Grave Destiny

by Kalayna Price

  “Unravel it,” the Mender urged again.

  I reached out, fumbling for the tightly wound strands of reality. I caught several and managed to pull them a few inches. The illusionary box lid cracked, not opening, but a seam at least. Small wounds sprouted on my fingertips, the strands cutting deep into my flesh. I winced, pulling back my stinging, bleeding fingers.

  The Mender tsked under his breath. “You’re going to seriously injure yourself doing it that way.”

  “How would you suggest I unravel them?”

  “You intuitively touch all the planes. You have consistently had no issue extending those planes to other beings. Extend these planes in much the same way. Push them out among the planes that already exist here. But weave them into the planes, not into a thing or a being.”

  “I . . . What?” Extending planes to beings? “You mean when I pull ghosts close to mortal reality?”

  The Mender’s youthful face took on a put-upon expression, as if he were annoyed that I was missing something that should be obvious.

  “You don’t pull ghosts or my collectors across to mortal reality—they never leave their plane as they can’t exist outside it. You weave the two planes together, making the fibers of both realities touch, and you wrap those joined planes around them. You visualize it wrong, but you do it instinctively.”

  My mouth formed a small O but I furled my brow, thinking about what I did when I dragged ghosts across the planes. Or, I guess, thrust the planes together, if the Mender was correct. I’d assumed it was an evolution of my grave magic, admittedly supported with my planeweaving. I’d only been able to do it by touch initially, extending my magic through me and into the ghost or Death. But in the last few months I’d become rather adept at making ghosts manifest at a distance.

  I considered what it felt like to reach with my magic and pull across—or weave—the planes, and I reached for the ball of reality on my palm in the same way. Nothing happened. My magic had encompassed the ball as soon as I’d touched it. It was already mine, for lack of a better word. I glared at it.

  “So jump to the next logical conclusion,” the Mender said, his voice sharp and impatient.

  If he was going to sit there, read my thoughts, and snap at me, why didn’t he just give me the damn answer?

  He lifted his eyebrow, obviously having caught that thought as well. Oh well. He was the one snooping. Not my fault if he didn’t like what he heard. But as to what he’d said, what would the next logical conclusion be with the ball of reality?

  Well, if my magic had made it “mine” and poking it with more magic did nothing, then maybe I needed to reach with it. I could feel the ball of reality, so I focused on it, and then tried to reach out the way I would to a ghost. Except there was nowhere to reach to. The ball of reality wriggled, but it didn’t unfurl.

  I considered how my magic had felt when it had enveloped the ball. Like a wave lifting from the ocean and pushing outward. Focusing on the ball of reality, I tried to simulate that feeling of magic flowing out, forward, and filling space without ever leaving the greater collection of magic.

  The lid of the box flipped open. The threads of reality rolled out, spreading with the wave of magic.

  “Very good,” the Mender said, and he gave me a grandfatherly nod, as if I’d made him proud. “That ocean analogy you visualized was a good one. It will limit you eventually, but for now it is helping you.”

  I looked around. I still couldn’t see the actual threads of reality, but I could feel them. I was far more aware of all the planes I was touching—and that they were touching everything around me. Including the chair I was sitting in and the rug below my feet, both of which were rotting from their contact with the land of the dead. Damn it.

  “Now pull it back.”

  I frowned at the Mender. “You make it sound easy.”

  “I never said it was easy. Though this you should probably be able to do as automatically as breathing.”

  Wouldn’t that be the definition of simple?

  I tried to focus on the magic. To concentrate on the strands of reality that needed to be pulled back apart. The Mender made a sharp clicking noise under his breath.

  “You’re trying too hard again. Go back to your ocean visual.”

  I didn’t grind my teeth. Not much at least. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled the annoyance creeping through me. Then I pictured my magic like a wave again. I could feel it around me. I’d extended a full circle of magic around myself. Now I imagined it all flowing back to me, like the tide rolling in.

  The magic moved, a little sluggish, but it returned. The extra web of reality wound itself back into a compressed ball. The box lid slammed shut.

  I looked around. Not one tear or pocket of merged space remained. I’d never used my planeweaving without damaging reality before. I looked down at the rug. It still looked rotted, but with the land of the dead at a normal density, it didn’t look as rotted as it had. I closed my shields. The frayed fabric and molded holes vanished, the rug still whole in mortal reality. The chair was too.

  I stared at the chair. Shocked.

  “You didn’t weave the realities flat. You just wove them together,” the Mender said, and my head shot up.

  “What?”

  His youthful face looked horribly put-upon. “The planes brush against each other naturally and constantly. You unrolled the layers of reality I gave you. You didn’t push anything from one to another, just spread out the reality in this space.”

  That sounded accurate, but this was a lot of new information. Still, I’d definitely done something that I’d never known how to do before. And it hadn’t magically slapped me down, so a point for using my ability without harming myself.

  “Yes, yes. Good. Now do it again.”

  I blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Practice makes perfect, as they say. Do it again.”

  I looked down at the ball of reality in my hand, still shaped like a box. Then I looked past it, at my fingers. Three of my fingertips were deep blue, the veins of polluted magic running down the full length of the fingers and into the pad of my palm. I was using an enormous amount of magic to unfurl the ball of reality.

  “Oh, that is a problem,” the Mender said, his features turning to the middle-aged businessman, and he drummed his fingers on his leg. “Oh yes, that could definitely be deadly.”

  The blood drained from my face. “Is that the possible future you see? When? Do you see a way to prevent it?”

  The Mender glared at me. “Even if I were inclined to give you those answers, I wouldn’t. Now practice. You’ll probably pollute most of your hand, but it is important that you can do this.”

  Because he wanted the souls in Faerie, one way or another. Though if he could teach me not to kill myself, maybe the changeling planeweavers being gone was not quite as devastating a blow as I initially thought. But how did the Mender know so much about my powers? “Are you a planeweaver?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “But obviously I can manipulate planes. Who do you think made that ball you’re holding? Now concentrate. You have a lot to learn. I want the souls trapped in Faerie released. We both agree that fundamentally changing Faerie is a bad plan. So you must learn to weave reality neatly, instead of walking around ripping holes and fusing spots.” His features turned younger than I’d ever seen, a teenager at most, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “And if you start thinking of me as a teacher, I’m going to charge you a second favor for this lesson.”

  Right. I definitely didn’t want that.

  He gave me a look that said I better get to the practicing. Taking a breath, I focused on the ball of reality again, letting my magic roll out of me like a wave. The ball unfurled, reality weaving in a small circle around me.

  “Push out further,” the Mender instructed.

  I did.

 
“Further,” he said, and though I complied, he circled his hand in a “keep going” motion.

  I hadn’t moved, but I was breathing heavy. The merged patch of reality spread all around me in a circle that was about eight feet wide. My magic felt stretched to the limit. If I pushed waves of magic out further, I’d start draining my reservoir.

  “Enough,” the Mender said, nodding. “You can draw it back in now.”

  I did, gratefully. It was easier this time, as if the magic had already started carving its own paths through my psyche.

  “Good.” The Mender’s satisfied smile seemed to be more for himself than for me. “Now do it again.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Mender had me practice the magic half a dozen more times before he was finally satisfied. While I managed to push my circle of merged planes out as far as nine feet a few times, on my last attempt I barely got the circle over six. I was panting and sweaty, and my whole body ached even though I’d been sitting the entire time. All of my fingers on my infected hand had deep purple spots in the tips, and the veins of fouled magic ran through the whole hand, all the way to the crease of my wrist. It burned, and hurt worse than any other part of me. I’d have to watch the spread carefully. I couldn’t let it reach my shoulder and the weak spot in my soul again.

  “I think you’re ready,” the Mender said, pushing out of his chair.

  To sleep? I was definitely ready for that.

  He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You are ready to take that reality to Faerie.”

  Nope. Sleep was definitely the correct answer. I stifled a yawn. Now that my shields were closed, the ball of reality looked like a solid box again. I could hold it, move it from hand to hand, and yet it still had no weight. It was disconcerting.

  “So exactly what is it you want me to do? Go find bodies in Faerie, unfurl the ball with the land of the dead and the collectors’ plane, and then just stand there until someone shows up to collect the souls?”

  “Of course not. My people can’t sit around waiting in the wings hoping you open the box. When you find a trapped soul, you will have to be the one to eject it from the body. When you pull back the layers of reality, the soul will fold and compress as well since it cannot exist outside those planes. My collectors will check that space occasionally and collect any souls you’ve gathered.”

  I shuddered at the idea of walking around carrying ghosts in a box. Of course, first I had to find the souls he wanted. Deaths were rare in Faerie. Most of the bodies I’d seen there, I’d then brought across into the mortal realm. Then there were cases like Maeve, who’d been dead but were up and walking around again. If a collector were to spot her, he would probably take her soul. I did not see myself doing that. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’d popped free souls that were navigating dead bodies before, but those souls had been destroying themselves. I didn’t think that was the case with the fae healed from death.

  The Mender watched me, clearly following along with my unspoken thoughts. He frowned, his face shifting faster through the different ages as if unsure where to stop.

  “How many souls will it take to clear my debt?” I asked, because how long was I supposed to carry around a box searching Faerie for dead bodies?

  “What if I said all of them?”

  My mouth fell open, and I gave a quick shake of my head. “That isn’t possible. There are places in Faerie I can’t go. Hell, there are places I probably could never even find. I mean, when is it you expect this to be completed?”

  The Mender smiled. “I admit, all is not realistic, but your debt to me is very large. You have a lot of work ahead of you. But you have time. You must become considerably better at unraveling reality and stretching it. The ultimate goal is for you to eventually free the battlefields full of the dead.”

  “Eventually?” So was he giving me this task without a timeline?

  “When you make it to a battlefield, I have a spell that will allow you to call my people so that you are not collecting hundreds of souls alone. When it is time, the spell will be available to you.”

  I blinked. I hadn’t really thought out the implications of what he’d tasked me with, clearly. I tried to imagine myself walking among the dead in a battlefield, only nine feet of blended planes around me. It would be the most horrifically dead too. Those whose deaths were able to be reversed would have been healed. So these bodies would be in bad shape, and because nothing decayed in Faerie, these ancient battlefields would look as fresh as the day of the battle. A cold drop of sweat ran down my spine.

  “Obviously such a small circle of reality would be insufficient,” the Mender said, agreeing with my unspoken thoughts. “You need practice. More than you can acquire in a single evening.” He leaned forward. “And I do expect you to practice. I want to see consistent growth in your abilities.” As he said the words, I felt the debt tighten around me, binding his instructions to my very soul. It was not a comfortable feeling. The Mender continued, not noticing or not caring about my distress over the debt he held against me. “In the meantime, carry the box with you whenever you enter Faerie. You will likely find opportunities to free trapped souls, even if you cannot complete the full task yet. Each soul you release will whittle away your debt.”

  I nodded reluctantly and looked down at the box that wasn’t really a box, unsure of the best way to carry it. It wasn’t like it would fit in my back pocket. I rose to my feet, planning to put it in my purse, and the Mender shook his head.

  “The shape of it is unimportant, only the function. And that you keep it with you always.” He waved his hand, and the box faded. It reappeared a moment later as a locket on a long necklace. “Is this a more convenient shape?”

  “That works,” I said, and when the Mender tilted his head, one eyebrow lifting, I unclasped the chain and hooked it around my neck. I was afraid it would be unnerving having a compacted ball of the land of the dead hanging over my sternum, but I barely noticed it. If I reached for it, I could feel the ball of reality, but it wasn’t distracting.

  The Mender nodded as if satisfied, and his face shifted to that of an old man again. “Then I should be on my way. You’ve felt the weight of the debt you owe me. I am giving you no timeline, but if you do not collect enough souls to repay that debt during life, you will still owe me a debt in death. You do not want that.”

  I gulped. That last sentence was the understatement of the century. Usually death negated a debt. Apparently not for the leader of the soul collectors. I stared down at my purple-streaked hand. Unless I die in Faerie.

  “I have thought of that,” he said. “That is one of his greatest fears. That you will disappear into Faerie, never emerge, and he won’t know if you are alive or dead and trapped for eternity.”

  I looked away. I knew he was talking about Death again. And I knew it was something Death worried about. He’d told me as much more than once.

  “Keep that locket close, and you will always be tied into our lands,” he said, and my hand flew to the locket. He smiled. “I know you think me some powerful tyrant for my strict rules, but I do care. Now, I must go.”

  With that, his form faded from the room. After he was gone, I turned, intending to have a conversation with Falin and then collapse into my bed and sleep at least twelve hours. Then his voice said, “And find the cure for your magic. Sooner rather than later would be best.”

  I whirled around. “So it’s possible to cure basmoarte?”

  No one was there and he didn’t answer. I waited, hoping he’d come back or say more. He didn’t. Eventually I shuffled back to my bedroom, but though I was exhausted, I felt lighter. A little more hopeful.

  Chapter 18

  I woke to the sound of loud pounding on my door. I rolled to my back and squinted at the window above my bed. The sky was still dark. Way too early to be awake.

  The knocking sounded again, and I pul
led the pillow over my head. It was probably Falin. I’d gone to talk to him after the Mender left, but he’d still been at the winter court. I’d texted him letting him know I needed to talk to him before we started working on the case again. I hadn’t meant before dawn.

  The knocking stopped.

  Nothing that can’t wait until morning. I rolled back over.

  The door opened.

  PC jumped off the bed, barking and growling. He charged the intruder with all the ferocity contained in his six-pound body.

  I sat up, fumbling for my knife as I moved. PC knew and liked everyone who lived in the castle. He wouldn’t bark at them. Which meant someone who didn’t live here had just walked into my room.

  I blinked, trying to see in the near darkness as I scrambled to my feet. My eyes didn’t cooperate fast enough, and I opened my shields, knowing the glow from my eyes would give me away but wanting to see more than I wanted caution.

  “Peace, dog,” Dugan said from the doorway to my bedroom.

  I lowered my dagger. “What are you doing here? And maybe a better question, how did you get here?” I glanced at my dresser, where the small globe attached to the wards sat. It glowed a cheery green, meaning all was well and no one uninvited had tried to pass the wards. Caleb is going to have to recalibrate those. Last I’d seen of Dugan had been on the hill hours ago. Surely he hadn’t been hanging around this whole time?