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In truth, I had a great many memories of laughing with Arabeth, our parents, even Destin once. Somewhere in the porous fascia of my memories, a great many things went wrong. I did not recall much of the aftermath, but I recall the pain of losing Beth.
“I remember her,” I said, voice low. My fingertips traced the edges of her tomb. “She was too kind, too good, for cruel magic to erase.”
Adira took a cautious step closer. “Do you mind me asking how she died?”
“For three season weaves, a blood plague infected mage folk,” I said. “We have skilled healers in Magiaria, vast apothecaries, but it took many before our best spell casters brewed a healing tonic.”
“How old were you?”
“Only fifteen.”
She hugged her middle. “I’m sorry.”
I waved it away. “That is the dreary reality of life, Wildling. I assume it is much the same for mortal folk.”
“It is. Death doesn’t discriminate, does it.” When I didn’t answer, Adira took in the shelves of glowing tombs. “So, these actually hold souls?”
“Parts. They hold the love, the joy, and the kindest pieces.”
“How is it done?”
The woman unsettled me. I’d watched in the shadows as she’d sparred with my friends, pleased with a glimmer of natural ability. But I’d kept back until I could not. Now, she was here, too close, too horribly beautiful I could hardly stand to look at her.
Never had a woman done such a thing, and I wanted her to leave me in peace. I never wanted her to go.
“Kage.” The green glass of her eyes sliced through the shields I could not place.
“A ritual is performed after the death,” I said, voice tight and raw. “Every few generations a mage is called the soul speaker. If any ability were to have me believing in a goddess it is that of a soul speaker.”
Adira chuckled. “Can they truly speak to the souls?”
“I’ve witnessed it,” I said. “After a loved one places the essences of the soul into a stone, the speaker communes with the fallen. She summons the joy, the emotions from the stone. It is more a gift for their families, a sense that they are always present, always nearby and aware.”
“That’s sort of . . . beautiful.” Adira watched one of the tombs flicker, like a wink, as though the soul within were confirming the truth.
“It is,” I agreed. “Some mages choose not to leave their essence and, instead, ask for their stones to be burned. If that is done, the speaker will lead their soul back to Magiaria in a new form.”
Adira’s faced wore a look of suspicion. “Like reincarnation?”
“I suppose, but it’s a conscious decision, usually made before death.” I gestured at a double-sided tomb. “Here is one. A wedded couple. One chose to have the heartstone entombed. The other, see what is written.”
Adira squinted in the dim lighting. It was written in old runiclanguage, and there was a part of me that wanted to see if she could understand it.
She read slowly, but I was not certain she even realized it was written in the old tongue.
“The other wished to remain as a comfort and protector for their children.” Adira pressed a palm to her chest. “That’s beautiful too. How would they remain, though?”
“No one truly knows until they see a sign—be it a marking, a creature with unique features, or talents. But I am told, if the lost one has remained to wander for you, then you will know it in your own soul.” I leaned one shoulder against the shelves. “Cy is convinced Hakon is a soul wanderer.”
“His hawk?”
“If it is true, he did not remain for Cy, but perhaps the souls he wished to guide have moved on by now, or no longer need his comfort. Hakon is a unique bird.”
“How so?”
I leaned forward, reveling a bit in her interest. “He shares memories as messages. What Hakon sees, he casts into the mind.”
“No way. He’s telepathic?”
