by Mary Weber
“I think they’re starting.” She kicks her legs up behind her and toys with a set of throwing knives.
I smile my thanks and scoot my leg over. “Do you want to watch?”
King Sedric strides out onto his white stone balcony in direct line of sight. The crowd’s roar surges through the enormous Castle courtyard—a thousand voices of energy, lifting on the late-evening breeze, in rowdy waves of emotion.
Joy. Pride.
Relief.
Mixed with a few hints of bitter anger at what Bron has done and distrust over what a truce could still bring.
Princess Rasha shakes her dark head. “I often prefer to listen rather than see. Otherwise I sense too much and my head gets full.” She shifts the knives in front of her in order from smallest to biggest. “You were dreaming the future again, you know,” she adds in her airy, matter-of-fact way that is, in fact, confusing.
I freeze. Swallow. I want to ask what she knows of the future, just like I’ve wondered how she knew I needed a friend. But any reply I have stalls when King Sedric is joined by a familiar face that sends my insides blushing before searching for composure beneath my gaudy, pearl-white dress. Neither Rasha nor I have seen him since the Keep because, according to the knights and maids-in-waiting, “He’s been busy.”
Her girlish laugh is as oddly comforting as she is. “You should’ve just seen your eyes light up. Guess I’ll take that to mean Eogan appeared.” She pushes herself up and plants a quick pat on my hand. “While you enjoy that—alas, I have to trot off to get ready. See you at the banquet.”
I nod and, with the door closing behind her, turn back to the court. The evening wind is rustling Eogan’s sharp hair. He’s finished bowing to our king and has turned to the Faelen people, soliciting another cheer as his eyes scan the assembly.
King Ezeoha.
The lost prince back from the dead.
The brave prince who shunned his own family rather than take Bron to war against Faelen.
The prince who is now king of Bron.
In less than a week’s time, the minstrels have written fifty different songs extolling his noble virtues.
I smirk as Faelen’s citizens tip their ridiculous puffed hats to both men. They explode in more applause when, together, the kings hold up the newly signed peace treaty that swears an end to the hundred-year war and ushers in an era of peace and rebuilding for all people of all nations and all abilities. Even Elementals. Breaking the old agreement signed with Draewulf.
Draewulf.
Five, ten, fifteen times I’ve mentioned his name since the fight at the fortress. But “Draewulf is gone,” the knights keep telling me. As is his daughter, Isobel, with her betrayal and rumored Dark Army.
Then why, when you say it, does something whisper back that you’re wrong? I want to ask them.
I haven’t even brought up Lord Myles. Did he survive the bolcranes? Do they know of his treachery? They’re all too busy questioning Adora in her prison cell and making good with Bron to ask.
I shift in my seat as the crowd quiets and King Sedric’s voice rings out over the open court. “We are so thankful for this day. A day we’ve long sought and prayed for, a day we’ve fought hard for. A day of peace. Of new allies and united kingdoms, of conquered fears and forgotten wrongs. Of freeing all Uathúils. A day marking a turn in Faelen and Bron history, where we no longer see each other as enemies, but step into the future together as friends.”
The erupting cheer shakes the jar of mugplant on the floor beside me. I reach out to steady it. The future together as friends. I stare at one of the knives lined up, waiting to be used for new memorials. My skin itches for it. One for Colin. One for Breck.
When the people settle down, the speaking resumes. But this time it’s Eogan.
“My friends, believe me when I assure you what an honor this day is, both for me and my people. For too long, our kingdoms have been on opposite sides of peace. Under my grandfather’s, father’s, and brother’s dictatorships . . .” His voice lilts, and in it, I hear a hesitation, as if he is checking his notes. “Bron was forced to act as your enemy, when in all truth, the Bron people have longed for your camaraderie.”
He steps back and the crowd erupts. Hollering. Whistling. Straining to make their agreement heard.
They’re hungry for what Sedric and Eogan are offering.
I pick up one of the knives and balance its weight between my gimpy fingers. Unlike the rest of them, I don’t know if I’m ready to move into the future just yet.
I nudge the window shut and glare at the blade, waiting for the grief that, without fail, has come every evening since the Keep. Emerging in that hollowed-out place that hides behind the right words and the dresses and the right answers to all the High Court questions about how, in fact, a female Elemental can exist.
This time when the grief comes, it’s soft. Slow. Its salty, jeweled teardrops trickle down to fill my cupped fingers like tide pools, as my hurting heart swells and floods the room.
It lasts for too long, and yet not long enough.
Until, eventually, a shimmering glow extending out across my floor catches my blurred attention. As do the sounds of celebration replacing the kings’ speeches—signaling that it’s only a matter of time before I’m summoned to sit in the king’s banquet hall.
I wipe my face with the clean memorial cloth and turn back to the window, only to lose my breath at the hundreds of globe lanterns filling the courtyard. They’re ballooning up on the breeze to drift and dip as they make their escape into the sky.
Freedom.
He gave his life so that you could be free.
I grip the blade handle as a ripple runs down my spine. I stare at my memorial arm and imagine Colin’s name carved in it. Then stall—noticing for the first time how much the markings there look like those on my owner-circle arm. Swirls. Coils.
I did it for you an’ Breck, Nym. You deserved to be free . . .
I wipe my tears as slowly his words, his gift, settle over me. Reach into me where my soul still feels the etchings of his life. A life of worth, given for those he deemed worthy. Given free of guilt.
And for the first time I can ever recall, that twisted itching in my skin, in my chest, subsides on its own. My hands calm. My heart calms. I set the cloth down. A shamed memorial suddenly offensive. Degrading.
Unneeded.
I pick up the knife and slip it into my boot before placing a lid on the mugplant jar.
I straighten the wrinkles from my overly fancy, waste-of-a-good-fortune dress and walk over to the mirror. Besides, there’s a better way to honor him . . .
With a few tugs at the clips, my Elemental hair slips from its bun to fall in long snow flurries down my back and around my bare arms. My eyes harden with the unease in the pit of my stomach. I shake the siren awake and the cold from my bones just as a soft knock hits my door.
He doesn’t even wait for my “Enter.” Just opens the door, steps in, and pushes it shut behind him with his foot. In one, two, three strides Eogan’s in front of me exactly as I’ve been waiting for. As I’ve counted down the minutes for. A moment alone with him.
In one more stride he’s got my chin in his rough hand while slipping his other around my arm. That unruly lock of black hair all but conceals the intensity in his emerald eyes as they search mine. Weary. Concerned.
“Are you all right?” His voice is ragged.
I nod. My heart dithers and thuds. Echoing with questions and uncertainty. About him. His future. About us.
I rest my hand on his chest, and then my head.
And for a moment, this is where I belong. None of the rest matters because my soul is at peace within me. My soul is at home.
It’s been five weeks since Adora purchased me from Brea. Five weeks and fuller than any lifetime because I’ve spent them with him. I inhale his scent—which is no longer honey and pine but somehow musky—before lifting my head and sweeping my gaze over his neck, his face, searching out the healing
bruises, the scratches and cuts I can see, and the internal ones I can’t because they’re hidden behind that annoyingly unfair tweak of a smile.
Until it ripples and widens. And suddenly his whole body is rippling beneath my fingers.
I step back. What in hulls?
He stretches his neck as if adjusting his shoulders, his back, then his grin broadens into a toothy smile, and he straightens to stare down at me. The firelight bounces off those teeth for a second. As if he is still Eogan. And yet he’s not.
He touches my cheek and utters a soft growl.
I swallow.
No.
Very carefully, very purposefully, he sweeps his beautiful black bangs from his face and tucks them behind his ear in a characteristic trait that makes the storm in my veins stand still. He tips his head and the light glints off a long gash running down the back of his neck.
It can’t be.
Suddenly my breath is reeling and my heart is choking out of my chest and my mind is screaming no no no no no—this can’t be.
He leans in and tucks a swag of my hair behind my ear. And whispers, “I told you that you couldn’t save them both.”
MY POCKETFUL OF THANK-YOUS
IN SOME WAYS I FEEL I’VE BEEN WRITING THIS PAGE my whole life. Gathering up my thank-yous like a pocketful of flower petals, reflecting on the journey and the generosity of those who’ve traveled with me. Who’ve allowed me to travel with them. Yet, when I actually sit down to type these letters, these names—to lay my thank-yous out in a daisy-chain mosaic so you’ll each understand exactly what you mean to me—drat it all if the words don’t fail, and instead tears fall. Thus this page comes stained with tear drips and blood spatters, markers showing just how deeply you’ve engraved your name on my world. Thank you, my fellowship of friends:
Allen Arnold, shepherd, big brother, tallest dwarf dude I know—for stepping into my Story and changing it forever. And for continuing to mentor me by living a Story of heart.
Amanda Bostic, treasured kindred spirit and Thomas Nelson editor, for inviting me to tea and then offering an adventure from which I’ll never recover. And sweet Becky Monds, Thomas Nelson editor and friend, for bringing your literary magic and laughter to the journey.
My dear agent, Lee Hough, for quieting the room long enough to listen to the roar of this scared girl’s heart. And then standing to roar with her. We did it. And to my agent, Andrea Heinecke, for picking up the mantle and adding your brilliance. And for being my friend.
Daisy Hutton, Laura Dickerson, Jodi Hughes, Ansley Boatman, Katie Bond, and my entire Thomas Nelson family, thank you for taking a chance and helping me fly. There aren’t enough gratitude cupcakes in the world. Kristen Vasgaard, for creating a cover that made me cry. Julee Schwarzburg, editing genius—for making me laugh and my words make sense.
Jeanette Morris, cherished mentor, editor, precious friend. For always helping me find my voice—in my writing and, even more so, in my soul. And dear Nancy Rue—my Obi Wan, for holding my hand every time it shook and my heart when I cried. This book has your ladies’ fingerprints all over it, as do my wings.
Word Divas, for the word shaping and courage. Sarah Kathleen, for capturing soul with your beautiful spirit and photo lens. Garth Jantzen, website genius, for believing in me from the first. Several Guys, for the video that rocked my world. SLO Nightwriters. Diane Ramirez. And my blogger friends who’ve laughed with me through the years—Danielle, Juju, Jade, Anne, Tania, Rob, Sara, Kristen, Brittney, Steph, Becca.
Jay and JM Asher, Lori and Will, Dani, the Morrells, and to every one of my friends for making a place for me at your friendship table and sharing your strength and food and laughter.
My Father’s House family and the RISE. You have my heart. You are my home.
Dad and Mom, for addicting me to books and adventure. You are the biggest heroes in my world. Mom, thank you for teaching me to write and dream. Dad, for believing in my dreams and for bringing Storm Siren to life through your beautiful maps and airship art. Also, my siblings David, Jon, James, Daniel, and your families, and to the entire Weber clan. I adore you.
My sister, Katherine Ayers, without whom this story (and my sanity) would not exist. Here’s to you, dear Ariel-singing girl.
My three precious muses, Rilian, Avalon, and Korbin—the moments written in these pages are yours. Made up of your beauty and bravery. They are your “over the rainbow” songs.
Peter, my love, you truly have bewitched me body and soul, and anchored me in the storms. Thank you for risking the world with me and blazing a path to the moon. I love you.
Jesus. Because you are all this heart exists for.
READING GROUP GUIDE
1. Nym has a genuine desire to help others, especially the mistreated. However, fear that she will do more harm than good often holds her back. Can you relate to this dilemma? Do you ever duck away from helping others because you feel unqualified or worry that you won’t be able to do it “perfectly”?
2. Both Nym and Breck have physical disabilities, but Nym doesn’t view them as deficiencies like she does the Uathúil powers. In fact, when Nym finds out Breck and Colin are twins—supposedly “one gifted, one cursed”—she responds by asking which is cursed and which is gifted. What do you think about her question? What types of abilities does society often deem “gifted”? Cursed? What unique qualities did Breck’s blindness and Colin’s powers add to their world?
3. In Eogan’s experience with training warriors, he discovered that focusing on the physical while neglecting the ethical (what’s right or wrong) resulted in an “end justifies the means” approach for many of the Uathúils. What do you think about that concept in relation to war and to our world today? Are there ever situations where not having a conscience seems necessary?
4. Nym sees her Elemental ability as a curse rather than a unique gift. What aspects of yourself or your environment do you view as “cursed” or negative? How might those aspects actually become a benefit or gift?
5. In the Valley of Origin, Eogan challenges Nym, suggesting that her inability to embrace the potential of her power is because she’s afraid to accept and believe better of herself. How about you? What things could you overcome or accomplish if you believed more in yourself?
6. Just before they reach the Keep, Nym asks Colin, “What makes a person evil? If you believe a person was born to bring help, then were others born to bring destruction?” What are your thoughts on this? Are people born evil? Are they born good? Do you agree or disagree with Colin’s response? Why?
7. Nym was torn between wanting to use her abilities to protect her people and knowing that in doing so she would harm the men in Bron’s army. King Sedric encountered a similar dilemma when faced with Odion’s treaty—signing it would protect some while requiring the sacrifice of others. How did the ultimate results of Sedric and Nym’s choices affect Faelen and Bron? Were they right in their decisions?
8. Nym has a tough attitude toward the world but privately struggles with self-loathing, fear, and self-harm. Have you, or a friend, ever struggled with any of these feelings or behaviors? If so, have you talked to a safe person about it? Support and resources are available to you, including To Write Love on Her Arms (http://www.TWLOHA.com). Please reach out. I promise you are not alone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO BY SARAH
KATHLEEN PHOTOGRAPHY
MARY WEBER IS A RIDICULOUSLY uncoordinated girl plotting to take over make-believe worlds through books, handstands, and imaginary throwing knives. In her spare time, she feeds unicorns, sings ’80s hairband songs to her three muggle children, and ogles her husband who looks strikingly like Wolverine. They live in California, which is perfect for stalking LA bands, Joss Whedon, and the ocean.
Visit her website at mchristineweber.com
Facebook: marychristineweber
Twitter: @mchristineweber