“No, no.” She shook her head before leveling me with her piercing gaze. “Death is an immortal being like us. One with a vendetta against Evers, all because of Rebellyn. He can be tracked, though I don’t know how, and—if you believe Rebellyn’s tale with the blade—he can be wounded. Possibly even killed. Though I imagine that would have ramifications on the balance of our world.”
“And the blight...” My mind whirled as I stared at the passage. I’d noticed it before, how quickly the disease attacked mortals yet lingered for years with Evers. Whenever I glimpsed it down my bond with Rorik, I’d even seen it take the shape of a tiny maw, methodically chewing away without any sense of urgency. As if it was designed to linger, to inflict as much pain as possible, before eventually snuffing out the life of its host.
As if it was designed specifically forthem.
I cannot walk where there are no shadows. Stay within its glow, and you will never see me again.
The everjewels. Death created an illness designed to eat away at the light protecting the immortals from his clutches. And he wouldn’t stop until every last one of them was gone.
“Blight exists because of Death. That’s why it can’t be stopped,” I said.
“Some tried to take on Death like Rebellyn, of course. But when that didn’t work, we turned to other measures.” She nodded pointedly at me. “Plus, his whereabouts have been lost over the years.”
For a moment, I sat with her words. How did Rebellyn do it? How did she best Death? Of course, I was curious to know if it could be done for the sake of stopping blight, but there was a different, selfish part of me that wanted to know how to do it for myself. If I met Death like she had, did I have the power to do what she did?
Or maybe I just needed the weapon. “Was the blade lost, too?”
“Some of the families hold secrets about Rebellyn’s life. The Embergraves have her weapon. Or, at least, that’s what Zeverin claims. No one has seen it. The Ferngloves know how to summon Death, but to what end...” Seville shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure what the other families know about Rebellyn—let alone if it’s useful. Regardless, that kind of knowledge is coveted among Evers and certainly not published in our texts.”
No weapon, then. Maybe her magic was enough. “What kind of powers did Rebellyn have when she met Death?”
“None.” Seville grinned, proud of her ancestor. “That’s the morsel of truth we’ve held on to within this family: her mortal story. She was a sickly, weak woman when she met Death. Not powerful like the fable would have you believe. When someone in that condition stumbles into his domain, he’s forced to appear. He can’t resist the call. Which is why only the sickest of Evers have met him, and why none of them have survived.”
I stilled. Weak. Sickly. I was both of those things. Maybe the secret to extending my life wasn’t bolstering my threads with Rorik’s magic but bartering with Death himself. I just had to figure out how. And if the blade was in the Embergraves’ possession...
“We have to attend the fete,” I said quietly.
“I think so, too. Rorik would be a fool to tell Kara otherwise,” she said with a pointed look in my direction. “But something tells me your reasoning is different than mine.”
“Because it is.” I inched the book toward her, and she took it in her hands. “We need to find the blade. And then after that, I need to find Death.”
Silence swelled between us as neither one of us moved. Seville didn’t even blink. Her fingers remained frozen against the page, her lips barely parted. Finally, after an eternity passed, she said, “You think you can take him on? Why, when so many of us have failed?”
“Because I am a weak, sickly mortal. Because he’ll underestimate me just like he did with Rebellyn.” I stood slowly, excitement building within my chest as a light tingling sensation raced through to my hands. “And I have something she didn’t. Magic. Both mine and Rorik’s. I think... I think I can do this, Seville. I have to do this.”
There was a way. A way for me to barter with Death. And in doing so, I could save my life and possibly the Ferngloves’. If I could drive that blade straight into his heart, just like Rebellyn did, he’d be forced to comply. But unlike Rebellyn, I wouldn’t fall prey to an evervow that killed off her kind. I’d learned too much from my time with Orin. I would never let another immortal being—Death or Ever—bind me again.
A silky voice draped in heat and malice filled the air. “Absolutely not.”
Fifteen
Rorik stood at the entrance of the library, his magic pulsing in heady waves with his hands fisted by his sides. Some of his glamour had fallen away to reveal his pointed fangs and horns, and I swore he did it intentionally just to make himself look more feral. He stormed toward us with agitated steps, only stopping when he was within reach of me. I watched without speaking as a flurry of emotions toyed with his expression: rage, concern, indignation.
“You cannot do this,” he seethed. “You’ll die.”
“And? Is that supposed to be news to me?” I didn’t move. I couldn’t let him sway me, not when it felt like I found something that could help us all.
“Rorik,” Seville started as she stood, but he shot her a withering glare that had her biting her tongue.
Rorik turned back to me. “Where is your line? What will make you accept that this is simply the way it has to be? You can’t heal us; you’ll kill yourself in the process. You can’t harness my magic, because it drains you unnecessarily—”
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” I interjected. “We haven’t trained enough yet to prove anything.”
A fire lit in Rorik’s eyes as he kept going. “But now you want to seek out Death? What, exactly, do you plan to do when you find him? Stab him? Rebellyn had a magical weapon. You don’t. And even if you somehow get your hands on it from the Embergraves—and let’s not even address how asinine that thought is—remember what happened to Rebellyn. Her bargain cursed her entire line. Every single descendant of hers, no matter how far removed. What do you think would happen to you?”
Power, fueled by my anger, bled to my fingertips. It was a mixture of Fernglove magic and mine, of the sturdiness of the earth beneath my feet and the glow of moonlight during a midsummer night. It exploded outward, and the vines climbing along the ceiling fell from the rafters to drape around me like writhing snakes.
“I don’t have to worry about my line being cursed because I won’t live long enough to have one.” I spat venom with my words, but he didn’t balk at my fury. Seville glanced at the writhing foliage, a proud look in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. It was enough to keep me going. “I’m the perfect person to take on Death because I have no tomorrow to worry about.”
