I say. “That’s what’s happening.” I take a last look back at Ancress Tisen, and then I race out of the Temple of Celestial with Elyn beside me. She rushes back to the sanctuary. She shouts, “Kai—”

Soldiers wearing blue tunics and cloaks over copper armor pour into Gasho on what look like horses—but these animals have two spiral horns.

Howlthanes. Horse-wolves bred for war. The uniforms of their riders may have been sewn for Wake’s soldiers once upon a time, but the beings wearing them now have moldy skin in every tone and dull eyes that no longer flicker with life, even though these men are alive. They glow amber.

“These soldiers,” I say, “aren’t as big as the Devourers at Fihel.”

Elyn’s steps slow. “I don’t have any Raqiel guards with me. I’ve been drinking.”

I take her hand. “Don’t worry—”

“I can’t fight that— ” She points to the soldiers. “I can’t fight that and expect to—”

“I’ll protect you,” I shout, tugging at her shoulders. “Just stay close and be merciless, just like you did at Fihel. There are innocents here, so you can’t throw wind and lightning indiscriminately. Just…do your best.”