by Sadie Moss
But I still don’t understand what they think is so different about me.
I’m awake enough by now that listening to them argue about me while I’m sitting right here is getting obnoxious. I shift in the strong arms that hold me, trying to get my hands beneath me so that I can sit up properly. Maybe if I can regain some kind of control over my own body, I’ll feel a little more in control of my thoughts.
For a moment, I think Callum isn’t going to let me go. I give a gentle but firm tug, and his grip finally eases, although a displeased noise rumbles in his chest. He helps me to a sitting position, but he doesn’t let go of my arms.
Maybe he’s afraid I won’t be able to stay upright without assistance.
No, that’s not it.
As I blink up at him, the look on his face is wary and suspicious—as if he thinks that if he doesn’t hold me in place, I’ll do something stupid.
Regardless of the reasons for it, I don’t struggle against his grip. I’m not in any hurry to march back to the throne and do that light floating all over again, but I am still groggy from the blow to my head. I touch the back of my skull with a pained hiss, my fingers probing the burgeoning knot.
“Are you all right?” Callum asks, worry making his voice rough as he pulls me against his chest again.
I throw a hand between us and brace against the hard planes of his muscles. “I’m—I’m fine. Just give me a moment.”
He looks as if he wants to argue with me or force me to lie back down, but he refrains.
The three messengers remain silent as I cast my gaze around the throne room and get my bearings. The throne is no longer glowing, and I don’t feel weave magic burning in the air as it did when I was cocooned in the light. But I remember vividly what it felt like to be floating in that energy.
What was that?
Certainly not a hidden person—a hidden god—like I’d hoped. Looking at the throne now, it appears to be nothing more than an innocuous, lavish stone chair.
“How do you feel?” Echo asks, obviously not any more satisfied with my two-word answer than Callum was. But unlike Callum, he doesn’t seem angry or upset. There’s a giddy undercurrent to his tone, an almost gleeful excitement.
His question makes me pause and take stock of my body. How do I feel?
Besides the knot on my head, I feel fine. Better with every passing moment I’m awake, at least. Everything seems finer and brighter, as if the bump on my head knocked things into clarity somehow.
“I feel all right,” I report, meeting his gaze. “Truly. Though I’m furious that there’s no leader here. The Weaver was the only hope we had left. This entire journey was in vain.” As I speak, hot tears rise in my eyes, but I blink them back—I refuse to fall victim to my emotions right now. Blowing out a breath, I shake my head. “I apologize for dragging you here. It was all for nothing.”
Echo and Paris exchange a glance. Then Echo kneels down in front of me, his dark eyes shining and his brows slightly raised. “Our quest might not have been in vain, little soul.”
“Clearly, it was.” With a bitter chuckle, I motion to the empty throne.
“There’s no Weaver here now,” Paris says pointedly, looking down at me with the same strange look on his face as Echo has. “But that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be one.”
They’re making so little sense, I’m starting to think maybe I have a concussion from the blow to my skull. My mind feels addled as I try to piece together their meaning.
“I don’t… I’m not sure I follow. My head…”
I lift my hand to the back of my head again, testing the bruise. Then I reach up into the weave and pluck at the strings, marveling at how easily they shift and come alive beneath my fingers. The magic in this realm really is more magnificent than on earth or in Ironholde. I wrap the strands around my muscle and bone, gently easing the pain and working on the spot until the knot is gone.
Callum, Paris, and Echo watch me in total silence. When I finally release the magic and look back up at them huddled around me, my thoughts are clearer without the pain pressing in on my head.
“There’s no Weaver in the palace, but there could be one somewhere else?” I ask to clarify.
“Or there could be a Weaver right here.” Paris’s lips curve into a half-smile.
I glance around the room, confused. “Can you see something I can’t?”
“Yes, I think maybe we can.” The blond messenger nods, exchanging glances with Echo again. They both grin as if they’re the bearers of some great secret, and irritation floods me.
Exasperated, I blurt, “Would you two please stop talking in circles and tell me what’s going on? Where is the Weaver?”
Echo, still crouched in front of me, reaches out and takes my hand. His expression grows suddenly serious, although I can still feel energy vibrating out from him.
“I could be looking at her right now. Sage… you could be the Weaver.”
17
What?
My skin grows cold, and I stare at Echo in shock. I could be the Weaver? There’s no way I heard him correctly. They think that I’m the god to rule all gods? What on earth would make them think that?
The idea is completely mad. So mad, in fact, that when I finally get my wits back, I burst out laughing.
All three men stare at me as if I’ve lost my mind, and quite frankly, they’re probably not wrong.
But Echo’s lost his mind too, so we’re in good company.
“You can’t be serious,” I gasp out when my laughter peters away. “I’m just a lowly human soul. Even Kaius said so, and he would know, being a god and all.”
Paris laughs. “As if Kaius is the pinnacle of knowledge.”
“Or the pinnacle of wisdom. Or a good judge of character.” Anger sparks in Echo’s voice at the mention of the god he and his brothers once served. But then his dark gaze catches mine again, and he squeezes my hand. “I know it sounds crazy. But, Sage, I’ve spent the most time training you in how to use the weave. There’s something different about your grasp of the magic.”
“Yes. It’s terrible,” I point out. “I doubt the Weaver is so bad with magic. If that poor dead madman is right, the Weaver is in control of all magic in existence. Whoever this god is, he or she isn’t a complete novice like me.” I scoff. “For nish’s sake, I just accidentally manipulated the weave when I had a bad dream a few nights ago.”
“Accidentally,” Paris repeats, speaking slowly, “or because you have such a strong, innate connection to the magic that it responds to your every mood and emotion?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I sit up a little straighter, feeling a headache coming on for an entirely new reason. “It took weeks of training just to get me to the point where I could touch the weave. Do you both realize how crazy you sound right now? I’ve struggled with every step of the process as I’ve learned to use the weave. It did not come easily.”
“You struggled with the weave on earth and in our realm,” Echo corrects. Neither he nor Paris seem the slightest bit put off by my words. “Here in the third realm, you can’t tell me you haven’t used it easily for every battle. Or for navigating the maze that led us. And just now, you healed the bruise on your head without asking any of us for help. Without even thinking.”
I touch the spot where my head hit the floor and find that all the tenderness is gone. He’s right, of course—I healed the wound almost unconsciously. It hurt, so I reached for magic around and made it stop hurting.
But my ease of using the weave here in the third realm does not mean I’m the Weaver.
I drop my hand back to my lap. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“The crazy soul in the dungeon may not have been wrong, exactly,” Echo goes on, his enthusiasm ramping up again. “He was right about the existence of this place. About how to get here. So maybe he was right about this too, even if we misinterpreted his words at first. Maybe this is a realm where someone could become the Weaver, if they were able to tap int
o the full power of existence. Maybe the Weaver existed before—”
“Or maybe a hundred have existed in the history of the universe,” Paris cuts in, sounding as excited as Echo about the prospect. “One after the other, called to the position when the time came for them to ascend to power.”
Echo nods. “Even though there isn’t a weaver here now, this place is obviously here for a reason. This castle and this realm. All of this exists for some purpose.”
“And this place clearly holds power,” Paris says. “You led us unerringly through the maze with nothing but the weave at your fingertips.”
My gaze bounces back and forth between them, my eyes wide and my expression frozen in shock. I feel as if I’m staring at a couple of men as mad as the broken soul in the dungeon.
Finally, I turn to Callum. “What do you think? Do you have anything to add to this circus?”
The broad-shouldered man just presses his lips together and crosses his arms, remaining stonily silent as he glares at his brothers. Clearly, he’s unconvinced as well, which explains why he was arguing so feverishly when I woke up.
Echo and Paris want me to be the Weaver—they think I actually could be—and Callum doesn’t believe the possibility.
Truth be told, I don’t see how it could be possible either. But the two men gazing at me are both so earnest that I let out a weary sigh and decide to play along.
“If you’re right,” I say, eyeing Echo with the full force of my skepticism, “and the Weaver is a person who somehow earns the position, why not you? Any one of you? You’re much more powerful than I am.”
“No, I don’t believe we are.” Echo chews his lip, standing abruptly. “And I don’t think anybody in this room but you could take that throne. Watch. Paris?”
Paris gives his brother a lazy salute, then strides along the black runner carpet that leads to the dais. He darts gracefully up the stairs and steps onto the platform. With entirely too many dramatics, he walks in a circle around the throne, trailing his fingers over the stone the entire way, before he sits down on the cushion and shrugs.
“No magic light, is there?” He glances around himself before looking pointedly back at me. “Not like when you walked toward the throne.”
The mention of the magic light sends a thrill of excitement through me. I have a sudden vivid memory of being cocooned inside it, feeling the raw power filtering through me, and I shiver.
As Paris comes back down the stairs, Echo walks toward the dais, passing him on the carpet.
“There was no light when Callum approached the throne upon our arrival, if you recall.” Echo reaches the stairs and turns backward, stepping up them nimbly while keeping his gaze on me. He executes an elegant bow, then gestures at the throne behind him. “No light. Should I sit for further confirmation?”
I huff out a breath. “That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been a fluke; some kind of glitch in the weave. It could have been a protection spell, and I tripped it by walking into it. So now the protection spell is gone, and that’s why you’re not setting off the light, whatever it was.”
Neither man looks convinced. Echo leaves the throne’s dais. “If you really believe that, you try.” He motions to the platform. “Walk up there and see what happens. If you truly believe it was a protection spell, you have nothing to lose.”
Paris offers me a hand up, his lips quirked into a knowing grin.
Farse it all. They have me right where they want me. If I refuse to walk up there, I’ll be admitting defeat, acknowledging that I know something is strange about me and about the throne.
I let out a long, loud sigh— so that neither man can mistake my irritation with him—and let Paris haul me to my feet. Then I brush off the back of my dress as Echo comes to stand beside me.
“What if it throws me again?”
I glance at the throne warily. Now that it comes down to it, I’m a little afraid to step close to it again. The power that poured through me when I encountered the light before overwhelming.
Terrifying.
Too much.
“It didn’t throw you,” Echo replies, flicking a glance over my shoulder, where Callum stands like a statue. “Not really. Callum ran to you when it had you floating in air, and the minute he touched the light, you were thrown clear.”
I look over my shoulder at Callum, who nods once to indicate Echo is telling the truth. His arms are still crossed, and I swear if I touched him right now, his muscles would feel like granite.
Taking a shaky breath, I move forward a few hesitant steps.
My heart beats hard, a mixture of adrenaline and fear pumping through my veins. I’m not entirely on board with Echo’s theory. There’s an unfortunate chaos in having an empty throne that rules over all the gods, and I’m not sure I want that chaos to rest firmly on my shoulders. Most of the time, I’m not even sure I know what I’m doing with things as they are.
Add a third realm, and the responsibility of ending a war between the gods, and fear turns my limbs to ice.
Just like the raging, burning power, it all feels like too much.
As I near the throne, the glow flares to life. My breath catches in my throat as my body once again goes weightless, though this time I’m prepared for the change in atmosphere and am able to remain on my feet.
The power fills up the space around me, making me feel as if I’m floating in water. I move forward, the light growing brighter and the magic expanding inside me. With every step, it becomes more powerful, more saturated, until I feel as if it’s blasting through my body, shooting right through me the way the sun’s rays penetrate fog.
My steps become heavy. I force my feet forward, one in front of the other, until I feel like I might be eviscerated by the power. I’m taking in more power than I can handle, and it’s painful, like the brilliant light cutting through me is attempting to split me in half.
But I have to make this work.
I have to at least try.
We came all this way, and there is no other god here. So if Paris and Echo think I have even a small chance of becoming the Weaver, I can’t give up until I give it everything I have.
I put a foot on the bottom step and reach for the throne, as if focusing on getting to it will keep me on my feet or keep my body from exploding with the power coursing through me.
It burns.
Oh, farse, it burns.
The light is too intense, and I can feel it everywhere inside me now. As if I’m being sunburned from the inside out.
There are only four steps leading up to the throne. It’s so close. My foot rests on the first stair, my hand outstretched in front of me.
I’m so close.
But I might as well be a hundred miles away. I throw all my strength into lifting my back foot, trying to reach the next step, but the resistance seems to increase tenfold with every inch I move.
I bare my teeth in a silent scream, pushing harder, shoving myself into the resistance of the light.
The light overwhelms me, and I have a sudden terrifying certainty that if I push forward any more, parts of me will be sloughed off by the intense, burning magic until eventually there’s nothing left of me at all.
But I… have… to… try.
My body aching from the effort, I finally manage to lift my back foot off the floor. I force it slowly toward the steps—
Only to be snatched backward by strong hands.
The magic hurls me away just like it did last time, but Callum keeps his hold on me, using his large body to break our fall as we crash to the floor and skid across the room.
The light blinks out of existence, and in its absence, the massive throne room seems dimmer and colder, and my body becomes infinitely heavier.
Callum’s arms tighten around my waist as he grunts, breathing heavily. The farther we get from the throne and the now extinguished light, the more the power that has built up inside me drains away. This time, without the abrupt loss of consciousness, I can feel the way my entire
body shakes, as if I was almost blasted apart. As if the pieces of me are still so close to scattering like ash in the wind.
For a moment, we just lie tangled up together, Callum’s large body beneath mine. Then he rolls us over, releasing his tight hold on me and hauling me to my feet.
I catch my balance before I keel over on wobbly legs, and then whirl on him, ready to give him a piece of my mind. If I don’t do this, we have no chance of winning this war. He can’t just manhandle me away from our last possible hope.
But when our eyes meet, the words die on my tongue. There’s such anguish behind the fury in his gaze that I don’t even open my mouth to scold him.
“Don’t ever do that again!” he roars, the sound nearly shaking the chandelier above us.
Then he turns and stalks away.
18
Callum’s quick strides carry him from the throne room before I even have a chance to call him back; he’s moving with the preternatural quickness he uses in battle.
I glance at Echo and Paris, who are both staring at me with wide eyes. The earlier excitement they had is nowhere to be found, and I wish they would speak—wish they would tell me what I’m supposed to do.
Should I run after Callum and apologize? Or should I let him wallow in his anger while I do what needs to be done?
Tossing a look at the throne, I consider trying again—finishing this while he goes and stews elsewhere in the palace. But I know I can’t do that. There’s no way I can go forward with this without Callum at my back.
The four of us are a team, and I need my men by my side.
So I race after him, my legs still shaking like leaves and my boots slapping against the floor. By the time I exit the ballroom, he’s well ahead of me, and I have to chase him through several huge, empty corridors before I catch up to him.
We’re in an exterior-facing hall, full of closed doors with intricate wooden paneling in dark, rich colors. The wall across from the doors is lined by tall, narrow windows. Some of them have clear panes while others have intricate stained glass that throw mesmerizing light onto the floor.