Page 55 of The Garnet Daughter (The Viridian Priestess #3)

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if we are together.”

He holds me tighter, and just as I think he’s going to say something else, his breathing deepens and his chest rises in long, slow successions. I listen to each one, savoring the calmness they spread within myself until I am so relaxed I drift off as well.

I sneak out of our warm room a couple hours later, throat dry and craving soothing tea so badly, I will take any Viathan blend available. The pads of my bare feet thump as I walk into the mess hall and am greeted by Ferren standing at the food machines.

She turns, almost dropping the sweet dessert in her hand. “You scared me,” she says on an exhale.

“Looks like we had the same idea.” I press the tea-making machine and take a little corner of the treat she offers me. “99 sleeping?”

“For now. I imagine he will be up soon to check the reports from the perimeter. August?”

“Passed out.”

We both giggle.

“This is nice,” Ferren whispers after a long silence while we chewed.

I nod timidly for some reason, knowing both men are sleeping deeply in our rooms. “You and August said the same thing, you know, about being together despite the chaos.”

“It is liberating allowing yourself to have more than one emotion. Pockets of joy while the world is falling apart. Sometimes it’s all we have. A hard lesson I had to learn myself.”

“I have made so many mistakes, I convinced myself I did not deserve it.”

“We all have, Calliape. I have made plenty of mistakes. Some I don’t even regret, which should scare me more than it does.” Her words trail off like she isn’t quite committed to the confession.

“Your sister and so many others are alive because of you.”

“Crixa and the temple, I don’t regret burning it down.”

“Well, I can understand that, Ferren.”

“It was like . . . like elation.”

I do my best to understand my friend, keeping in mind the state she was in during our battle in the temple. She wasn’t herself, and Crixa was so close to murdering her sister on top of all the sins she had already committed.

Ferren straightens her dress and fidgets with her hair.

This is heavy on her. That day was awful in so many ways, but I can understand how the relief of taking revenge might blend with other emotions and blur those lines.

Old guilt written in the deepest parts of her still present, making her believe she is wicked, presenting evidence where she is only human.

“You did what you had to do. It was not bad or good. It just was. And it’s ok if you felt relief in doing it.”

“No, I liked it,” she confesses in a whisper. “When I was setting the rooms ablaze, I loved it so much I thought the flames themselves were rejoicing, like a voice telling me how pleased it was, calling out.”

“A voice?” I can barely say, my whole body frozen, holding the too hot mug with a vice grip.

“But not a voice aloud. Internally, in my mind’s eye. Or deep down, so low in tone I don’t even know what it said, but it called out to me, praised me for what I did in the temple, to Crixa.”

My heartbeat pounds so loud, I can feel it in my ears, and when Ferren takes the cup from my shaky hands, it’s as if she moves slower than natural.

She’s closer to me now, her brows furrowed. “I have scared you.”

I shake my head. “Have you ever heard a voice before?”

“Not since the temple. I thought maybe I was just delirious with rage, but I can’t stop thinking it was First Son. One of the reasons he chose me as a daughter, easy to corrupt, burning temples and such.”

Bile makes its way up my throat, burning my insides as it travels. “I have also heard a voice many times, beckoning me. It is one of the reasons I left Frith.”

“What did it sound like?” Her whisper is tense, but I do not think she quite realizes our mysteries may be from the same source.

“It’s different sometimes, like strong wind or the rumble of a conjunction tremor, but on the First Son ship?—”

“Wait, I heard someone talking on that ship too. I thought it was the ones in cryosleep through my tether. What did it sound like for you?”

I hold out my trembling palm for her, an invitation I have not presented in some time, for her to look into my mind’s eye beyond the ward I have constructed around it. The gesture gives her pause, and when she wraps her hand in mine, we both smile despite the terrifying truth we are facing.

We are connected again, tethered and open as we were before.

I close my eyes and recall the way it sounded on the ship and other distinct times I have sensed it when folding was not within my control.

When I stood atop a cliff and noted the voice out in the distance.

Then with another press, I guide her forward, presenting her memories of the faint utterance in the forest, the way it called out to me.

Ferren sways when she pulls me into her own mind, showing the voice of the ship, how differently it presented itself to her.

Next, we are in the Temple of Divine Mothers, the flames engulfing the tapestries on the wall, layers of furniture burning wildly.

And then I hear it, just as she described, deeper than a baritone, like the world itself is speaking in a voice rising from its center.

I can sense Ferren’s emotions when it spoke and its pride for what she had done.

But then I see something in her memory, in the dark spots between the ceiling-high flames. Someone standing, looking back, a shadowy figure watching with a familial affection I do not understand.

Ferren pulls her hand away from mine. “I have seen . . . that before.” She heaves, leaning over the countertop to recover from the excavated memory.

I hug my torso, trying to hold my insides from spilling out and barely registering what she has said because now I am certain we have both heard the same voice, and most importantly, I understand where it comes from.

“When we first left for Frith to retrieve the stones.” Ferren pants, looking at me over her hunched shoulders.

“I had travel delirium. I hallucinated and saw my sister and other things . . . but I remember imagining someone was watching me in the corner of the cockpit. It looked like that, the thing in the flames.”

I nod, forcing myself to quickly absorb the reality of what is happening before it’s too late. “They are the same, what you saw, what I heard . . . felt. It’s him. First Son.”

“It was his voice?” She hunches over, covering her mouth like she is holding in vomit.

“Wake August and 99. I will meet you all back here.” I grip her arms, pleading with her to sober and take action before she falls apart.

“W-where are you going?”

“We are hearing the same voice,” I grit harshly, and her eyes turn wild with understanding. “To Omnesis. We are both in danger.”