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

by Carissa Broadbent

  “You…” I choked out.

  You loved her.

  I didn’t say it aloud, but we both heard it. Orin’s wince and pointed silence told me everything I needed to know.

  “Tell me why my father attacked Niraja.”

  I didn’t know why I asked. A part of me knew the answer, and dreaded hearing it. A part of me never wanted to hear it.

  “He attacked Niraja to bring Sareid back,” Orin said.

  My eyes were stinging.

  “That’s not true,” I said. “He attacked this place because it is corrupted. Because the blood is corrupted here.”

  Orin winced. “Aefe…”

  I lurched back. “Why do you know my name?”

  “Because I—” He stopped himself and swore under his breath, a certain tone that started high and ended low, and hearing it that way was like hearing an echo of myself.

  No.

  “Sareid was pregnant when she was taken,” he said. “And I—”

  Taken. Not rescued. Not left. Taken. As if she had been kidnapped. As if my father had dragged her back to the Pales, had locked her up in black glass until her mind broke, until she was just a shade of—

  And if Orin was—

  If Orin—

  Caduan’s words unfurled in the back of my mind: You are not as easy to control as your sister.

  And then I thought of that night.

  I thought of it more clearly than I had in so long, the memories sharper, as if drawn into focus by my anger and confusion. My father leaning over me, his hands on my throat.

  You are tainted, Aefe.

  What had the priestess seen in my blood that day? Just my curse? Or did she also see my lineage?

  What would it have meant to my father, if the heir to the House of Obsidian had not been his blood daughter?

  The memories rolled over me. My weeping mother throwing herself at my father, trying to pull him off of me. Her magic flaring at her fingertips, so bright that it lit the glassy black of the room like the night sky. I remember it all looking like shooting stars surrounding her, but I was nearly unconscious, by then. It was the only time I had ever seen her use magic. Hers was more powerful than my father’s, many times over. And it was only then that he relented.

  I stumbled back.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I spat. “None of this matters.”

  It was easier, if none of it mattered.

  Because what could I do with this? I had spent my whole life searching for my father’s affection, because it was the only alternative to hating him for everything he took from me. It was easier to believe I deserved it. Easier to believe he was right, and there was still a path for me.

  If there wasn’t, I had no story. I had no path. I would be trapped alone with my hatred, with nowhere to go. And now, confronted with these terrible thoughts, I could feel the walls closing in.

  Orin’s face was oddly vulnerable, almost pleading. “I’m telling you this because you are the Teirness of the House of Obsidian. And you have the power to change things, Aefe. You can do what your mother couldn’t. You could build a better world for people who share your blood—”

  Share my blood.

  And it was those words, at last, that snapped something within me. Orin came a step too close, and I snarled at him.

  “Get away from me.”

  “Aefe—”

  This man was a stranger. He knew nothing about me. He cornered me to tell me these things and then used them to manipulate me into doing what was best for his kingdom.

  No.

  Orin stumbled forward, as if to stop me. But I was already retreating down the path, grabbing my blades, and falling back into the shadows.

  A monster was thrashing inside of me, a monster made up of nothing but ravenous limbs. I couldn’t allow myself to stop and think, because if I did, I would only think about Orin’s words. Orin’s terrifying words. Words that would ruin my life, and words that also made sense in so many ways.

  I was running, leaping over walls and slipping into the shadows.

  It could not be true.

  If it was, then I was not my father’s daughter.

  If it was, then even if I was a Teirness, my title held no value in a kingdom built beneath my father’s leadership and guided by loyalty to him alone.

  If it was, then my blood made me a traitor.

  Then my blood itself was tainted.

  And yet, a voice whispered, it makes so many things make sense.

  I wasn’t sure how I ended up in front of the door. I didn’t remember going there, and I was knocking before I even had time to think about it.

  The door opened, and Caduan blinked blearily at me, brow furrowed in concern.

  I didn’t give him time to speak before my arms were around his neck, and my mouth crashed against his.

  For a split second, Caduan went rigid with surprise. But he recovered quickly, his arms folding around me, his mouth returning my kiss with ravenous hunger. Our bodies were flush. He wore no shirt, and I was wearing that ridiculous Wyshraj gown — so little separated us, and yet it was still too much. Our heat tangled in the space between us, skin to skin, as our kiss deepened, as his tongue tasted mine, as his grasp tightened around me as if on feral instinct.

  I yanked the door closed, clumsily. He pushed me against the wall, my legs lifting and parting around his waist, a serrated breath escaping me as our hips aligned.

  I was surrounded by him — a presence I had come to know so well. But I hadn’t been expecting this, the sheer hunger of it, the way that the desire would overwhelm us both so quickly.

  Far in the back of my mind, a part of me whispered, This was a mistake. I had come here to escape myself, to drown in the touch of another. But it was too late that I realized Caduan’s touch made me more myself than I ever was.

  His hands slid over the bare skin of my back, around my sides, as if he wanted to memorize the way my muscles felt beneath my skin. His thumb, just his thumb, slid just beneath the hem of the fabric around me, brushing my ribs. Barely a touch, and yet it felt so intimate that I broke our kiss with a fractured moan.

  Every part of me wanted. And I knew he did, too. I could feel his desire pressed against me, in a satisfyingly obvious way, but also in the way he held me, like a dying man clutching life.

  For one suspended moment, our trembling breaths mingled, our lips nearly touching. And then he kissed me again, this time slower, more tender, his lips and tongue and body all asking a gentle question. It was all so achingly innocent — the kind of innocent that erased the pretense that I could build around our primal desire. The kind that promised, This isn’t about bodies. This is about me, and you.

  That was too much — too terrifying. I broke away from his kiss and dropped to my knees. My hands worked at the buttons of his trousers.

  “Aefe.”

  Gods, I had always hated the way he said my name.

  Is hate the word?

  I ignored him, but I only made it one button down before he stopped me. “Aefe, stop.” His fingers tilted my chin up. I didn’t realize I was crying until I looked up at him and couldn’t pull his features into focus through the blur of my tears.

  His face changed immediately. He dropped to his knees, bowing his forehead against mine. One hand brushed my cheek.

  “What happened?” he whispered. “Tell me what happened.”

  I wanted to. I so wanted to.

  But how could I? How could I say aloud that I was not my father’s daughter? That everything I had worked for my entire life was gone? That the stories tattooed on my skin weren’t even mine?

  How could I tell him that the blood that ran through my veins was that of the people who slaughtered his?

  I opened my mouth and garbled sobs came out. I couldn’t stop. I was weeping so hard that I barely felt myself keel over, or Caduan shift so that his arms were wrapped around me, my face buried against his shoulder. He was murmuring something into my hair that I didn’t understand. P
erhaps it was old Stoneborn. The words had a smooth, comforting cadence.

  “I can’t,” I choked out. “I can’t—”

  “It’s alright,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  I hated how easy it was. To believe him. To stay here, enveloped in him. To keep the truth buried inside of myself, where he could not judge me for it.

  We stayed like that, intertwined, for minutes into hours. I breathed the scent of him in and held him, long after we fell back against the floor, and the hours crept towards dawn. I memorized the way his body felt against mine, the beat of his heart and his breathing, the way his limbs wrapped around me with the same deliberate steadiness with which Caduan approached everything else in the world.

  It occurred to me, as sleep began to blur my senses, that all the things that made Caduan seem strange to the world were what made him perfect to me. And that perhaps, when he looked at me, he saw everything the world judged me for. Saw it, and still loved it, even though I didn’t deserve it.

  Get up, a voice inside me begged. This is dangerous.

  But I didn’t.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Max

  I didn’t even remember making it back to the Towers. The next days passed in a blur. I woke in small bursts, minutes at a time, of which I only remember fragments. The pain was breathtaking. I remember looking at my hand, and the black veins that covered it. I remember Sammerin entering the room, taking one look at me, and stating, matter-of-factly, “You look like shit.” I remember sitting up just long enough to look over at Tisaanah, in the bed next to mine, her eyes closed.

  I didn’t dream. Not of my family. Not of Reshaye. Not even of Ilyzath’s whispers. My mind was mercifully silent.

  When I finally awoke, it was because I became aware of movement beside me. Weight — warmth. The familiar tickle of black-and-silver hair.

  I kept my eyes closed, relishing it.

  “I know you are awake, mysterious snake man.”

  “I know you know, demanding rot goddess.”

  My voice sounded like sandpaper. We went silent, listening to each other breathe.

  “You’ve got to stop doing this,” I said, at last.

  “What?”

  “The near death experiences. They’ll kill me if they don’t kill you.”

  I heard her smile in her voice. “I like to live an exciting life, Max. This is part of my charm.”

  “When all this is over, maybe we’ll take up hiking. Something scenic with a low mortality rate.”

  When all this is over.

  The realization dawned on me slowly. Zeryth was dead. The war was over. What did that mean?

  Did that mean it was all over now?

  I almost didn’t want to ask. I wanted to live here, in this moment of potential possibility, as long as I could.

  As if she knew what I was thinking, Tisaanah said, quietly, “It is over.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Max?”

  “I heard you. I just…”

  I just can’t believe it. It just seems too good to be true.

  “Max.”

  “Hm?”

  And what she said next made the world tilt on its axis: “Reshaye is gone.”

  “Gone.”

  Nura stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, repeating the word slowly. Her eyes were narrowed, her stare hard.

  “Yes,” Tisaanah said. “Gone.”

  Nura’s eyes narrowed further.

  She stood by the doorway of our room in the Tower of Midnight. She was wearing the same outfit that she always wore, that white jacket buttoned up to the neck, with one notable difference: the insignia now embroidered on her lapel. A sun and moon eclipsed — the insignia that had been on Zeryth’s jacket, not very long ago.

  Zeryth’s death had given Nura the thing she had always wanted the most: the title of Arch Commandant. Or at least, acting Arch Commandant, surely to become official in a few weeks. Not that there was anyone who was going to challenge her for it, now. Zeryth’s death was cleaned up easily with a thin story from Nura. His supporters gave their loyalty to the Orders, not to him personally. Many breathed a sigh of relief to have the Orders headed by someone more stable.

  I hated Zeryth too much to pity him, but I felt something close to it when I realized how easily the world had moved on without him. He had given up so much to gain power, only to be cast aside as an incidental footnote in history. It was almost sad.

  Almost.

  Now, I struggled to read the look on Nura’s face as her gaze darted from Tisaanah to me and back again. She had remained silent as Tisaanah told her what she had told me — about how she survived the breaking of Zeryth’s curse. About how Reshaye had been the one to die, instead.

  I still found it hard to believe. Sure, in theory, I could see how it could potentially work, at least by the bounds Eomara had laid out. I was feeding Tisaanah my magic, and that kept her alive long enough to have Reshaye trade whatever life it had — if anyone could even call whatever Reshaye had a “life” — for hers.

  It sounded unbelievable, but not any moreso than any other of the insanity that we lived with every damn day. I just wasn’t ready to accept it. Wasn’t ready to let myself believe in that kind of hope.

  “And since then,” Nura said, “you haven’t heard it at all?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “And your magic?”

  Tisaanah extended her hand. Her fingers, like mine, were still blackened, dark veins crawling up the insides of her forearms. Her hands were shaking.

  “Nothing,” Tisaanah said.

  And I knew that was the thing that terrified Tisaanah most of all: this sudden powerlessness.

  Something that even I couldn’t quite decipher flickered across Nura’s face. I half expected her to rage at this development. I knew she considered Reshaye to be the most valuable asset that the Orders held. And for it to disappear now, just as she finally had the power of Arch Commandant within her grasp?

  Good, I thought. I’m glad.

  But if Nura felt this frustration, she didn’t voice it.

  “You’re exhausted,” she said. “It will take weeks for you to recover from this physically, let alone magically. It’s too early for us to tell what Reshaye did or didn’t do.”

  Tisaanah said nothing. But I read the expression on her face, one that said, I know what it did.

  “I think that both of you should go rest for a few weeks,” Nura went on. “Leave the Towers, if you want. Go home.”

  Tisaanah and I exchanged a surprised glance.

  “I’m shocked that you trust us enough to let us leave the Towers,” I said, drily. But Ascended, I wanted nothing more. The word home caught in my mind and lingered there.

  “Oh, I know you’ll be back.” Nura looked to Tisaanah, ghost of a smile on her lips. “Tisaanah has unfinished business to attend to, after all.”

  And sure enough, Tisaanah wore an expression that by now I knew very well — relentless brute force, so at odds with the obvious weakness of her body. I watched a silent battle war across her face.

  “And when I return,” she said, “we will go back to Threll.”

  “When you return, we will go back to Threll. Just as your contract states. You won our war. I have no intention of backing out of our deal.”

  I didn’t miss the slight sour inflection when Nura said our war. Zeryth’s war. I’m sure that killed her.

  Still, I eyed her warily. Something wasn’t right in this response. From the perspective of the Orders, it was objectively unwise to go fight a war in Threll when the one here had only just ended, and she would need those forces to help rebuild her country and squash small rebellions. It would be in her best interest to try to wiggle out of her terms with Tisaanah any way she could. If she wasn’t doing it now, she’d do it later. I was certain of that.

  Tisaanah saw that too, because there was a pinch of skepticism in her expression.

  “Just two weeks,
” she said, at last. “We can recover for two weeks, and then we will come back.”

  “Be realistic with yourself. You can’t even heal a broken bone in two weeks, let alone a broken body. Both of you look like you went through a meat grinder.”

  Tisaanah just shook her head. “Two weeks.”

  Nura shrugged. “Suit yourself, I suppose.”

  And that was that. Tisaanah and I were to leave the Towers the next day.

  Later that afternoon, Sammerin came. He swung open the door — as always, without knocking — and stood there giving me a deadpan stare of utter disapproval.

  “I hear that you have had a very exciting day.”

  “You hear correctly.”

  “Every time I see you, I’m always slightly amazed that you’re still alive.” He shook his head, set down his pack, and set to work on my arm, which still hurt fiercely. But when I pulled up my sleeve, he looked down at the veins on my skin, frowning and silent.

  “I know,” I said. “Unattractive, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know what that is?”

  I paused, Eomara’s words echoing in my head. Now it seemed so obvious that I was amazed that we hadn’t picked up on it sooner. “I think,” I said, quietly, “it’s some form of A’Maril.”

  Sammerin’s gaze shot to me, his silence not hiding his alarm at the thought.

  “I think that the magic that Tisaanah and I have exposes us. Eomara theorized about it. And even Vardir said some things that implied… the magic that we were Wielding was not intended for human bodies.”

  “And that would mean A’Maril,” Sammerin muttered.

  “Right.” I looked down at my hands, veins dark, and thought of how much darker Tisaanah’s were. “I didn’t realize until I fed Tisaanah my magic. It felt like it… magnified everything.”

  “Wait… you—”

  I gave him a weak shrug. “Like you said. It’s been an exciting day.”

  Sammerin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and giving me an expectant stare. I sighed and, of course, I told him the whole sorry thing. When I was done, Sammerin let out a long breath.