by Melissa Grey
“What?”
“Fear. That’s it. It’s like this yawning chasm in my memory has swallowed everything that’s not fear. It’s like a black hole. I remember what it felt like to be afraid to leave my room in the morning. To expect to be hurt if I dropped a plate or didn’t put away the dishes just right. I remember fear and pain and humiliation and the unique sense of betrayal that comes from the realization that the one person in the world who should love you automatically, unconditionally, doesn’t. There’s nothing quite like that.”
The sun continued to drop below the horizon. Soon, shadows would creep through the trees, blanketing the valley in the cover of night. There was an ache in her chest that felt like a knot. Talking to Rowan felt like pulling at that knot with clumsy hands in a vain attempt to unravel it. Airing her burden hadn’t made Echo feel any lighter, but now that the words were tumbling forth, she felt powerless to prevent their escape.
“Sometimes, I wonder what went through her mind the first time she hit me. I don’t remember if she was drunk or sober. Not that it really matters; she was awful either way. But I’ve always been curious. I was her child. She gave me life and it was like she didn’t even care.” And now the awful truth, the secret worry she’d kept hidden, even from herself. “Sometimes, I wonder if it’s genetic. I don’t know if she was always rotten, or if her soul went bad gradually, like sour milk. But if she could turn bad, then maybe I can too.” Echo gnawed on her lower lip. The skin felt trapped and dry, yet the discomfort, however minor, was a welcome distraction. “But there’s one thing that still confuses me. I saw the vision with my mother and you saw a nightmare with me dying, right? We both had to overcome those dreams or hallucinations or whatever you want to call them in order to escape and enter the temple, but…”
Her voice trailed off. The image of her city in ruins was as vivid as it had been when she’d been in it. Every detail stood out in excruciating detail: The smoke curling against an ashen sky. The bite of a bullet as it pierced her skin. The way the hatred in Ivy’s eyes had been flecked with sorrow.
“I didn’t see one vision,” said Echo. “I saw two.”
Rowan’s brow furrowed. “Two? Why would the mountain make you go through that twice?”
Echo shook her head, equally perplexed. “I don’t know. All I know is that I saw myself standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue, surrounded by chaos and destruction, and it was all my fault. It wasn’t like the first vision. I didn’t have to overcome anything to get out.” She remembered Ivy’s finger on the trigger, how her friend’s hand hadn’t shaken even the slightest bit before pulling it. “I died, I think. And then I woke up in the temple.”
Rowan hummed in consideration. “Maybe it wasn’t a test.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we all had to face a fear to get to the temple. We had to face the thing that scared us the most and overcome it to, I don’t know, prove that we were worthy or something. And we all did. But maybe your second vision wasn’t a test.”
“Then what would it be?” Echo asked.
Rowan’s expression settled into grim lines. He looked older than he had when they’d entered the mountain. “I think it was a warning, meant only for you.”
“Because I’m the firebird,” Echo said. “And the prophecy never guaranteed I’d be good or evil, light or dark. It could go either way.” A thought occurred to her, sudden and terrible. “Maybe that’s why the kuçedra is drawn to me. It can sense the darkness inside me.”
Rowan took her hand and held it tightly between both of his. “There might be darkness in you, but there’s light, too. There always has been. And it’s a lot stronger than you realize. I’m not talking about Echo the firebird. I’m talking about Echo the person. I know you. I’ve known you since you were a snot-nosed brat, stealing anything shiny or edible you could get your grubby little hands on. Your genetics don’t determine the kind of person you are. Neither does your upbringing. Being good is a choice you make, and I’ve seen you make it every day for the past ten years, in the way you take care of the Ala and the Avicelings and Ivy and me. You are kind, and you are brave, and you care about people. Really, truly, selflessly care. Do you realize how rare that is? If kindness and bravery were easy to pull off, the world would be a much sunnier place. And if you can’t believe in yourself yet, then know that I believe in you. I believe in your goodness and your light, especially when you can’t see it.” He shrugged, punctuating the movement with a weary sigh. “Maybe the mountain had a more tough-love approach to reminding you that it’s your choices that define you, not fate.”
Echo wanted to believe him. She wanted it more than anything else. “But…Ruby.” The name was heavy between them, like a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The memory of that night rose to the surface. A splash of blood on marble tile, warm and viscous and as bright as a gemstone. The scrape of steel against bone. The squelching sound the dagger made as she pulled it free. The way the soles of her boots slipped in the widening pool of Ruby’s blood. “That’s the kind of stain that doesn’t wash away.”
Rowan’s shoulders stiffened, his lips pressed together in a tight line. His hold on her hand slackened, but he didn’t let go. “I’ve thought about that day a lot. For a while it was the only thing I could think about. I kept wondering what I could have done differently. If I could have saved her. If I could have stopped you from doing what you did.” He kept her hand in one of his and ran the other through his hair-feathers, smoothing down the unruly strays. They gleamed gold and bronze in the dying light. When he looked at her, Echo felt as if she were gazing into the eyes of a stranger. He’d changed so much in her absence. His youthful softness had hardened as he’d traveled the path from boy to man. There was experience in those hazel eyes. Wisdom. Compassion. And determination. “I thought about every possibility, every potential scenario. And do you know what conclusion I came to?”
Echo arched an eyebrow in lieu of a question.
“I realized—Altair helped me realize that I had to forgive myself. I couldn’t move on, I couldn’t learn from any of it if I let my guilt consume me. And in forgiving myself, I found that I was able to forgive you.”
“There is no way in hell Altair said that last part.”
A rueful smile played at the corners of Rowan’s mouth. “No, not in so many words.” He chuckled softly, and the sound of it was a little sad, a little tragic. “Turns out forgiving you is a lot easier than forgiving myself. But I have to try.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I think that’s the best anyone can do. We never, ever let ourselves forget the things that have happened, good or bad, but that doesn’t mean we’re trapped by them. They inform us. They don’t define us.”
Echo leaned against his side. When he didn’t protest, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You got a lot smarter in my absence.”
“Yeah, well, someone had to pick up the slack with you gone.” He raised his shoulder, jostling her playfully. “Although I think my supply of sappy self-awareness has been depleted. How about we—”
His words were cut off by the sound of someone crashing through the bushes, twigs snapping underfoot. Echo and Rowan scrambled to their feet. Caius burst into the circle of their camp, his eyes wild, the sleeve of one arm soaked with blood. “It’s Tanith,” Caius gasped. His forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat. “We have to find her. Now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
They stood on a forgotten spit of land miles from civilization, the crisp salt scent of the North Sea filling Echo’s lungs with a powerful longing. It reminded her of homesickness, but this home had never been hers.
Hiraeth, Echo thought. Welsh. “Homesickness tinged with sorrow.” It was the only word she could think of to describe what she was feeling—what Rose was feeling.
Her skin felt too tight, like there wasn’t enough room in her body for all the emotion it held. When the dark swirls of the in-between faded, Rose had surged forward, summoned by recognition. The island h
adn’t changed much since her death. The gently sloping hills were still covered with long, yellow-green grass that swayed lazily in the breeze. The shore was still composed of pebbles that gave way to wet sand. The sky was still full of streams of drab white clouds cutting across a field of gray, as if the heavens themselves hid their colors in mourning.
The most noticeable difference was the cabin. What had once been a modest single-room dwelling, with a chimney cheerfully puffing smoke and a cluster of stubborn flowers growing in the equally modest garden, was now nothing but barely visible ruins. Weeds poked up from between the rotted remnants of the floorboards, and moss coated the logs that had survived the blaze. The bricks from the fireplace had collapsed in a messy pile.
Caius stood in what had once been the center of the cabin, his hands at his sides, his face inscrutable. Not a single tear fell from his dry eyes. He didn’t even frown. He simply kept his gaze, shadowed with grief, trained on the ground.
“What’s he doing?” Rowan’s voice was a hushed whisper, as if he, too, could feel the island’s funereal pall, even if he didn’t understand why sorrow clung to this place like a heavy perfume.
“Mourning,” said Echo.
Rowan nodded, silent. Caius was not—would never be—his favorite person, but there was something about witnessing a soul shrouded in grief that had the power to soften even Rowan’s belligerence.
Echo knew, without being told, that this was the first time Caius had returned to the island, to the cabin, this woeful monument to a love forged in secrecy and destroyed by fire. He had never visited the spot where Rose’s ashes had been left, either absorbed by the dirt or carried off by the wind, never to be given a proper burial. Echo felt Rose retreat, as if she, too, were swallowed whole by memories of happiness lost and a future stolen.
When Caius spoke, his voice was rough, as if chiseled by sadness. “We should go. We have to find Tanith.” His eyes were the darkest shade of green Echo had ever seen. “The battlefield isn’t too far from here.”
As they picked their way around rocks and the odd plank of wood marking the location of the village that had been leveled during the fighting, Echo slipped her hand into Caius’s. His fingers tightened around hers in a silent gesture of gratitude. If Rowan felt even the slightest inkling of condemnation to her gesture, he kept such thoughts to himself. This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t even about Echo. This was about Caius and his pain and doing the least she could possibly do to alleviate it, to remind him that he wasn’t alone.
They came to a meadow of knee-high grass dotted with little clusters of white and yellow flowers.
In the center of the meadow, a lone figure knelt, nearly hidden by the tall grass. Blond hair whipped around her head, and the edges of her scarlet cloak fluttered in the wind.
Caius relinquished his hold on Echo’s hand. “Stay here,” he said softly.
Echo took a step forward, ready to argue, but Rowan’s hand on her arm stilled her.
“Echo. Please.” The plaintive quality of Rowan’s request was more effective than the hold he had on her forearm. She would stay put. For now.
She studied the sight before her, some primal alarm beginning to sound in the back of her mind. There was something about the downward tilt of Tanith’s head and the defeated set of her shoulders that silenced Echo’s protest. Tanith didn’t look dangerous; she looked sad. Echo inched forward. Rowan barely even put up a fight. His curiosity, it would seem, was just as strong as hers.
Caius approached his sister, feet barely making a sound. “Tanith?”
She looked up, expression drawn and hesitant. “Caius?” Her voice was small and scared, as if she weren’t certain whether her brother was real or imagined. Her hollow cheeks were tinged pink, dirtied by a combination of tears and dried blood, and her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Her golden gown was soiled, and her exposed arms were covered in gashes. This was not the fearsome warrior who had rained fire down on the Black Forest. Echo felt a tug of something she thought she would never feel toward the person who had snuffed out lives as easily as blowing out candles: pity.
But that pity dissolved the closer Echo came to the place where Tanith knelt. She hadn’t come to this island alone. Wind rustled the grass, revealing hints of crimson fabric and gilded armor arrayed in a circle around Tanith: Firedrakes, nearly hidden by the tall grass, bodies frightfully still. They were all dead.
Tanith lowered her head again as Caius and Echo approached, her red eyes transfixed by the sight of blood on her hands. “I needed a sacrifice,” she said softly, as if to herself. “It wouldn’t come without a sacrifice.”
A sacrifice, Echo thought. Like the one she’d made to unleash the firebird. But that had been a selfless act, powered by her desire to save not herself but her friends. This…this was a senseless act of violence, designed to court a darker power. A binding required a death. Echo had given the firebird hers. Tanith had given the kuçedra the lives of those who had followed her here.
“I had to come here,” Tanith continued. “The ritual said…” Her voice fractured and the words scattered.
“What?” Caius prompted. “What did the ritual say?”
Tanith’s voice was small and broken when she answered. “I had to find the place where my heart felt its darkest.” Her eyes slid to meet Caius’s. “This is where I hurt you the most. You loved a girl and I stole her from you.” A black-veined hand hovered near Caius’s chest, over his heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Echo inched even closer. The gashes on Tanith’s arms weren’t random. Even with the crusted rivulets of blood running down her skin, Echo could see that the marks formed the shapes of runes. The veins in her forearms showed blue black through her pale skin.
They were too late, Echo realized. The kuçedra had already been bound to Tanith. The Dragon Prince had performed the ritual, and the darkness had found its anchor, its vessel. It lived in Tanith now just as the firebird lived within Echo. No longer was it a wild force weaving a path of indiscriminate destruction through the world—now it had a will to guide it.
Caius fell to his knees beside Tanith and pulled her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder, her body racked by a harsh, broken sob. “What have I done? Oh gods, what have I done?” Caius stroked her hair from her face while she mumbled the question over and over, begging for absolution that would never come, not now that she had called such a force to her side and bound herself to it. No longer was the kuçedra a free entity, wandering the earth like a lost and monstrous child. It belonged to Tanith, body and soul, the way the firebird belonged to Echo.
“I’m sorry,” Tanith mumbled again and again. “I’m so sorry.”
Caius cradled his sister’s face in his hands. He was gentler than Echo had ever seen him. “It’ll be all right,” he promised. “We can fight this, Tanith. Together.”
“Caius, we can’t help her,” Echo said. As she watched, something black and viscous began to spread through the veins in Tanith’s arms, racing through her bloodstream. Dark tendrils wound around her neck, stretching toward her jaw, her cheeks. Inching closer and closer to Caius’s hands.
“She’s right,” Tanith agreed, her voice distant and sad. She lifted a hand, reaching for Caius’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Brother.”
White-hot fear coursed through Echo. Somehow she knew that if Tanith’s hand touched Caius, something terrible would happen. The veins in Tanith’s hand grew even blacker, like shadows pumped through them instead of blood.
She was contaminated. And if she placed any infected part of her on Caius, the contagion would seep into him. The kuçedra had claimed Tanith, and now, like a parasite, it wanted to spread.
Echo shouted a warning and raised one hand, acting without thinking. Flames leaped from her palm, racing through the air to crash against Tanith’s side. Shadows spooled around Tanith like a shield, but the force of the blow was enough to knock her away from Caius. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, looking down at her blac
k-veined arms in a daze. Caius started toward her, as if to help her stand. Echo pulled him back.
“No,” she said firmly. “There’s nothing you can do for her.”
His face was stricken. He looked helpless. “But I have to help her.”
Echo shook her head, sadness swelling with her urgency. “She’s beyond our help now.” She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Caius. Please.”
Tanith struggled to her feet, gown shredded from the knees down, red eyes darkened by shadows. Her lips curled back into a snarl, and Echo knew then that Tanith was lost. Orange fire crackled to life around Tanith’s fists, and she lifted her hands, lining up her target.
Echo tugged on Caius’s arm. Fire, wild and uncontrolled, burned a ring in the grass around Tanith. They had only two options: flee or die.
With a snarl, Tanith surged forward, grabbing Caius by the arm and pulling him toward her.
Echo lunged before she had time to consider that it was maybe a terrible idea. Rowan reached for her, but she was faster, slipping through his grasp as she threw herself forward. She collided with Tanith and Caius with enough force to send them all toppling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. She could not let Tanith infect Caius with whatever dark magic was pumping through her veins. Echo’s hand shot out to smack Tanith’s away. The moment their bare skin connected, the world around Echo fell away. Gone was the salt of the sea air, the tall yellow grass, the blood-soaked earth. It was almost like traveling through the in-between: she felt the same weightlessness, the same sense of being everywhere and nowhere as her molecules floated through the unseen spaces of the world. But when she opened her eyes, it was not the velvety blackness of the in-between that greeted her. She was standing in a quiet room bathed in the warm glow of firelight.