Fates

by Lanie Bross

  “A what?” Luc asked.

  “It means she’ll die soon.” Rhys was carrying a woven basket. He set it on a wooden table, and began sorting through it. “A part of her will, anyway. Her body will live. She’ll have to feed in order to survive.”

  “Feed?” Luc nearly choked on the word. “What does that mean?”

  Neither Corinthe nor Rhys answered. Corinthe felt a pulse go through her. Pity. She had a sudden urge to squeeze Luc’s hand. But she didn’t.

  Luc stood up, nearly overturning the bowl of water. The image of Jasmine broke apart. He raked a hand through his hair. “Can I stop it? Can I save her?”

  “Maybe,” Rhys said. He stood, frowning, staring at the ground. Then he said, “I’ve heard say the nectar from the Flower of Life can cure any poison known or unknown, though I’ve never had the opportunity to see it myself.”

  Corinthe’s entire body went rigid and she pursed her lips—not daring to say a word. Her heart beat frantically, thumping against her chest so hard she was certain they’d hear.

  Rhys placed the vial down and walked over to the fireplace, where he pulled something out of a recessed hole in the cave’s wall. He brought it back to the bed.

  The book had a faded leather cover and yellow edges, held closed by a rawhide string that wrapped around it several times. Rhys carefully unwound the string and thumbed through page after page of intricate sketches of flowers and wildlife. If it had been another time, Corinthe would have asked for him to slow down so she could study them. Whoever did them was a talented artist; the flowers looked like they were growing right off the page, and Corinthe felt that if she could only handle the book herself, she might be able to draw life straight out of it. She felt desperate, thirsty for a life energy to replenish what she had lost.

  Rhys’s fingers moved deftly over the illustrations, as though he was feeling their contours. “Grows only at the center of the universe. I have a picture somewhere. … Here it is. The Flower of Life.” Rhys tapped his finger on the page.

  Corinthe sucked in a breath. It was true. She knew that flower, had seen it thousands of times. Seeing the great purple petals, the fernlike leaves that feathered around the stem, made her ache with longing. There was only one growing in the Great Gardens; as a Fate, she had often stared through the heavy iron gate that guarded the Gardens to wonder at its beauty.

  The Flower of Life was in constant bloom, surrounded for miles by fields of lush grass in either direction. It grew in the very edge of the Great Gardens of Pyralis Terra. But as a Fate, she was forbidden to approach it.

  And she knew that anyone who plucked it would die.

  “This flower will cure her?” Luc sounded skeptical.

  “Any poison, known or unknown,” Rhys repeated. “The nectar is the only antidote.” He pointed to the center of the flower.

  Corinthe’s pulse sped up; already, she felt stronger as she began to formulate a plan in her head.

  Luc.

  Luc was the answer. He would bring her to Pyralis.

  If she could stitch his energy—if she could draw it the way she drew it from the flowers and trees—she just might make it to Pyralis. And once they arrived at the gardens, there would be plenty of life to pull from. She could restore her former strength and finish her final task as an Executor. She could kill him and reclaim her rightful place in Pyralis at last. But she had to convince Luc that he needed to take her with him. …

  Luc had returned to the bed. He pulled the book onto his lap and studied the picture of the flower intently, as if he were memorizing it. Dark hair fell over his eyes, and she had a wild urge to brush it away. He shifted a fraction of an inch closer, so their knees touched through their jeans, and she tried to ignore how good it felt to be touching him, even in this small way. Suddenly, the thought of hurting him made her feel sick.

  But it was the only way.

  And feelings, she knew, were a sign that she was growing weaker. They were a sign that she would die.

  “I know where the flower grows,” Corinthe said. “I can take you there.”

  Luc slammed the book shut. “Forget it,” he said, without looking at her.

  “You’ll never find it on your own,” she said neutrally.

  “How do I get there?” Luc asked Rhys, as if Corinthe hadn’t even spoken.

  Rhys shook his head as he picked up his vial. “She’s right. The pathways between the worlds are confusing and treacherous. Easy to get lost if you don’t know where to go.”

  “But you can tell me. You know things.”

  “Some things aren’t meant to be known, boy,” Rhys said.

  “More riddles!” Luc practically shouted the words, and caused Rhys to stumble. His tray tipped and the vial fell to the floor, shattering at his feet. A sweet-smelling liquid pooled on the stone floor.

  “Good thing there’s more where that came from,” Rhys said softly. He put the tray down and stepped over the broken glass, back toward the door.

  “Rhys. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

  “Never mind, Luc.” Rhys waved his hand wearily. “Never mind.”

  After Rhys exited, Luc squatted and began to pick up the pieces of glass, placing them gently in the palm of his hand. He moved slowly and sullenly, like a child who had been reprimanded. He was desperate; Corinthe could feel it. Now was her chance.

  Corinthe lifted the chain around her neck and pushed the tiny button on the back of the locket. It sprang open and tinny music filled the room as the tiny ballerina pirouetted.

  He turned toward her.

  “The flower grows in the Great Gardens of Pyralis. My home. This key can help us to find the gateway and navigate the Crossroad. It will lead us to Pyralis.” She turned to Luc. “I can help you get there quickly.”

  Luc snorted. “Help me?” He shook his head. “Why would you help me? How do I know you won’t use the flower for yourself?”

  “I don’t need the flower,” Corinthe said. “Like I tried to tell you, I just need to get home. My strength will be restored once I set foot on the ground.” She could hear the pleading in her voice but she couldn’t help herself. “You heard what the Healer said. I’m dying. I’m almost out of time. And I need you because I’ll never make it alone. You need me, too. You’ll never find your way without my help. We need each other now.”

  “What about your orders?” Luc asked.

  Corinthe held his gaze. She needed to get to Pyralis, to regain her strength so that she could fulfill her last task, but Luc would never take her with him if he thought she’d try to kill him again. “I couldn’t hurt you right now even if I wanted to,” she said. It was not a direct answer to his question, but it was not a lie, either.

  He stared at her as she closed the locket and tucked it back in her shirt. His gaze was unreadable.

  Staring at him, trying to determine what he was thinking, she had a sudden memory of seeing a library for the first time: carved wooden shelves that held so many words, so many messages, encoded and unread, so many things humans felt they needed to say to one another. It was the first time she had ever felt the urge to cry.

  The distance between them seemed to shrink. She could almost feel his breath on her cheek. Neither moved as the tension grew, vibrated between them. A tightness gripped her chest, making her lungs work extra hard to get air in and out.

  “This doesn’t mean I trust you,” Luc said finally. He turned abruptly and stalked out of the cave, as though to prevent himself from taking back the words.

  Corinthe exhaled. So. It was agreed.

  Rhys cleared his throat to alert her to his presence, a small smile carved crookedly on his face. He moved deeper into the room and arranged his tray. He tipped a small vial into a glass of water. “This won’t stop the poison from doing its job,” he said as he stirred the mixture together, “but it will slow the process. Maybe give you enough time …” His voice trailed off and he handed the glass to her, his white eye unblinking.

  If she didn’t know bette
r, she’d swear Rhys knew what she planned to do.

  She wanted to explain but thought better of it.

  “Thank you,” she said. She swallowed the bitter contents of the glass. She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I … don’t make the decisions of the universe. They aren’t up to me, you know.” For a moment, she felt a wave of sadness. She would never be able to explain to Luc; she had never been able to explain to anyone.

  Loneliness: that was the word.

  Rhys reached out and squeezed her hand.

  “You have a tough journey ahead. I don’t envy you. But just remember—it is the voyage that’s the test, ain’t it?”

  Corinthe nodded, even though she didn’t exactly understand what he meant.

  “Take this,” he said, placing a second tiny vial into her hands. It was the same color as the liquid he had just given her.

  Corinthe’s chest felt tight. “Thank you,” she said, fighting to find the words. “For everything.” Already she felt stronger. She pushed off her blankets and managed to stand up. For a second, black clouds consumed her vision, but they dissipated quickly. She smiled—and then, struck with an idea, removed the other crystal earring and pressed the pair into Rhys’s palm.

  “For you,” she said. There was more she wanted to say. She wanted to ask him where he had come from, and why he’d been exiled, and whether he was some kind of Guardian for this planet, like Miranda in Humana. But thinking of Miranda made her chest ache, and she couldn’t get the words out.

  He held up the earrings to the light. Mags hopped up and down on her perch, emitting several excited high-pitched shrieks.

  “Beautiful.” His voice sounded wistful as the crystals scattered bright diamonds of colored lights over the walls.

  “Can you … can you see, truly?” Corinthe asked.

  Rhys smiled. “I see with my mind,” he said. “That’s enough.”

  “Yes,” Corinthe agreed, and squeezed his callused hand.

  Rhys coughed. “You’ll need these,” he said, his voice turning gruff again. He handed her a pair of worn leather boots and a thick canvas pack. “The journey over the mountains is a rough one. The nights get bitter cold, so I packed a few things you might need to get through.”

  Corinthe slipped her feet into the boots and laced them up. They were a little big, but that didn’t matter. Then she shouldered the pack.

  “Are you ready?” Luc stood at the mouth of the cave. His mouth was set in a line. Corinthe nodded.

  She was ready.

  Rhys pulled a folded piece of paper from another hole in the cave wall. He handed it to Luc. “A full day’s walk over the mountain, there is a river of darkness that runs in two directions. It’s rumored to be a gateway, though I’ve never tried to use it myself. The map should lead you straight to it, as long as you stay on the path.”

  “Thank you,” Luc said. Corinthe said nothing. She had already spoken her thanks—had spoken the words and felt them insufficient.

  “I hope you both find what you’re looking for,” Rhys said. “Safe journeys, my friends.”

  Corinthe felt Rhys watching them, long after they had pushed out of the mouth of the cave, long after they had once again emerged into the land of blazing sun and chalky heat. She was grateful that Rhys hadn’t said anything to Luc, hadn’t told him who she was or what she must do.

  Even though he knew—he must have known—that their journey could end only one way.

  13

  “I thought I might find you here.” His voice was low, gravelly and familiar.

  Miranda didn’t turn around. She didn’t move at all. She continued to stare at the arrangement of twisted metal and desiccated branches, like a gnarled hand reaching for the sky. It was, she knew, meant to represent an exploding star.

  It was crudely done. Stars, when they exploded, were far more delicate, far more vast and powerful, than the statue could suggest. Still, it was a monument to her kind, and for that reason, it moved her.

  Overhead, the two suns were beginning their descent toward the rust-red horizon.

  She gathered a handful of brown petals and tossed them into the air. They immediately began spinning, as if lifted by powerful winds. With a flick of her wrist, Miranda directed the winds and sent the leaves off the edge of the cliff. They separated and floated away in all directions.

  Just like we have.

  “You take a chance being here with me,” she said at last, tilting her chin just slightly toward her shoulder to acknowledge him. Now she scooped up a handful of red dirt, reminded of an hourglass as she watched it run through her fingers.

  Time is running out.

  This world was nearly dead. The heat was sweltering; the sun burned everything to the same uniform red dust. It was a terrible place, and Miranda thought with sudden bitterness that she would rather destroy the whole universe than be exiled here again.

  “I’ve never been much for following rules,” Rhys answered, lowering himself next to her. Bottles clinked in his jacket.

  Miranda allowed herself to smile. A chemist. Once Rhys had been so powerful—a controller of winds and an exploder of worlds. But his residence in this world, and distance from the Tribunal, had taken its toll. It had sucked the energy, the will, from both of them. Their powers were diminished. This was the natural way of their kind—a slow, agonized dissipation, just like a comet smoothing down to dust as it flies through space.

  He looked older than she remembered. More tired. Radicals could combine with other forces of chaos and grow stronger, burn fiery and bright. That was the Tribunal. Like a black hole in space, they formed a dense energy, ever increasing in its power.

  But Rhys had forsaken all that to save her life. He had reversed time to save her, but at a great price.

  It ate away at Miranda every time she saw him, which was why she avoided the Land with the Two Suns. The taste of guilt was bitter, like the taste of dust itself. Sometimes it felt as though she could actually see her betrayal, as if it had a physical form that floated between them. Nothing was the same after she had chosen to align her loyalties with Ford, to work with him.

  Rhys had warned against it. He’d said Ford was too volatile, too dangerous—and that his strength would burn them both in the end. But Ford was the most brilliant and powerful Radical either of them had ever known.

  And now she knew she’d changed too much to ever go back to Rhys. He didn’t approve of what she’d become. She hated to think of what he thought of her now.

  “You should have let me die,” she said. “Look at you, at where you’ve ended up. Is this what you wanted?”

  “You’re alive,” Rhys said. He took her hand in his rough, callused one. “That’s all I wanted.”

  Miranda remembered the first time he had ever touched her, how a whole galaxy had broken apart. The memory was bittersweet.

  “There’s still time to change your course.” Rhys turned to look at her, his white eye wide and unblinking.

  Once, Rhys’s eyes had been the deepest shade of blue, like the sky before a powerful storm. She could lose herself inside of them. She had lost herself, for so long.

  That was before this place had taken his sight; taken, too, apparently, his will to fight. Now he was reduced to tending to a never-ending sea of shadows, with an overgrown pigeon as his eyes and sole companion.

  In her heart, she was doing this as much for Rhys as for herself. Someone needed to pay for all the pain they’d suffered, for the loss of freedom … of love.

  “It’s too late,” she said.

  Old feelings, emotions long suppressed, swirled inside Miranda—fierce and hot. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She wanted to burst apart into a million pieces and scream until the sky fell.

  “All my charge has to do is kill a boy,” Miranda said. “Once she has done it, once she has made her choice and refused the orders of the Unseen Ones, it will alter the very balance of the universe. It will topple their strength and order. It must.”

 
; Miranda had spent years guiding Corinthe, and the girl trusted her. There was no reason for Corinthe to believe the marble didn’t show truth. Or to suspect that it showed a more complex truth than she could immediately decipher.

  She would do as Miranda had tasked her. She was a Fate—fallen, perhaps, humiliated and exiled. But still a Fate. Obeying was what she did.

  Rhys sat quietly for a long time. “Have you forgotten about the greatest force in the universe?” he asked slowly.

  “Choice?” Miranda shook her head. “You don’t understand. This will be her choice.”

  Rhys ran his fingers over her arm. “Not choice, Mira. Love.”

  Mira. A name she had not heard in over a decade. It made her heart ache with an all-too-familiar longing.

  Mira and Rhys. Created from the same star. Out of death, a new purpose—born of the same energies, the same fierce will.

  But not anymore.

  Weariness weighed on her. This dry, dead place sucked the life out of everything. It was sucking the life out of her. Was she even capable of love anymore? Or had that, too, been sucked out of her after years in exile?

  She had once believed, like Rhys, that love was the most powerful force. But she knew now that the desire to live, to thrive, was even more powerful. Corinthe would choose to kill Luc because it meant that she would live.

  “Your selfishness will destroy everything.” Rhys’s voice grew huskier. “You’re no better than they are, Mira. You’re playing with fate now.”

  “Don’t say that.” Miranda stood up. She had had enough of this world—enough of Rhys, too. “Corinthe and the boy can still make their own choices.”

  “And yet the boy’s sister becomes a Blood Nymph, and he travels the Crossroad as a human.” Rhys stood as well. “Are you telling me you had no role in that?”

  Miranda turned her back on him, furious that he still knew her so well. She had brought Jasmine to the Forest of Blood Nymphs; it was the only way to ensure the sister would be trapped and unable to interfere. And yet Miranda had made a mistake, not realizing she’d opened up the gateway and allowed the boy to enter the Crossroad. It was the only mistake she’d made, but it would certainly be her last. Everything else would fall into place.