Shewished.
A jolt shot through her chest, an electric spark that tumbled down her arm and into her hand, similar to the strange spikes the earth’s thrumming had created in her feet. It vibrated there for a moment, filling her fingers and beyond. Then it was gone.
Thia released Oskaren, flexing her hand in front of her face, staring at it.
Oskaren straightened, posture relaxing.
Expression clear.
Warm.
Happy.
“Thia,” she breathed, and Thia’s blood rushed at the sound of her name. Oskaren took her hands. “Thia!”
“What happened?” Thia asked. “Are you alright?” She could hardly get the words out; she was swept up in the utter joy on the girl’s face. Oskaren had always been stunning, her bones chiseled from stone, every feature smooth and striking. But smiling, truly smiling, she was the most staggering person Thia had ever seen. Passion blazed in her eyes, kindness in the tilt of her mouth.
“Ren?” she asked wonderingly, and Oskaren nodded, still beaming.
A tendril of black hair slipped loose from her ponytail and fell into her face. She ignored it, pulling Thia closer. “You did something.”
Thia blinked. “I—what?”
“I feel like myself.” Oskaren stared at her. “Storm Crow.”
Thia gulped. “I didn’t.” But she had felt something. The spark….
Like the thrumming, she’d thought. The magic of the Losrohir? What had Lythia said? The Festival of Impartation was to renew their magic. Perhaps partaking in the dance had somehow…charged her with it?
Oskaren grinned suddenly, and Thia’s usually full head emptied of thought. It was so mischievous, so playful without any hint of mockery, that she couldn’t help but grin back. “Dance with me, Faelyn,” Oskaren said earnestly.
Dance. Yes. There was music, and hadn’t Thia asked her already?
“Don’t you want to….” Figure out why she was suddenly free? Ask the Losrohir if their magic could break curses? She wondered if she should find Dess and see if he had any resurgence of memory.
But Oskaren placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever this is, for however long it lasts….” Her head ducked, as though suddenly bashful. “There is nowhere I’d rather be this night than here with you. Dance with me.” Her hand slipped to Thia’s waist.
Thia swallowed, Oskaren’s long fingers curling around her ribs like hot coals. She slid her palm into Oskaren’s other one, where it was extended for her to grasp. The girl drew her closer in one smooth tug, and Thia’s heart skittered in her chest. She took a small breath, and the other girl smirked, as if knowing exactly how affective her presence was, then guided her gently backward. And they were dancing.
Thia was relieved that Oskaren took the lead; she had never danced quite like this before, the style more akin to ballroom than swaying in a high school gym. But the other girl clearly knew what she was doing as she pressed Thia backwards again, then pulled her forward, and guided her through spins. Even so, she couldn’t resist tipping her head back to examine her partner.
Moonlight shone on Oskaren’s black hair, on the gold paint that wrapped around her cheeks, emphasizing her cutting bone structure and the piercing nature of her dark gaze. If Thia had been an artist, she might have liked to paint this moment. Instead, she tried to commit every detail of the girl’s exquisite features to memory. It was only when she realized she was staring that she noticed Oskaren was as well. She looked away, cheeks burning furiously.
“The Eye of Syrrene,” Oskaren said.
The girl was gazing at her neck—no, at the bead on the end of her tiny braid. Normally hidden in her long tumble of hair, it fell just below her ear, the full length of it pinned up by Lythia’s flowers. It bounced along her skin as Oskaren pulled her into a turn.
“The bead,” Oskaren said, confirming it. “It’s called the Eye of Syrrene. Did Dessfar tell you what it means?”
Thia shook her head, attuned to the bead’s cold metal as it skimmed across her skin with the movement. “Only that girls here wear them.”
“It’s true,” Oskaren told her. “Syrrene is our goddess. There are other lesser gods, but she is the First.” Her face took on what Riley liked to call the “thinking frown,” an expression he was drawn to pointing out in Thia any time she tried to remember something. On Oskaren it was adorable, her sculpted lips pursed, forehead covered by that tendril of hair that was still spilled across her brow. Thia itched to brush it aside.
Oskaren’s hand tightened slightly on Thia’s waist. “Legend says Syrrene came to our lands from Sothis—the Divine Realms. While she was here, she fell in love with a human man. They had a child, a girl named Aza, who became the first sorceress. After a time, Syrrene fell ill; she could not survive eternally without Sothis’s divine light to sustain her. But her child was mortal, and could not return with her to Sothis. So Syrrene cut out her own eye and transformed it into a bead. Braiding it into her daughter’s hair, she told the girl that as long as she wore it, her mother would watch over her and keep her safe from harm. Over the centuries, it has become a symbol of luck—a prayer that Syrrene might keep you safe.”
Thia removed her hand from Oskaren’s shoulder to lift the bead. It was a bit like an eye, when the light caught it a certain way, and the lighter flecks of green aligned down the middle like a cat’s pupil. “What are these?” she asked, brushing her thumb over the marked golden clasps that held it in place, runes she didn’t recognize.
“It’s Magicians’ Script. The symbol forbless—the command that begins most of their benevolent spells.”
