Page 48 of The Veil of Hollow Gods

I fold my arms over chest and raise a brow at him.

The king stands. “I’ll return you to the keep now.” He offers his elbow, but I refuse it, waving the paper in front of his nose once more.

“Amara. You must know there are things I and others are unable to discuss.”

I set my jaw and scribble violently onto the page, then hold it up for him to see.

This time he doesn’t read my words aloud. His features shift, eyes pulling downward as if he’s suddenly overcome with weariness. “Because there are laws even my kind must abide, young one.”

The king offers me an elbow once more, and this time, I take it.

I’m getting nothing more from him .

Without asking, he shimmers me back to Tyr’s bedchamber, to a pacing and disheveled Tyr.

“Pardon the intrusion. I thought you’d like your—” The Withered King pauses. “ Maiden back.”

Tyr spins around, violence in his eyes, but before he can say a word, the Withered King shimmers away.

Tyr redirects his ire at me. “Where were you?” he rumbles, low in his throat, eyes flashing.

I approach him, keeping eye contact as I grab both his arms and turn him bodily so I can use his back to write on.

When I’m finished, I hand him the paper.

“What? Why? What are you talking about?” he asks as he turns to face me.

I write two more words. “They’re lonely.”

Tyr shrugs. “Their current barn isn’t large enough to house both in one stall.”

I raise my brows at him, and he concedes with a nod, waving a hand. “It’s done. The barn is larger and has one stall. Satisfied?”

Hardly.

But at least Cindermaw and Duskreaver are close enough they can speak to each other should they desire.

“So you visited my horses?”

I reach to turn him around once more, and instead he conjures a notebook, hard enough for me to write on. I turn to the middle and jot my message.

I show it to him.

He laughs. “You spat on him?”

I scribble more.

The laughter fades from Tyr’s gaze. “He put his hands on you?”

I sigh. That isn’t the point.

I take his hand and think hard at him, hoping it’ll work for him where it hadn’t for the Withered King. Whatever you said to him wasn’t enough. He’s still acting as though he has the upper hand, and I believe him.

Tyr stares at me. “What’s wrong? Are you quite all right? You look as though you’re straining yourself.”

I blow out a breath and drop his hand, then transcribe what I’d just thought at him to the book.

“Yes. Lorien remains an enemy.”

I wait for more, and when Tyr refuses to say more, I shove him, hard enough he has to step back.

If ever there were a time to be earnest, to tell me what in the bloodied realm is going on, it’s now, Tyr. Wouldn’t you say? Lorien locked away my power, my voice, and I need all the information you can give me so I can get it back.

I add several exclamations and a few more expletives at the end, for good measure.

Tyr blinks slowly as he reads my words. When he’s finished, he lowers his head.

“Amara,” he says softly. “There are things none of us may speak about.”

Well, you’d better figure it out, or Lorien’s going to win. You can count on that.

He reads the message and nods.

Then he takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

If this demon thinks now is the time for?—

“I can’t tell you,” he says as he sits on the edge and gestures for me to do the same. “But I’ll show you want I can.”

I nod.

Tyr takes my hand and shimmers us to a dark, dank room.

A room I remember .

He walks to the exact spot where a hidden door lives and opens it.

Then hands me the statue within.

“Who is Veydra?” he whispers the question, like it might unmake him if spoken too loudly.

I scrunch my brow, hand him back the statue, and scratch my reply into the book. The demon goddess?!

He takes my hand and then we’re in another place. A hall. Vaguely familiar. Not the hall so much as the covered painting before me. I recall seeing it the first time I ventured out of my room.

Carefully, Tyr takes the dust-covered cloth off the painting’s frame, revealing and king and queen I don’t recognize.

Both are beautiful. Not in the too-perfect way demons are but glowing with power and vitality. They have black eyes and flowing hair. The king’s dark, the queen’s light.

I look at Tyr, shaking my head.

He takes my hand once more and now we’re in my bedchamber. He positions me in front of the aetherglass wardrobe.

“Who is Veydra?”

My shoulders lower, and another sigh threatens to unfurl itself at his reflection in the aetherglass.

Tyr swallows, hard, as if it took effort to do so. His face stays neutral when he speaks again.

“Who is Dama, Amara?”

I stare at him in the glass, but his expression, as always, gives nothing away. So I bring my inkthorn to the page but stop just before the tip touches the paper.

Dama was a human deity, said to have been the first Mother. The first Priestess. Giver of life to all the world.

I suck in a breath .

My hand flies to my chest as something cracks open in me.

I meet Tyr’s gaze in the mirror—shining with unshed tears. And I spin to meet him.

Tyr falls to his knees before me.

I shake my head, hot tears trailing my cheeks as a scream builds in me.

No.

Not this.

Not this again.