“Or bugs,” Isla agreed. “It feels wrong. Let’s keep going. I don’t want to stay on this island longer than necessary.”
We murmured our agreement and trudged up the side of the mountain, stopping once more before the trail leveled out and widened into a small clearing.
Jasmine wind stole through the space, scattering the lingering land cloud which swirled around a strange object sitting in its center.
Seated upon a small, elaborate marble statue of a winged woman with her arms out, lay a shallow, glittering basin.
The four of us spread out, circling the pedestal, the only evidence of non-plant life on the floating island beside the overgrown trail.
“No instructions this time, Bonscaíh,” Kellan murmured, before taking a cautious step forward and sliding his finger over the edge of the basin.
I shook my head, remembering the clues in the ancient script on the door to Faron’s tomb in the Death Dunes last summer.
“Empty,” he continued, leaning forward and examining the bottom. “Whatever it holds, it appears it can be drained.”
I moved to his side, and my forearm brushed against his as I peered at the small, plugged hole in the center.
“What’s holding it up?” Aeriden asked as he approached.
“It’s an Itherian,” I murmured, cocking my head at the small, winged human holding the basin, recognizing it immediately from the fresco in the Itherian tunnels inside the Crystal Castle.
“A what?” my brother asked, running a hand through his recently sheared, ebony locks.
“They were once slaves to the elves in Nivis,” Isla answered, squatting in front of the statue. “Olienna apparently freed them, though none have been seen since. Lyv traveled their tunnels in the Crystal Castle.”
A nauseating knot twisted in my stomach as memories surged forward, and I froze. Kellan reached a hand forward, gesturing to the Itherian, and his other dropped to his side, the edge of his pinky grazing the top of my hand and lingering there.
“And it looks like she’s missing a piece,” he added, pointing to her hands.
My skin pressed lightly against his finger, and he slid his palm over the back of my hand. The pads of his fingers traced the indented paths on the top of my hand until they slipped between my own. He subtly clasped the top of my hand, running his thumb over the edge of mine twice, the knot in my chest loosening upon his touch.
“Lyvi, this looks like your dagger,” Aeriden said, squatting next to Isla.
Kellan dropped my hand as I stepped forward and knelt next to my brother. He traced his hands over the blade sheathed in the Itherian’s belt.
“Onoiren,” I murmured, tracing the Old Votruvian word etched on the marble statue, looking more like a sword than a dagger hanging off the small being. I slid my eyes to Kellan, whose brows had pinched.
I stood and slipped Honor from my boot, the golden gem on the intricate blade glowing in the dim light of the hanging mountain. I blinked. My lips parted as fog dissipated at the other end of the clearing, and a dark, ominous opening in the side of the mountain came into view. Kellan followed my gaze, sending a current of cedar and leather wind snaking toward the entrance and scattering the rest of it.
The four of us stared at the wide opening. Bars of iron stretched from the ceiling to the floor, separating us from what lay beyond. We moved to its edge, examining the surrounding rock, checking for levers, words, key holes, anything that would open the gate, and coming up empty.
Isla stepped back to the pedestal and pulled the bottom of her tunic, polishing the arm of the Itherian.
“She’s been cut,” the small elf proclaimed, pointing to the Itherian’s wrist. “Look, she’s bleeding.”
“Honor opens more than just doors,” Kellan said as he moved to squat next to Isla, repeating the words etched on the stone door to the Advetis Chamber in the Death Dunes. “The entrance to Faron’s burial chamber required a fee. We left our weapons in order to enter.”
He stood and turned to me. His dark brows narrowed as if he didn’t like the conclusion he’d drawn. He extended a hand toward me, eyes sliding to the dagger. “It seems this entrance requires a sacrifice.”
My stomach pitched, and my grip on the dagger tightened. What was he saying? That someone needed to die for us to enter? No. Some sacrifices were not worth making…
Kellan’s eyes softened as he scanned my face.
“Blood, Bonscaíh.” His brows tilted upward in cautious amusement. “I think it requires our blood.”
He took a slow step forward and gently took the dagger, his thumb brushing the top of mine as he did so.
“That’s a large basin,” Isla murmured doubtfully.
