Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2)

by Carissa Broadbent

  “I preferred hiding,” he muttered. “But… it was worth it.”

  I leaned against him — pressed my lips against his neck, breathing in his scent. He abandoned my hand for a fuller embrace, pulling me close.

  Sometimes, in moments like this, there was so much I wanted to say to Max that the prospect of forcing all of that emotion into mere syllables seemed laughable. I had spent my entire life being ripped from what I loved. My heart never could grow roots, because every few years they would be hacked away. You learn to live without them. You learn to find love where it doesn’t exist, like in the superficial kindnesses of a cruel man. You learn to accept the loss as a part of you, and pretend you don’t mourn every severed connection.

  I had forgotten that it was possible for the roots of someone’s affection to run so deep, so solid. I could build a life in the branches of this tree. I could cradle a generation’s future nestled in its leaves.

  But I still had so many scars. And it’s hard to dream when you’re surrounded by the ashes of loss. Hard not to wonder if whatever scraps you have left over are even worth offering someone who deserves so much.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. They prickled.

  “I love you,” I choked out.

  Love. The word was all I had. Still, it didn’t feel like enough.

  Max and I stayed there for as long as we could, until a flurry of healers began to shuffle in and out of my room. Max reluctantly left in order to undergo his own examinations, and for awhile, I was left alone. When a gentle knock came at the door, I was expecting yet another healer. But instead, a familiar face peeked into the room.

  Serel.

  My first thought was, I don’t want him to see me this way.

  I pushed myself up, giving him a weak smile. He returned it, and a dagger of guilt twisted in my guts.

  I hadn’t realized that I had been hiding so much from Serel until now, when I found myself scrambling to erect walls around my weakness. When did that happen? When had I drifted so far away from him?

  “You look awful,” he said.

  I batted my eyelashes. “You do know how to flatter me.”

  He just gave me a grim smile, taking a seat at the edge of my bed. The seriousness of it made me think of the way the other refugees had looked at me, when I had visited them after the battle.

  A sobering thought.

  I had been so deep in Reshaye’s bloodlust. I’d had to give away so much of myself to keep myself standing, let alone fighting. And I had maintained control, but only barely.

  Gods, I never should have gone there, especially not without Sammerin. That had been a careless mistake, one that could have ended so badly.

  “Is everyone… safe?” I asked. “At the apartments? Did any of the damage—”

  “None of the fighting touched us.” Serel placed his hand over mine, as if to calm me. And I felt his stare acutely as he said, “I know what happened. I know how you were taken.”

  It was suddenly difficult to speak, any measured words lost in a flood of hurt and anger, and guilt at feeling any of those things at all.

  “Fijra felt so guilty about it that she told Filias. And he was furious, Tisaanah. I was furious.” His eyes darkened. “None of us tolerate that. Not even Filias. I know he’s hard on you sometimes, but he would never. Never.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why did she do it?”

  “There’s a lot we still don’t know. Someone asked her to do it. We don’t know who, yet. But when we do—”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean… why did she do it?” My eyes flicked to him. “It wasn’t for money, was it? She wanted to turn me over to the Zorokovs. In exchange for her granddaughter.”

  Serel’s mouth pressed to a thin line. “Yes. Yes, that was her thought.”

  Of course. Terrible situations leading to terrible ends. Pain begetting more pain.

  “Why should my life be worth more than that little girl’s?” I choked out. “I bought those people time. But if I stood in their place… borrowed time would never be enough. They need more than that. More than I’ve been able to give them.”

  Pity suffused Serel’s stare. “This can’t all fall on you, Tisaanah. No one person can do this alone.”

  “No. No person can.”

  No human, perhaps. That’s why I needed to be more, even if I could only make it a performance. But now I was starting to feel all of those different expectations tangling around me, like a spider’s web capturing me thread by thread.

  “No one needs you to be more than that,” Serel murmured, and I almost laughed. Gods, how he knew me so well.

  “They deserve to feel the way I did, Serel. The way I felt when I saw your face again—” Serel’s fingers tightened around my hand, and I paused, to keep my voice from breaking. “There is no sacrifice too great for that.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Listen, Tisaanah. No matter how… godlike… you looked out there, no matter how many feats of magic you pull off, no matter how much you wish you were more, you’re just a person. And I wouldn’t trade the person for the figurehead. Not for anything. I’d rather have a friend than a savior.”

  My eyes stung. I was so lucky to have what I did, in him, in Max, even in Sammerin — in these people who treasured my humanity, not the spectacles I sacrificed it to create.

  But I didn’t know how to be both. I didn’t know how to preserve the part of me that they loved while still being what so many more needed me to be.

  “You were already my savior,” I murmured. “And you are my friend. And I’m so grateful to you for it.”

  He patted my hand and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

  “Just be careful, Tisaanah.”

  “We owe you a thanks. A war ended just as we were bracing for it to get bloodier than ever. We’re very fortunate.” Nura’s eyes darted between me and Max. “You two look like shit, though.”

  I was getting tired of hearing that, though it was undeniably true. Nura was so buttoned-up and dignified that it was almost comical to think that she had fought in the same bloody battle we had, mere days ago. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and chin raised, wearing a tiny satisfied smile.

  And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something hiding beneath it.

  {There is always something hiding, in her,} Reshaye whispered, weakly. It was very far away, clearly depleted from the immense amount of energy we had used together.

  “I would like to speak to Zeryth,” I said.

  No word from him, yet. I didn’t like that.

  And Nura clearly didn’t, either. “Wouldn’t we all,” she replied, drily.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that no one has seen much of our dear ruler since the battle. He’s been… busy.”

  “Busy with what, exactly?” I asked. In a time when any other newly-victorious king would have been quick to establish their leadership with a statement or a public appearance, Zeryth seemed to have simply… hidden away.

  Nura’s lip twitched, just enough to be visible.

  “He didn’t fight in the taking of the Capital,” she said, “but he participated plenty, nonetheless. Why do you think the Syrizen were in such fine form? It was very draining for him just to help Eslyn the way he did. And he did it at a much larger scale this time, because he knew how much was on the line.”

  I rubbed my temple. It all had been such a blur, the memories soupy and ill-defined. But thinking back, the Syrizen had been especially brutal, their magic sharper and deadlier than usual.

  I still didn’t understand what, exactly, Zeryth had been creating to give Eslyn such power. But I did know that he had gotten sicker and more paranoid over these last few months. And I knew that there were magics in this world that could drive someone towards the edge of a cliff.

  How many steps closer had this forced him to take?

  “So what’s his plan?” Max rose, paced with his hands shoved into his pockets. His brow knitted. �
�He needs to officially declare an end to this, and quickly, Nura. The longer he lets Ara hang in uncertainty, the longer he’s giving more unrest to grow.”

  “He knows.”

  “Does he?”

  “He does. And I do, too. He’s holding a victory celebration in a few days. He will officially declare the war over then. I suppose he wanted… a more cheerful environment for such an event.”

  Max scoffed. “He wants to make the announcement surrounded by drunk, adoring nobles in ballgowns rather than on a pile of bloody rubble. Sure. Sounds like Zeryth.”

  But there was still a note of unease in his voice, one that lingered in the back of my mind, too. And even Nura seemed to share it, her expression going hard for a split second. Then she blinked it away, and turned to me.

  “I also had been meaning to ask you,” she said. “We’ve gotten pieces of your kidnapping story, but only pieces. Of course we need to hold those responsible accountable.”

  My mouth went dry. I kept my expression very still.

  “Max told me the kidnapper is already imprisoned.” Or dead, maybe, by now. Not that I even remembered that person’s face — just their arms around my throat, and hand over my mouth.

  No, it wasn’t his face that slipped into my nightmares. That honor went to Fijra and her grandmother, instead.

  “But was he the only one involved?” Nura asked. Her tone said, I’ve seen you dismantle armies, and that rat managed to take you alone?

  “I should have been paying more attention.” I shook my head. “I was tired. And I was walking alone, coming back from visiting the refugees. All it took was one second of distraction. Stupid of me.”

  Nura gave me a long stare. I could feel Max’s eyes, too, bearing into the side of my face.

  Then she shrugged and turned away. “You’re lucky,” she said. “That could have been a much deadlier mistake.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Aefe

  Niraja was spoken of in hushed whispers, or more often, not at all — as if it were some place that lingered on the other side of the world. But in truth, Niraja was an island that sat to the south, not far from the House of Nautilus. Journeying there did not take long. Their gates were barely visible in the distance when we dismounted and donned our (still, I insisted, utterly ridiculous) costumes.

  “Help me with this one?” I asked Caduan, pinching fabric around my waist and handing him a pin. He was silent as he leaned forward and pinned the chiffon around me. His hands, as always, were incredibly warm. He stood close enough that I could feel his breath on the crest of my ear.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, suddenly shy.

  I expected him to pull away. But instead, he stayed oddly close, running his gaze down my body in a way that sent a shiver up my spine.

  “Your tattoos are beautiful,” he said, quietly. He said it in a matter-of-fact tone, and yet there was something about that tone that made me carefully avoid eye contact for reasons I didn’t fully understand.

  “All Sidnee warriors have them.”

  I didn’t look at him. But strange, how I could feel his gaze shifting away from the intricate beauty of my tattoos to the black x’s that covered my entire left arm.

  He didn’t ask. So I wasn’t sure why I said, “I have had many victories. But I have also made many mistakes.”

  “What kind of mistakes earn these?”

  I swallowed. “Some petty. Some… not.”

  I heard the question that Caduan didn’t ask.

  “One time,” I admitted, “I beat a fellow Blade nearly to death.”

  I would have killed him, had Siobhan not pulled me off of him. I blinked away the memory. The man’s face had been nothing but smears of violet, bloody flesh, bone visible beneath his wounds. He didn’t come back to the Blades. Still couldn’t walk properly.

  The memory came with a pang of shame. I had never volunteered such information about myself before — these were my ugly parts, the impulsive and rash deficiencies that I tried desperately to file away. I wasn’t sure why I was telling Caduan this.

  I forced myself to lift my gaze. He wasn’t looking at me with judgement. Just with a quiet, curious gaze.

  “And what did your colleague do to deserve that?” he asked.

  “He made a joke about my sister.”

  “A joke?”

  “A joke about raping her.”

  Mathira, that snake. For a moment I vividly remembered the way his bones felt cracking beneath my fists and I relished the memory.

  “I don’t regret it,” I said, quietly. “Sometimes I wish I had killed him.”

  One corner of Caduan’s mouth tightened. “I suspect it wouldn’t have been a great loss to the world if you had.” His gaze softened, and he added, more quietly, “Your sister is very fortunate to have you.”

  I smiled, but beneath it, I felt a bittersweet twinge. How strange, to hear someone say that to me.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but that’s just one X. You should hear about the others before you say that.”

  Caduan let out a low chuckle, and with the sound, a certain tension between us relaxed. Still, I crossed my arms and realized I had goosebumps.

  “They’re all lovely,” he said. “But I think they might undermine some of our secrecy. Can I hide them?”

  I nodded.

  He reached out and touched my arm — just the lightest touch of three fingers. Still, I had to stop myself from jumping, carefully avoiding eye contact. There was always something that felt… strange about even the smallest and most innocent of Caduan’s touches. Especially now that I had felt his magic thrumming in my veins. It was like I could feel the remnants of it coming to the surface every time the space between us narrowed.

  Then my interest overcame my discomfort. I looked down and watched as my tattoos slowly blurred and faded, like they were being covered layer by layer by dust, until all that remained was the smooth tan of my skin.

  I held my left hand up, turning it. I could not remember the last time I’d seen myself unmarked this way. It was an odd sensation — to bear no markers of my shame.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Of course.” And he hesitated for just a moment before he turned away and went to Siobhan.

  I let Ishqa handle writing to the Nirajan nobles, announcing our intention to visit. Even though the Nirajans didn’t have the bad blood with the Wyshraj that they did with the Sidnee, I was still skeptical that they would welcome a visit from any powerful Fey house, after we had all excommunicated them. Ishqa’s confidence, however, turned out to be well-founded. A few letters back and forth, and soon, the gates of Niraja were opening for us.

  Niraja was an island kingdom, situated right in the center of the sea that separated the Fey lands to the north from the human nations to the south. We could see it from the shore, just barely, though the evening sky was misty enough that it was reduced to a sunset silhouette. We were greeted by a quiet, polite old man — Fey, I noted — who manned a small boat that would take us to the city.

  We were all silent through that boat ride. The city emerged from the fog like a painting refined layer by layer. I hadn’t been expecting it to be so beautiful, even from a distance. It rose up into the air in a series of delicate spires, trees flourishing between them, as if nature and stone were tangled in the same dance. As we grew closer, I could see the shine of silver lining the walls that surrounded its shores, and the glint of gold at the peaks of its spires.

  I glanced at Siobhan, who stared up at the sight with a single wrinkle between her brows. She looked the part of a Wyshraj noble — her freckles, combined with the loss of her tattoos, gave her a certain elegant girlishness. Then my gaze slipped to Ishqa, who looked considerably more concerned, his mouth drawn tight.

  “No one ever spoke of it like this,” he muttered.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  He frowned. “Yes. I suppose it is.” He said it as if it were an admission that didn’t make sense.

  He
was nervous, I realized. That was a strange thought. Ishqa seemed perpetually confident, so at ease with being exactly what he should be. But then again, perhaps he wasn’t. Trusted Wyshraj military nobles, after all, were not supposed to go visit excommunicated half-breeds.

  It took only a couple of hours to reach the shore of Niraja, and when we disembarked we were greeted by two Fey guards. They bowed their heads to us and led us down the pier, to a set of tall, golden gates. We strode into the city on private pathways lined with twisted vines and brightly-colored, unfamiliar flowers, then we were led up winding sets of stairs towards the castle in the center of Niraja’s cascading spires. While the walls on either side of our pathway were quite tall, there was one turn where they came low enough to peer over, and down on the streets below I could see people bustling about a marketplace, getting ready to close for the day.

  “It looks very normal, doesn’t it?” Caduan muttered, and I nodded, watching him.

  I wasn’t sure what I would do, if I were him. Coming here and having to speak to humans, after what they had done to my people.

  At last, we were guided into the palace. The ceilings were high, and I realized only after we were inside that the tops of some of the peaks were glass, letting light spill inside and cascade over the floor like pools of water. The same ivy that covered the walls of the pathways crawled up the walls in here, and I even heard the chirp of birds.

  And there, ahead of us, against a wall that was covered in vines and flowers, were two glass thrones upon a dais of uncut stone. On the left, there sat a woman with long, smooth hair spilling over her shoulders. It was black, but streaked with grey. She was beautiful, though she had lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She wore not a gown, as one might expect for a queen sitting in such a throne, but a long green velvet jacket embroidered with threads of gold, and tight leather breeches with boots that laced up to her knees. A delicate crown of silver sat over her brow.

  Beside her, a Fey man sat, his hand laid over hers. Unlike hers, his face was smooth and unlined, with fair skin and blond hair, so gold that it nearly clashed with the silver of his crown. His clothing resembled hers in style, though his jacket was bronze and slightly more ornate — and with the addition of a surprisingly-practical-looking sword that hung at his side.